“Oh, I see. No big deal, then.”
Actually it was a big deal.
I’d started my research on Saturday morning. After typing Linford’s name into a couple of Internet search engines, I learned he’d founded and managed a hedge fund called Linvantage. The fund was based in Antigua and had its prospectus posted online. It appeared to be very profitable, and I noticed the minimum investment was high enough to keep the client list exclusive.
Further research uncovered Linford’s name on the roster of half a dozen import/export companies, all of them based in the Caribbean.
Of course, when I thought of the Caribbean, I always thought of Matt’s friend Dexter—an absolute pillar of the Brooklyn Caribbean community. Any bigwigs from the Islands in the New York area probably made themselves known to Dex at one time or another to purchase authentic West Indian products for a party, family gathering, or traditional celebration.
So I called Dexter that afternoon to ask if the name Omar Linford rang any bells. Strangely, Dex claimed he’d never heard of the man, politely excused himself, and got off the phone. At first I believed him, but that night my research revealed that Linford owned a tiny Jamaica-based specialty food importer called Blue Sunshine.
Back in 2000, shortly after the U.S. Food and Drug Administration lifted its ban on a potentially toxic Jamaican fruit called ackee, I remembered Dexter boasting that he had “a big-up import guy” who sold canned ackee for seventy-five dollars a case.
At such a low wholesale price, Dex was able to peddle the Jamaican staple in his Brooklyn stores for six or seven dollars a can—about half the going rate everywhere else in the United States. Price points like that made Dexter’s Taste of the Caribbean stores very popular, especially around Christmas when the price of ackee almost always rose because of increased demand.
“I’m not sellin’ that hinky stuff, no neither,” Dex had insisted. “Gettin’ me the top brands for my customers. Nineteen-ounce tins of Island Sun.”
On its Web site, the Blue Sunshine company boasted that it had the lowest wholesale price for Island Sun brand Jamaican ackee on the East Coast. I put two and two together (old-school math this time) and made a pest of myself by phoning Dexter a second time.
“I really put the pressure on during the second call,” I continued explaining to Esther. “And Dex finally admitted that he has a ‘confidential business relationship’ with Omar Linford. Not just the man’s Blue Sunshine company, but Omar himself.”
“That sounds kind of fishy,” she said, arching an eyebrow. “What kind of relationship?”
“Not the kind Vicki Glockner was thinking about. I’m pretty sure Linford isn’t supplying marijuana for Dex to sell out of his stores.”
“Pretty sure?”
Esther was right. I wasn’t all that sure about anything when it came to Linford’s business interests. Even after I’d confronted Dex with circumstantial evidence that he’d been doing business with Linford’s company for years, he still refused to come completely clean about the extent of his relationship with the importer.
And while all of Linford’s business activities seemed legitimate, so what? If anybody knew how legitimate businesses could operate in a way to mask illegal activity, it was the daughter of the local sports bookie.
In the middle of my second call to Dexter, I remembered how he’d shown up at the Blend—abruptly and unexpectedly—the very same night that Vickie Glockner came to ask for my help in solving her father’s murder. Again, my mind started working and I asked Dexter point-blank if he’d been spying for Omar Linford, too.
Dex wouldn’t confirm or deny anything regarding the man, but he did get nervous enough to finally agree to arrange a “sit-down” lunch meeting at one o’clock sharp on Monday so I could ask Linford any questions “straight up” to his face. He wasn’t interested, he said, in being “caught between the diver and the pearl.”
On Sunday I phoned Matt for some kind of explanation on Dexter’s bizarre denials regarding Omar Linford, but Matt couldn’t talk more than a few minutes. Breanne had roped him into a last-minute trip to Connecticut for a “weekend in the country”—not for mistletoe and moonlight but for networking with her magazine’s publisher and his board of trustees.
“I’ll stop by the Blend after we get back on Tuesday,” Matt insisted. “I didn’t know that Dex knew this man Linford or did business with him, but I have a feeling I know what this is about. I just can’t talk about it now.”
“Why not? My meeting with the man is Monday, Matt. Why can’t you just explain it to me?!”
“Because it’s not fit conversation for a cellular line, that’s why!”
Now Esther was guiding my battered, decade-old Honda over the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge. Soon we were passing La Tourette Park, part of the Staten Island Greenbelt that included the woods around Richmond Creek and the manicured lawns of the La Tourette Golf Course. It was frozen and snow-crusted now, but I could still remember how lush and leafy this exclusive landscape looked a few summers ago.
I’d driven out to the Lighthouse Hill area only once before, to get a glimpse of the landmark Crimson Beech house, the only home in New York City designed by Frank Lloyd Wright, one of the many architects I’d admired during my fine arts studies. The original owners had it manufactured fifty years ago in kit form, and fewer than a dozen of these prefabricated houses were ever built.
Linford’s house was not prefabricated. From what I could see of it on my Google map, it had a much bigger footprint than the Frank Lloyd Wright house; the location was a more elite part of the neighborhood as well, one that included a view of the water.
“There’s the turn,” I cried. “You’re supposed to go left!”
Esther swerved so suddenly we nearly tipped onto two wheels. I managed to keep the struffoli upright, but barely.
“Sorry,” Esther said, glancing at my pastry. “What is that mound of doughnut holes, anyway?”
Esther was being flip, of course; the little fried dough balls of the struffoli were more petite than doughnut holes. After drenching them with a honey glaze, I’d molded them into their traditional Christmas tree shape (kind of a rounded pyramid), then fairy-dusted the entire sculpture with rainbow sprinkles, let the whole thing dry, and carefully tented it with plastic wrap.
“Struffoli is actually a very old tradition,” I informed her. “The honey glaze is supposed to ‘sweeten’ family relationships—”
Esther snorted. “Maybe I should bring some to my sister’s this year!”
“Italian nuns also used to make these in their convents and distribute them to noble families at Christmastime—a kind of thank-you for acts of charity.”
“Sort of appropriate for Linford, then,” Esther replied.
“What do you mean?”
“If Linford didn’t actually have Alf whacked, then lending him all that money was kind of an act of charity.” Esther shrugged. “Of course, the dude probably doesn’t see it that way if he expected to be paid back.”
“I didn’t actually think a glazed pile of fried dough balls would end up compensating the man for two hundred thou,” I flatly replied.
Esther turned onto Oceanview Court and we rolled up to the impressive address. We both raised our eyebrows at the man’s front lawn.
Esther glanced at me. “Is this guy into Christmas, or what?”
Every bush and tree had been strung with lights. There were two full-sized sleighs, three animated elves, a big lighted Santa and Mrs. Claus, and eight tiny reindeer trotting across the house’s sloped roof, a scarlet-nosed Rudolph in the lead.
“Add one ginormous electric menorah and this could be my sister’s place in Westchester,” Esther declared. “She married a Catholic guy, so they’re doing the whole ‘multiple traditions’ thing: Chanukah bush, dreidels, Nativity scene. Last year she added some kind of African harvest symbol for Kwanzaa. I’m betting this year I’ll find Tibetan prayer wheels spinning in the front yard, too.”
I re
leased my shoulder strap and popped the door. The frigid December air hit me immediately. I thought the day was cold back in the Village, but up here on the cliffs of Lighthouse Hill, the wind was almost cruel, lashing in off the Atlantic with cutting force.
I’d dressed professionally for today’s lunch in a charcoal gray pinstriped pantsuit over a cream-colored camisole. My stacked high heels and belted slate coat looked polished enough, too, but they weren’t very warm. As the arctic air knifed through me, I shivered, from the tips of my pointy toes to the hint of cleavage cresting the V of my buttoned-up blazer.
Esther came around and held the struffoli dish while I climbed out.
“This won’t take more than an hour—right, boss? That’s what you promised.”
“Don’t worry, Esther, I’ll have you back in the city by three for your four o’clock exam. We’ll have plenty of time.”
It was then I noticed the tricked-out SUV in the driveway. With all the Christmas kitsch in the front yard, its garishness wasn’t immediately apparent, but now that I saw it, my jaw dropped.
“What the heck is that?”
As we moved up the driveway, Esther looked over the vehicle with interest. “Tinted windows, electric blue racing stripes, chrome spoilers, and illuminated hubcaps.”
“Are those bullet holes?!” I bent a little to examine what looked like punctures along the side of the vehicle.
“They’re fake,” Esther informed me.
“Fake?!”
“Yeah, it’s a pimped-up ride effect—like that oh-so-tasteful masterpiece along the back.” Esther pointed to the airbrushed scene of Viking warriors sacking a village with half-naked babes thrown over their arms.
I shook my head. “Fake bullet holes. What’ll they sell next? Chalk outlines and toe tags?”
“Probably.”
I shook my head. “Dexter described Omar Linford as a conservative businessman in his fifties. Could this be his car?”
“No,” she whispered. “I’m sure it’s his.”
Esther gestured to a young man in his late teens swaggering out the front door. Tall and plenty big through the shoulders, he wore a studded leather jacket, stressed black denims, and a battered DJ fedora over his thick, wavy ponytail. His complexion was light brown, his eyes darker than French roast, and his chrome-tipped boots clicked as he walked down the cobblestone drive. Finally, the young man noticed us examining his car. He paused and stared, saying nothing.
I waved, but I needn’t have bothered. He just kept staring suspiciously—first at me, then at Esther, whom he looked up and down with a kind of openly wicked leer that made her shift the huge bag on her shoulder.
“I’ve still got my brick,” she whispered to me.
A moment later, the kid turned his back on us and opened the SUV’s door. Before climbing behind the wheel, he brushed his arm across the leather seat, sweeping a tumble of junk food wrappers onto the driveway. Then he slammed the door and gunned his high-performance engine. A moment later, the placidness of the upscale neighborhood was shattered as the aspiring hoodlum roared off.
“What a charming encounter,” Esther said as she kicked an empty bag of jalapeño-flavored corn chips off her boot.
“Who the heck was that?”
“I’m sure it was Linford’s son, Dwayne. Vicki described him to me once. She dated him in high school.”
“Interesting,” I said, then started up the drive again. “Come on, Esther. Let’s see how far that wannabe gangsta’s fallen from the family tree . . .”
NINETEEN
THE double front doors of Linford’s home were made of heavy polished oak and decorated with the largest holiday wreath I’d seen outside of Macy’s sales floor. While Esther rang the regal-sounding doorbell, I stood by her, still holding my hand-painted dish of Italian struffoli.
A narrow-shouldered man of average height greeted us.
“Ms. Cosi, I presume? I’m Omar Linford.”
Linford’s light brown skin was the same shade as that of the young man who’d just peeled out of the driveway. But there the resemblance ended. Omar was in his fifties, not his twenties, and he wore his salt-and-pepper hair in a short-cropped style. A small, neatly trimmed brown mustache, threaded with silver, graced his upper lip. A bright red bow tie cheered up an otherwise dowdy three-piece suit—only a tad plump in the vest—and small, round, retro 1930s glasses made our host look more like a museum curator than a shady businessman.
“Please, Mr. Linford, call me Clare. This is my associate, Esther Best.”
“Come in, ladies . . .”
As we stepped inside, Mr. Linford pointed to my struffoli and his smile widened. “I see you’ve brought a gift! Let me help you with that.”
But Linford didn’t lift a hand. Instead, a mocha-skinned woman in a maid’s uniform appeared at my side, relieved me of the dish, then withdrew as quietly as she’d arrived.
“Delightful to meet you both,” Linford said. “Follow me to the dining room. Everything’s ready for our luncheon.”
The interior of Linford’s sprawling, glass and stone house was as hyperdecorated for the holidays as the exterior. The living room’s gigantic Christmas tree filled the whole floor with the scent of pine. A fortune in antique Victorian ornaments appeared throughout the house, and a much smaller illuminated tree sat in the large dining area.
We paused before a polished mahogany table, dripping with a delicate lace tablecloth and set for three. Beside it, a line of silver service buffet trays rested on a large serving cart. A roaring fire in a brick-lined hearth provided warmth, and a glass wall offered us a spectacular view of the Staten Island Greenbelt and the blue green waters of New York Bay beyond.
“Please make yourselves comfortable,” Linford said, holding my chair.
The maid returned with my dish of struffoli, now neatly placed atop a sterling silver serving tray. The honey glaze I’d drizzled over the tiny balls of fried dough gleamed in the sunlight. Struffoli was traditionally served as a communal after-dinner sweet, with guests tearing off pieces of the confection between sips of hot, strong espresso.
As soon as the maid placed my little Christmas tree in the middle of our table, however, Linford tore off the top and took a bite. “Forgive me for digging in,” he said with a smile. “I forgot how much I loved this!”
After chewing and swallowing, he dabbed the glaze from his fingers and mouth with a white napkin. “Delicious! I can taste a hint of citrus. Did you use lemon halves to position the hot dough when you formed the tree?”
I blinked. “How did you know?”
Linford laughed. “I’ll tell you, Clare, when I was seventeen I went to sea. I was young, so of course I had plenty of romantic delusions.”
“Didn’t we all,” I muttered.
“Well, things didn’t work out as planned. I caught pneumonia in Sicily, and the ship on which I was billeted sailed without me. It would have been a lonely Christmas in a strange land if a fisherman and his family hadn’t taken pity on me.”
Linford patted the modest bulge in his vest. “I must confess that I never ate better in my life.”
“Wow, Sicily,” Esther said, shooting me a pointed glance. “Did you happen to meet any Mafia bosses when you were there?”
It was an awkward, obvious question, but now that it was out, I watched Linford carefully for a reaction. He seemed amused more than anything, shaking his head no and laughing. Then he turned to his maid.
“Cecily, you may serve now.”
Into our crystal goblets, Cecily poured a blend of guava and mango nectars. She then removed the lid from a silver tray and a salty, briny, peppery scent filled the dining room.
“Funky smell,” Esther blurted out. “What is it?”
“Ackee and saltfish,” Linford replied.
Cecily spooned some of the fish and fruit stew onto Esther’s bone china plate.
“Ackee?” Esther whispered to me. “Isn’t this stuff toxic?”
I turned my head, raised th
e napkin to my lips, and whispered, “Only if it’s not ripe.”
“Excuse me,” Esther said loudly, “is this ackee ripe?”
Linford nodded. “Of course. It’s canned in Jamaica and approved for import by the FDA. It has to be processed correctly. Ackee can be poisonous, otherwise.”
Esther swallowed hard and stared at her food.
“I actually prefer fresh ackee with this particular dish,” Linford told me. “But the fruit is only harvested in the warmer months.”
The ackee fruit had the consistency of scrambled eggs; the fish was firm and resembled the Italian variety of dried codfish called baccala—something I ate as a child, but frankly didn’t miss (an inevitable truth of life: Not every foodie memory is a good foodie memory). Apparently, Esther agreed.
“This reminds me of dag maluah,” she said. “That’s Jewish saltfish.” Then she gave me a private look that said, This sort of stuff is vile in any language.
Luckily, Linford served the saltfish dish with freshly baked hard dough bread and boiled bananas on the side. (I thought at first they were plantains, but Linford informed me that boiled green bananas were also a traditional pairing. The fruit was boiled in its own skin with the tips and sides sliced to make peeling easier after cooking.) Then Linford dug in and so did I. Esther pushed the fish to the side of her plate and ate the bananas and bread—both of which were quite good.
As the conversation lulled, I cleared my throat. “Speaking of ackee, Mr. Linford—”
“Call me Omar, Clare. We have a mutual friend, which makes us friends, too, doesn’t it?”
“Yes, of course. And I understand our friend, Dexter Beatty, purchases import items from you?”
Linford sat back in his chair. “From my company, yes. You are here seeking a purveyor of Caribbean foods for your store, aren’t you? Dexter told me you had questions for me about my Blue Sunshine company. It’s a very reliable source, as Dexter can attest.”
“Actually, I had the impression that you and Dexter were involved in a number of business deals.”
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