by Клео Коул
“A man,” she said flatly.
I turned back to Alicia. “So this man . . . he tried to murder you?”
“No!” She shook her head, began to sob. “He came up to my room and . . . well, he was quite attractive, you know? And we’d been flirting for a few weeks. Naturally, two adults, you know . . . we started to fool around . . . but I had s-so much wine at dinner, I m-must have j-just . . . burble, burble . . .”
I looked to Madame. “She must have?”
“Passed out.”
“Uh-huh,” I said. “And then what happened?”
Alicia threw up her hands. “That’s just it! I don’t know what happened! Something must have happened. But I slept through it!” She wailed again and buried her face back into the Kleenex cloud.
Madame patted Alicia’s shoulder. “Calm yourself, dear, really . . . you must try. Your hotel room was dark when you woke, isn’t that right?”
Alicia nodded, composing herself. “Dark, yes. The sun was up, but the curtains were drawn. I turned in the bed. Dennis was beside me. I reached out for him, and his skin felt so cold. And then I felt something sticky. I turned on the bedside lamp and then I saw . . .”
Her voice trailed off and Niagara Falls turned on.
Okay, that’s it. Between Alicia’s unremitting tears and this room’s aquatic color scheme, I was beginning to get that drowning feeling.
Standing up, I faced Madame. “What’s her room number?”
She handed me a key card. “Five doors down.” She lowered her voice. “I saw the corpse myself. The situation appears quite serious for my friend here. You let me know what you think.”
Three
Playing people was easy, so astoundingly easy. Just tell them a story—the right kind of story, a story they want to hear. They’ll swallow it whole and ask for seconds . . .
Five years ago, her suicide had been a rebirth—a new life with new people, new work, and a new identity. But she’d become more than a newborn marionette. Now she was the puppeteer, carefully pulling their strings, ultimately controlling the stage.
She glanced out the window, welcomed the strengthening light of the morning sun. Giggles bubbled up, as they often did, and she bit her cheek to quell them. Five years ago, on that railroad bridge, she’d anticipated sacrifice, challenge, pain. What she hadn’t expected was the giddiness. Or the satisfaction.
Such sweet satisfaction!
She had never guessed what astonishing powers this new life would bring: the power to lie and manipulate; the power to be invisible and invincible; the power to dream, to plan, and finally to execute . . .
I stepped out of Madame’s room, into the carpeted corridor. Far down the hall I noticed a housekeeping cart, caught a glimpse of a slender woman with a dirty blond ponytail. Clad in the powder blue uniform of a hotel maid, she used a key card around her neck to slip into one of the guest rooms.
Other than her, the floor was deserted and deadly quiet. I moved along, passing complimentary newspapers, a half-eaten breakfast tray.
Five doors down, I halted. The metal handle looked clean (no blood, thank goodness). I pulled my henley’s sleeve over the fingertips of my right hand. With my left, I dunked Alicia’s keycard into the electronic slot. When the red light went green, I depressed the handle.
The door swung open easily. I took a step forward and shut it behind me.
Alicia had described waking up in a dark room and turning on a lamp, and there was indeed a dim light glowing somewhere inside.
From my position at the door, I couldn’t see the bed, but I could see part of the window across the room. The heavy curtains were tightly closed, which only heightened the feeling of claustrophobic gloom.
In contrast, the air was sweet. A cloying scent seemed oddly familiar, yet I couldn’t peg it. To my right, the bathroom door was half open, and I assumed the aroma came from a scented hair or beauty product.
I took a step along the short entrance hall and saw the edge of the bed. The coverlet and blanket were bunched up at the bottom. Another step revealed a naked pair of large Caucasian male feet. One more step showed hairy legs and finally—
Oh God.
The sight of blood sent me backward. The white sheets were saturated with it, dark red and appearing even darker in the dimly lit space. Dried now, the flow originated from the dead man. He was young (younger than Alicia, anyway) with a square-jawed cover-model face, a thick head of brown hair, and very long sideburns. His physique was long, too, and well muscled with weightlifter cuts and six-pack abs. His torso appeared shaved—all the better to show off his body-sculpting labors.
Unfortunately, Mr. Universe had performed his last rep. The twelve-inch carving knife protruding from his chest had seen to that.
I took a deep breath and swallowed down a bit of bile—along with the primal urge to flee.
“The man’s no longer alive,” I whispered to myself, trying to stay steady. “That’s clear enough . . .”
His chest wasn’t moving, and his complexion carried that “gray-white pallor of death” as Mike referred to it after one of his countless crime scene visits.
A medical examiner would do an autopsy before ruling on the time of death, but even in the dimly lit room, I could see his face, neck, and hands showed no signs of rigor mortis—the first parts of the body to register that morbid stiffness (according to Mike). Neither did they show any defensive wounds, which suggested to me that this man was killed in his sleep, probably within the last few hours. And that, among other things (many other things), would make Alicia a prime “person of interest” to the NYPD.
Of course, I didn’t dare touch a thing, especially the body. I didn’t move any farther into the room, either, but I did take a look around.
Alicia’s laptop sat closed on the desk, a stack of files beside it. Her leather briefcase rested on the floor. A man’s pants and suit jacket had been thrown over the back of a chair. The suit was a fine dark gray, expensive material that draped beautifully.
On the carpet near the base of the bed, Alicia’s polished burgundy pumps were cuddled up to a large pair of scuffed leather loafers. On the bedside table, two empty martini glasses sat next to a vase of severely wilting flowers.
With a start, I heard sudden music—Mimì’s tinny aria from La bohème. I pulled out my cell.
“Are you in?” Madame asked.
“Yes. I’m looking at the body right now.”
“What do you think?”
“This is beyond bad.”
“That’s why I called you, dear. And an attorney. He’s on his way.”
“I’m coming back to your room to talk.”
“Fine.”
With a sigh I closed my phone. There was nothing more to do here, except say a silent prayer for the soul of this poor man—and Alicia Bower. Whatever she’d done (or hadn’t done), a truckload of trouble was rolling her way.
Fearful of contaminating evidence, I carefully backed out of the room, then stopped. Remembering that maid at the end of the hall, I slipped my sleeve back over my hand and hung the Do Not Disturb sign on the outside handle.
I found my employer in her own room, pacing its stunted entryway. Alicia was now lying on the bed (in a fetal position), still facing the window, quietly sobbing.
I waved Madame into the bathroom and shut the door.
“Who is that man?” (Who was that man would have been more accurate, but she got my drift.)
“His name is Dennis St. Julian,” she whispered. “He’s a wholesale buyer in town for the ICE.”
“The IC—?”
“The International Confectioners’ Expo. It just kicked off at the Javits Convention Center. That’s why Patrice Stone scheduled the Mocha Magic Coffee launch party for this evening—”
“Wait. Back up. Who’s Patrice Stone? You never mentioned her before.”
“Patrice is the right-hand girl to Aphrodite.”
Madame wasn’t actually referring to the Greek goddess. Alicia’s boss
was an enigmatic businesswoman known only by the name Aphrodite. Just a few years ago, she’d started a Web site called Aphrodite’s Village Online.
The site began humbly enough as a chatty, informative little online catalog carrying products for women, focusing primarily on those interested in enhancing or improving their love lives and relationships.
Aphrodite found investors, added content, and ratcheted up the PR. Mentions in major newspapers, on television talk shows, and two Hollywood feature films catapulted the little product site into one of the most popular communities for women on the World Wide Web.
The site became so big that Aphrodite divided it into “temples,” each one controlled by a different so-called Sister of Aphrodite. Much like the section heads of a magazine, each “Sister” was in charge of a different area of expertise: Health and Fitness, Travel and Leisure, Arts and Entertainment, Love and Relationships, and so on.
Alicia’s temple of expertise was Food and Spirits, which was why her Mocha Magic Coffee was being given an international launch by Aphrodite. The woman and her company were essentially partners in the deal and cut in for a hefty share of profits, as well.
“Because of the ICE trade show,” Madame continued, “a number of wholesale buyers are in town this week, looking for new products, and every last one of them has been invited to the Rock’s Loft & Garden tonight to sample Alicia’s Mocha Magic—and hopefully place orders.”
“Okay. But that doesn’t tell me why Candy Man had a date with a carving knife in Alicia’s room. How long has she known this guy?”
“At the most, three weeks. He approached her in a downtown bar and they hit it off. I met the man myself last week, very briefly. He said he was originally from Long Island but based somewhere in the Midwest for the past few years—Missouri, I believe—but he travels quite a bit on business. He said he was ready to place a very large order for Alicia’s new product.”
“Why would he claim that when he hasn’t even tried it?” I considered those empty martini glasses, sitting next to the vase of wilting flowers. “Has Alicia been using her aphrodisiac on him? Did she give him some last night?”
Madame frowned. “What difference would that make?”
“The man was stabbed. Through the heart. And appeared not to have moved. I think he was drugged.”
“What does that have to do with who murdered him?”
“When the police see that crime scene, they’ll know who murdered him!”
“Shhhhh . . . I told you. Alicia is not capable of murder. She did not do it.”
“Okay, but you’re not suggesting that I help you cover this up, are you? You know we have to call the police, right?”
“Yes, I understand.” Madame exhaled. “You don’t know Alicia like I do. The history we have.”
“What history is that? I’ve asked you. But you haven’t yet enlightened me.”
Madame shook her head, studied the bathroom floor. For almost a minute she seemed lost in thought—or memories.
“Madame?”
“She worked as my barista for about six months.”
“When?”
“A long time ago. Before you and Matt were married.”
“Why didn’t you ever mention her before? And why do you feel you owe her so much?”
“It’s not something that I ever intended to share. And I . . . well, I don’t wish to here and now.” She lifted her gaze. Her blue-violet eyes were actually damp. “The counselor is on his way. In the meantime, won’t you please help us, Clare? Tell the detectives that Alicia would never do a thing like this.”
Oh man.
I didn’t argue with her anymore. I just couldn’t. Reaching into my jeans pocket, I gripped my mobile phone.
Four
Once I brought up my cell’s address book, I began toggling through names—
Joy Allegro—my daughter. No. (Obviously.)
Mike Quinn—No. Not only was the man exhausted, he was no longer a precinct detective. The only thing he could do was advise me on who to call at the One Seven, and I already knew that.
I moved past my ex-husband, Matt, who’d been touring coffee farms in Indonesia, which put him out of cell phone range for weeks (as usual). I swept by my baristas—Tucker, Esther, Gardner, Dante, Vickie, and Nancy—blew by more names (acquaintances and suppliers). Finally, I came to the entry I needed and pressed the auto-dial.
“Lori Soles.”
“Good morning, Detective.”
“Clare Cosi, what are you doing calling me? Aren’t you right upstairs?”
“You’re sitting in my coffeehouse now, correct?”
“First cup of the day.” She took a loud sip to make her point.
“I have a situation . . .”
Lori Soles and her partner, Sue Ellen Bass (together known around the NYPD as “the Fish Squad”), had worked out of the nearby Sixth Precinct for years. Both had become addicted to my Americanos, and both still stopped by for their fix every morning before heading north to work at the Seventeenth, their newly assigned precinct house in Midtown.
Soles listened to my brief description of the homicide and thanked me.
“We just had a court appearance rescheduled,” she said, “and this sounds like it’s worth an early start. Sue Ellen and I will call it in. You know the drill?”
(For a variety of reasons, Soles and Bass were under the impression I possessed a private investigator’s license. Not even Mike Quinn had set them straight on that, and considering the situation, I didn’t see it as a disadvantage.)
“I’ll be seeing uniforms here first to secure the scene, right?”
“Right,” said Lori. “Are you with the body now?”
“No, I’m in another room at the hotel.”
“Well, smarten up, Cosi. Go seal the room.”
“It’s locked. And I have a Do Not Disturb sign on the handle.”
“So what? Housekeeping has a pass key. You can’t take the chance they’ll honor a Do Not Disturb sign. Go babysit that DOA till we get there.”
“No problem, detective. Thank you.”
I hung up, reassured Madame, and hurried back to the crime scene before that poor maid with the dirty blond ponytail walked in to find more than used towels in the bathroom and no tip on the dresser. As I neared Alicia’s door, however, my steps slowed. Just ten minutes prior, I’d made absolutely sure that Alicia’s room door had locked behind me. Now it stood ajar.
Okay, this makes no sense.
A member of the hotel staff might have entered and left, but wouldn’t Madame and I have heard some kind of reaction? A scream? A shout? A frantic cry to call 911?
Taking a deep breath, I used the sleeve-covered elbow of my arm to push the door open a wee bit more.
I peered inside the dead man’s room. I didn’t see anyone or sense any movement. The place was quieter than a tomb, and if someone were inside, they certainly would have been making noise at the sight of a bloody corpse.
Despite the bright morning sun outside, the room was still gloomy, the heavy curtains drawn. A noise in the hallway—probably someone grabbing their complimentary newspaper—sent me hurrying all the way inside. I shut the door and stepped forward to check on my dead Candy Man.
Only there was no Candy Man. That’s right. No corpse. No knife. No blood. The bed had been stripped down to the quilted mattress. The bloody sheets, the bunched-up blanket, and the rest of the covers were gone.
Four down pillows lay on the sea-green carpet like puffy white mushrooms. Their cases were gone, and so were the empty martini glasses sitting next to the vase of wilting flowers. Even that strange, cloyingly sweet scent had vanished. It was as if the whole scene had been erased—or hadn’t happened in the first place.
I blinked, feeling slightly numb.
Knock! Knock! Knock!
The staccato raps gave me a start. They were so forceful I assumed the uniformed officers had arrived. No such luck. When I opened the door, I found a young woman towering over me.
Her hazel-green eyes were slightly almond in shape. They widened at the sight of me, then narrowed down to slits.
“Who are you?” she said. “You’re not supposed to be here.”
“Who am I?” I so cleverly shot back. “Who are you?”
She was young, about my daughter’s age (early twenties), her slender form coltish, her patrician face long and partially obscured by a fall of glossy, honey-colored hair spilling over one shoulder. Its golden color appeared even more striking against the dark backdrop of her charcoal pantsuit and shiny black raincoat.
We stared at each other a moment.
“Do you have the wrong room?” I asked.
She checked the number on the door and returned her sharp gaze to me. “Who are you?”
“My name is Clare Cosi. Your turn.”
Instead of replying, Blondie brushed by me, entered the room, and stopped. For a few long seconds, she gawked at the vacant bed, her manicured hand moving to cover her gaping jaw.
“Where is he?” she whispered. “What happened?”
“Just what did you expect to find here? Did you know—”
“You!” She turned on me with one pointy French tip. “You’re not supposed to be here!”
“You said that already.”
In the hall another door opened and closed.
Blondie froze, listened.
“This is a crime scene,” I said calmly. “The police are on their way. So if you don’t want to talk to me, you can talk to them, all right?”
I thought that might encourage her to answer my questions—or at least prompt her to have an actual conversation. Instead, she grimaced and fled, elbowing past me so violently I nearly kissed the floor.
“Hey!” I shouted, regaining my balance. “Come back here!”
Of course she didn’t. Nobody ever does.
Five
I rushed out of the room, certain I could catch her at the elevator. But the coltish blonde was galloping in the opposite direction, the end of her patent leather raincoat fluttering like Black Beauty’s tail.
