by Клео Коул
“Toby De Longe was hooked on the injection. Heroin. When the lavit kaif goes that far, it’s not fun anymore.”
Someone else tossed a bucket of cold water on the rocks. The sizzling hiss was deafening. Rising steam swirled around me, and the heat started really getting to me. I felt myself losing balance, swaying on my feet.
“I…You…” I couldn’t seem to form words. The room was too hot. My grip on the towel faltered, and I almost dropped it. My head began to spin.
“Feeling…dizzy…”
Nick said something to me in Russian. But I couldn’t understand him, and then I saw a figure quickly scrambling down from the steam bath’s highest tier. My legs started giving out. Crap!
I must have gone down, because the next thing I remember was coming back to reality by the shock of cold water. Someone had filled a bucket and dumped it over my head. I yelped and opened my eyes at the icy jolt. A large man with beefy hands and thick, muscular arms was holding me. His round head was shaved, but his shoulders, chest, and torso were covered with curly hair. He looked at me through brown eyes filled with concern.
“Are you all right, Clare Cosi?”
“Who are you?” I demanded.
“I’m Nick, of course. The man you came to see. Nikolai Pedechenko.”
“You’re not the man I met at Solange!”
“I’ve never been there. And we never met, Clare Cosi, because I would’ve remembered someone as attractive and determined as you.” He grinned.
I disengaged myself from his grip. “This has been a terrible mistake. I’m sorry to have troubled you.”
“No trouble at all,” Nick replied. “But I believe I know the man that you are looking for. His name is Nick, too. And he was a friend of Tommy Keitel’s, the chef at Solange.”
That’s him! It must be! “Do you know where I can find that Nick?”
“Let me find him for you. You go shower and cool down. I’ll make a call.”
“Okay, thank you,” I said.
“Good-bye, Clare Cosi. It has been a pleasure. My byki will show you out.”
The naked bodyguard took my arm and led me to the door. Olga greeted me on the other side. “Take a cold shower,” she said, thrusting a glass of clear liquid and garlic cloves into my hand. “And drink that right down quick. You’re dehydrated.”
Inside the shower stall, I dropped the towel and stood under the cold flow for a good ten minutes. When I came out, I was trembling, as much from nerves as from the cold. The glass was waiting for me on the bench, beside a clean robe. It was vodka, not water. I suspected as much. I drained the glass anyway.
I did my best to dry my hair with the weak hair dryer supplied by the house. I used the key to unlock my locker—a joke, since it was clear my stuff had been rifled. Nothing was missing, not even Brigitte’s note. Apparently Nikolai Pedechenko felt he had nothing to hide.
When I finally returned to the café, Esther was in a better mood than when I’d left. I’m sure the vodka helped, because she was obviously feeling no pain.
“Hey, boss, you’re back,” Esther cried, slurring her words.
I was glad to see Boris wasn’t in the same state. He was stone sober.
“After the first glass, no more vodka for me,” he explained. “Better not to drink and drive.”
“Ain’t he sweet,” Esther giggled. “You should try the boss, borscht…I mean, try the borscht, boss. It’s spectacular!”
I was about to suggest we leave when a man at another table caught my eye. Behind dark sunglasses I saw a pale face framed by long brown hair, thin lips, and a cleft chin. He removed his sunglasses and motioned me forward.
It’s him… “You’re Nick,” I said.
“Yes.” He rose, shook my hand. “I am Nick Vlachek. I recognize you. We met at Solange the other night.”
He offered me a chair. “Please sit down, Ms. Cosi.”
I was sure Nick knew that Tommy had been murdered, but he probably hadn’t heard who’d been arrested for the crime. I decided to keep him in the dark. Keitel had introduced me as a friend of his. Nick didn’t need to know that I was also Joy Allegro’s mother.
“What’s going on?” he asked. “I got a call from Mr. Pedechenko. He said I should come right over and talk to you. He also suggested I bring some of my new shipment—a nice Caspian beluga.”
“Caviar?”
Nick nodded. “I have a restaurant not far from here. And I import caviar, among other commodities.”
“So you were one of Tommy’s vendors!”
He nodded. “I met Chef Keitel a couple of years ago, after your country banned the sale of beluga caviar…”
“It did? I mean…we did? Why?”
Nick shrugged. “Because Black Sea sturgeon is on the endangered species list. Tommy wasn’t satisfied with the substitutes. He wanted the real thing for his restaurant.”
“And you could get it for him? Even though it’s outlawed?”
“Tommy wanted the real thing,” he said with pride. “I got it for him. No crime. What I call a crime is what some of my unscrupulous colleagues do. They import Finland burbot and pass it off as beluga.”
“The business is that profitable?”
Nick nearly choked on his vodka. “The market value for beluga is ten thousand dollars a kilogram.”
“Oh. I see. Well, that would be profitable then, wouldn’t it?”
Nick nodded. “At least Tommy knew the value of the real thing.”
A waitress appeared. She placed a basket of toast points, a bowl of chopped hard-boiled eggs, another of minced onions, a bowl of sour cream, and two glasses of vodka on our table. In the center she set a tiny bowl brimming with what looked like silver jelly.
Nick smeared caviar on a slice of toast with a tiny spoon made of mother-of-pearl. “Caviar should never touch metal or it will taste like metal,” he explained.
He handed me the toast, and I took a bite. I wasn’t a caviar eater. I couldn’t afford it, and I’d never actually eaten really good caviar—not the kind Nick was offering me now, anyway. The texture was soft, the taste briny and salty and mildly fishy, too, with a subtle hint of acid, more layers of flavor than I’d expected.
“Beluga is prized for its large, pea-sized eggs,” Nick said, chewing. “It can be silver gray, dark gray, or even black. The lighter varieties come from older sturgeon and are the most highly valued.”
I reached for another toast point and slathered on the caviar. “I think I could get used to this stuff.”
Nick laughed. “Don’t bother with the eggs or the onions. The best caviar needs no embellishment.”
“No wonder Tommy sought you out,” I said after I cleared my palate with a few sips of vodka. I was starting to feel no pain…but then I remembered my daughter.
“Nick, I have some questions for you about Tommy Keitel. I saw beets on the prep table where he was murdered. I smelled stock simmering on the stove. Were you there last night, Nick? Were you there when Tommy was murdered?”
“No. And if you’re asking me if I murdered Tommy, the answer is also no. Friday is my busiest night of the week. I was running my restaurant until almost two in the morning last evening. Hundreds of people saw me. So you can believe me. More than that,” Nick added, a shadow crossing his features. “I was going into business with Tommy. A profitable one. Why would I kill him?”
“What business? Importing?”
“No. Tommy wanted to learn Russian cuisine. I know some of the finest chefs in Moscow and St. Petersburg. I was paving the way for Tommy’s move to Russia.”
My jaw dropped. “He was moving to Russia?”
“In seven weeks, his contract at Solange was up. He said he was ready for a new challenge. He’d become bored with French cuisine. He wanted to learn how to cook authentic Russian dishes in Russia. Then he was going to return to America, and we were going to open a new restaurant together.”
I heard the sadness in Nick’s voice, not only over the lost opportunities, but beca
use Nick had also very clearly lost a friend.
“These are bad times,” he said.
Tell me about it. “Did you know Brigitte Rouille?”
Nick nodded. “Yes. And Nappy, too. Of course when I’d first met them, they were still lovers.”
I blinked. “Lovers? I’m sorry, but…I’d assumed Napoleon Dornier was gay.”
Nick laughed. “I think he cultivates that impression. Goes with his pumped-up French accent. But Nappy is definitely not gay, and he owed Brigitte—quite a lot. He was no more than a waiter at Martinique when she took over its kitchen. It was Brigitte who used her influence as executive chef to help him move to sommelier and then maître d’. That’s why; Dornier always took care of Brigitte, even after they broke up.”
I told Nick about Brigitte’s death, and he absorbed the news in silence. I saw his eyes glistening. There was such a heaviness of heart about the man, it was almost contagious. And between Joy’s arrest and finding Brigitte’s tragic corpse, I felt my eyes tearing up, too.
“I’m sorry to bring you this news,” I said, touching Nick’s arm. “And I’m sorry for your loss. In many ways, Tommy Keitel was a great man. I’d like to find out who killed him. Do you know if Tommy had any enemies who would want him dead?”
Nick shook his head. “Tommy had a big ego. He stepped on toes. He fooled around. I suppose he could have hurt the wrong person. But I couldn’t tell you who. Tommy never discussed with me anything that caused him fear or dread. My friend was a happy man. That’s how I’d like to remember him.”
Nick drained his glass. “Well, Ms. Cosi. I must leave you now. My restaurant is busy, and I must take care of her.”
I rose and thanked him, remembering how Tommy had referred to Solange as a “her,” too. Then I returned to our table. Esther was leaning against Boris. She was snoring lightly.
“She had too much vodka,” he said with a shrug.
“I think I had too much, too,” I said, massaging my temples. “So before I pass out, let’s get Esther back to the car.”
Twenty-One
I shuffled into the kitchen the next morning wearing tube socks, my oversized terry robe, and a St. Petersburg–sized hangover.
“Coffee?” Matt asked.
“Da.” I nodded. “With aspirin.”
He poured me a cup, handed me the bottle. Then he set a tall glass of clear liquid in front of me.
“Drink this, too,” he said.
“I hope to God it’s water.”
“What else would it be?”
I shook my head, picked up the glass. “You told me to drink water last night, you know, and I still have the hangover.”
“You didn’t drink enough. You passed out too soon.”
Matt was right. He’d been waiting up for me. I told him as much as I could manage about my night in Brighton Beach, then the room began to spin, and I was down for the count.
I drank the water, took the aspirin, sipped the coffee.
“Okay,” I said, feeling the caffeine hit my veins. “Update me. Tell me what’s happening on the legal end.”
“Joy’s arraignment is Monday—”
“I remember.”
“And Bree’s lawyers said they’re sure they can get our girl out on bail, but there are probably going to be restrictions.”
“Such as?”
“She’ll have to give up her passport. She has a roommate in Paris, and nobody wants her flying out of the country before her trial.”
“Sounds reasonable.”
“Also…she may be released under our recognizance.”
“I think we can handle that, right? Joy’s not exactly a threat to society.”
“Worst-case scenario—and this is a real possibility, so we need to be prepared—”
“Just tell me, Matt.”
“House arrest with some kind of electronic monitoring, like a leg bracelet.”
I sighed, sipped at my coffee. “Joy will hate it, but at least she won’t have to rot in a jail cell, waiting months or more for a trial. Do you need me to do anything as far as the legal stuff?”
Matt shook his head. “I’m taking care of it. Don’t worry. But you might want to stop by her apartment, pick up her mail, get some clothes and personal items. If she’s released tomorrow under house arrest, the lawyer is giving them our address as the holding location.”
“Okay, will do. I’ll stop by her apartment later today—tomorrow morning at the latest.”
I got up, poured myself more coffee, feeling a little better already, especially with the prospect of my daughter’s being released from jail in just one more day. What I didn’t feel good about was my investigation.
I’d hit a dead end with Brigitte Rouille and another one with Nick from Brighton Beach. I’d have to sober up fast and start thinking about my other leads. In the meantime, I was grateful that Joy had good lawyers on her side. And I knew who to thank for that.
“Okay, Matt, I never thought I’d say it, but thank goodness you’re sleeping with Breanne Summour. That woman and I have had our differences, but she really came through for our daughter.”
Matt nodded.
“She must really care for you,” I said, giving him a little smile. Matt didn’t respond. His gaze fell to the pile of newspapers on the table in front of him.
“Got the Times there?” I asked, turning my thoughts to a certain someone who cared for me.
“Yeah.”
“Would you mind handing over the real estate section?”
“Why?”
“I’d just like to look it over.”
“Why, Clare?”
I hemmed and hawed, not really wanting to get into my plans with Quinn. But Matt finally pressed hard enough.
“Okay, okay,” I said. “Friday night, before Chef Keitel was murdered, before our daughter was arrested, Mike Quinn stopped by downstairs for a talk.”
Matt’s eyes appeared to brighten. “He broke up with you?”
“Almost. He gave me an ultimatum. Move out or move on.”
“Wow. That’s harsh. But then…” He shrugged. “What else could you expect from a guy like that?”
“Like what?”
“A guy who locks people up for a living.”
“He hunts down criminals and predators, Matt. He brings them to justice. He agonizes about making the world better, or at least a safer place for the innocent—”
“Spare me.” Matt waved his hand.
I frowned, took a long sip of coffee. “I understand how Mike feels. I mean, I’d feel exactly the same way if his estranged wife popped up unexpectedly and started gallivanting around his apartment.”
“Did you say gallivant?” Matt made a face. “I don’t gallivant.”
“It’s just an expression. Anyway, I’m going to move out of here.”
“What?! Why?”
“Because I don’t want to lose Mike Quinn. Why do you think?”
Matt folded his arms, regarded me with a look of pure skepticism. “You’re in love with the flatfoot?”
“I care for him. I want the chance to love him.”
“What about us?”
“Us?” I blinked, rubbed my eyes. My head was still a little fuzzy. I wasn’t sure I’d heard my ex-husband correctly. “Excuse me?”
“Us, Clare. You and me.”
“I don’t…I don’t follow. I mean, in case you’ve been Rip Van Winkling on me, we’ve been divorced for ten years. There is no us.”
“We’re living together again.”
I nearly spat out a fresh mouthful of joe. “We’re sharing a duplex. And you’re hardly here.”
“I could be here more often, if that’s what you want.”
I gaped at the man. “Matt, I can’t imagine what’s brought this on…”
“Well, I was just sitting here, thinking about us, and I think maybe we should be one big happy family again: you and me and Joy.” He leaned forward, grabbed my hand. “Honestly, honey, listen to me. You and I have been throug
h so much over the last year.”
He raised his plaster cast just to remind me—as if I needed the reminder or the guilt trip.
“Matt, please—”
“We’ve worked so well together. You can see I’ve changed. I’m willing to change even more. I think we just need to try again.”
“No.” I gently extracted my hand. “Matt, how can I make you understand? The cocaine—”
“I’m not using anymore! I’ve told you a thousand times. I’ll never use again. You can believe me—”
“Matt, please! This isn’t about you. This is about me.”
“You’re using coke?”
“No! You were my drug, okay? It was a high, loving you, a fantastic high, but down the line, there was always the crash—the terrible, devastating, heartbreaking crash. You let me down too often, Matt. It was a terrible way to live.”
“Please, Clare. One more chance?” Matt’s brown eyes were actually blinking hard.
Why are you making this so difficult?!
“Listen, Matt, I care for you. I do. And I always will. If you need me, I’ll be there—as a friend. But I can’t love you anymore. Not like I used to. You may have changed. I’ll give you that. But I need you to get this, okay? I’ve changed, too. I want something more. Someone who can give me more. I want Mike Quinn.”
Matt was silent for a long moment, his expression studying my own. Finally, I asked my ex-husband something that I knew would make him understand: “If someone wanted you to become an addict again, would you?”
“No. I wouldn’t.” Matt looked away. “But do you really think it’s fair to compare a destructive, addictive drug to me? I’m the father of your child.”
“She’s not a child anymore. She’s grown. She’s an adult. These terrible decisions of Joy’s have driven that point home to me like never before. She’s going to fly, and she’s going to fall. But I want her to be free…and I need to be free, too…”
“You’re leaving the coffeehouse business?”
“No! I love managing this coffeehouse. I love working for your mother. She’s like a mother to me, too, and always has been. I don’t see any problem with us continuing to work together. I’m not quitting the Blend, Matt. I’m just quitting you.”
