Holiday Grind

by Cleo Coyle

  “Given her level of society and the social-circle issue with the bigwig offspring, I take it interviews are a touchy potato. How aggressively can you question friends and family?”

  “What do you think?”

  “Your bosses want the case closed. That’s what I think.”

  Quinn took a long, sullen sip of coffee. “I think this girl was a victim, Clare, not a suicide, and not an accidental death. I think there’s a guy out there who’s partying with dangerous drugs. He may not have meant to kill these girls, but he did, and he’s at least guilty of manslaughter. He must know about this latest death, given the headlines, but he hasn’t stepped forward. And I don’t think he will. He drugged both girls—even if they took the stuff willingly, he left them unconscious without a second thought. And I think he’ll do the same thing again.”

  “Then you have to find him, Mike. No matter what your bosses say.”

  “I know.”

  “What did your superiors say when you told them all this?”

  Quinn’s frown deepened. “Circumstantial similarities. It doesn’t help my theory that both girls had a history of using drugs recreationally—although rarely.”

  “Didn’t the domestic worker see anyone come into the apartment?”

  “The domestic’s a young, single woman—a live-in. She was given the day off, which she spent with her sister’s family in Queens. She returned around eight that night. That’s when she found her employer.”

  I sipped my own coffee, considering the facts. “What did the victim do that day?”

  “We know that Billie went to a party that morning on the Upper West Side—a large apartment that had a view of the Thanksgiving Day parade.”

  “That kind of parade-watching party is pretty common in the city,” I said. “What did the people at the party tell you?”

  “Billie talked to almost everyone there. She watched the parade and left the party alone. She entered her building alone. The doorman never announced anyone for her, and the lobby security camera confirms the doorman’s story. There’s a service entrance to the building, no camera on it, but it’s securely locked from the inside and there’s no sign of a break-in.”

  “The man must have lived in Billie’s building, then, right?”

  “That’s what we think; even though Billie had no history of sleeping with anyone in her building, it could have been a solitary sexual fling. We’re still working on getting DNA samples from the male residents—including the married men. It’s a touchy legal issue. Most have lawyers who are fighting it. This is a tough one, Cosi.”

  I sipped more coffee, then drummed my fingers on the tabletop. “Wouldn’t the DNA help your theory? If the Billington and Arnold girls had sex with the same man—even if you can’t ID the guy yet—wouldn’t that prove the pattern you’re arguing?”

  “Yes, it would, and I’m trying to get that test done.”

  “Maybe there are more victims, too. Did you think of that? Cases with those same things in common? And if you find those, you might find other things in common—like the killer.”

  Quinn gave me a half smile. “Logical next step, Detective. And, yes, Sully and I thought of that.” Sully was short for Sergeant Finbar Sullivan, Quinn’s right-hand man on the OD Squad.

  “He and I are going to work that angle this week, quietly, along with our regular caseload. We’re going to review the cold-case interviews with Cora Arnold’s friends and family; look for anything in Cora’s life that might intersect with the facts we’ve gathered about the male residents of Billie’s building. I wanted you to know because it’s going to mean some late nights and early mornings. It’s important you understand . . .”

  “I get it, Mike. You’re warning me that you won’t be around much.”

  “I want to help with Alf, Clare—”

  “I know you do, but I can handle it. I can. How hard can it be to ask James Young a few questions, judge his reactions?”

  Quinn studied me. “You need to have a partner watching your back.”

  “I know. That’s why I took Esther with me last night to the courtyard.”

  “But she left you.”

  “That was my call.”

  “Well, do me a favor, sweetheart; bring backup and keep it there, okay?”

  “Okay. I will. Don’t worry.”

  “Can’t promise that.” He smiled. “In the meantime, I’ll see what I can dig up for you on Franco.”

  “Thanks. I mean it.”

  He shrugged. “’Tis the season for favors. And you did tell me what you wanted for Christmas.” We both smiled at that.

  “Speaking of Christmas,” I said, “we haven’t discussed plans for the holiday. Do you have time scheduled with your kids? I was thinking we could take them ice skating in Bryant Park, see the tree at Rock Center. There’s always frozen hot chocolate at Serendipity, and Macy’s windows are really nice this year. Is Molly too old for Santaland? Joy loved doing that until she was almost eleven.”

  “Whoa—slow down.” Quinn shifted in his chair. “The kids won’t be around, Clare. My wife’s taking them to Florida. Her boyfriend’s family’s down there and she wants them to meet the kids—

  “Ex-wife,” I said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You called her your wife.”

  “I did?” Quinn frowned. “Habit, I guess. Anyway, since they’ll be gone for two weeks, I also agreed to be available for coverage over Christmas and New Year’s—favors owed, you know? The guys who have families know I’m divorced now, so I agreed.”

  “Oh. You really are going to be off the map.”

  “It’s no big deal, is it? I mean, you’ve been pretty excited about Joy coming back from Paris for the holidays. You warned me you were going to spend some serious girl time together, right?”

  I nodded, smiling at the thought of seeing my daughter again, catching up with all the exciting things she was learning and tasting and cooking in France. “You’re right. I’ve really missed her.”

  “I know you have, sweetheart. So look at the bright side: You’ll be so busy visiting with her, I doubt you’ll miss me much.”

  My heart sank a little at that. Of course I would miss him, especially at this time of year. But I didn’t say so. I mean, I didn’t want to lay on the guilt. I understood about the demands of his job (it was one of the things that broke up his marriage), and it seemed to me what he needed most now was reassurance that overtime wasn’t going to hurt our relationship.

  “You’re right,” I joked, forcing a smile. “I’ll be way too busy to miss you.”

  Quinn’s reaction wasn’t what I expected. His smile faltered, and he actually looked a little hurt. I was about to clarify that I was joking when his cell went off.

  “Excuse me,” he said, checking the Caller ID.

  “Police business?”

  He didn’t indicate yes or no, just said, “I have to take this.”

  “I understand.”

  What I didn’t understand was why he didn’t just take the call at the kitchen table instead of leaving the room. I moved to the doorway and cocked a curious ear.

  “No. I’m having coffee.” Pause. “Yes, I plan to.” Longer pause. “Yes, I do. I do. I just can’t talk right now.” Pause. “Because I can’t.”

  I frowned. The conversation certainly didn’t sound like police business.

  Just then, my own phone rang—but not my cell, which was still recharging in the bedroom. This was the landline to the apartment. I picked up the kitchen extension.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, Mom!”

  “Joy!”

  Her call couldn’t have come at a better time. Just hearing her voice made me feel grounded again. We talked a little about what she was doing and what I was doing, and then she said she had something to tell me. Her voice suddenly sounded strained.

  “I’m really sorry, Mom. Really sorry, but . . .”

  “What is it, honey?”

  “As it turns out, I can�
�t come home for the holidays. I have to work at the restaurant after all. Forgive me?”

  My heart went through the floor. For a few seconds, I had trouble finding my tongue. “Sure, honey,” I finally managed to get out. “I’m so busy this year . . . don’t worry about it.”

  A few minutes later, she ended the call, and I went to find Mike. All of a sudden, I felt a little numb. I couldn’t believe it, but this would be the first Christmas, the very first, that my little girl and I would be spending apart.

  I needed to tell Mike about it. Not that I expected him to change his plans—but I suddenly needed an empathetic ear, a sympathetic hug. I also needed to reassure myself that he and I were on solid ground. I was afraid he’d gotten the wrong impression from my reaction to his overtime speech.

  But Quinn was no longer on his cell in the living room. I found him in the bedroom, fully dressed, shrugging into his shoulder holster.

  “You’re not leaving already? I was about to whip up some of my Golden Gingerbread-Maple Muffins—I was thinking of adding a warm glaze with some holiday spice notes. I thought you’d like to sample a couple.”

  “Sorry, sweetheart. Save me a few, okay?” His expression was unreadable as he grabbed his badge and wallet off the dresser. “There’s an issue. I have to take care of something.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing important. I’ll give you a ring later.”

  “But I wanted to tell you—”

  “Later, Clare. I promise,” he said. And with a too-quick kiss on my cheek, he was gone.

  FIFTEEN

  LIKE most New Yorkers, James Young was not an easy man to contact. For one thing, his phone was unlisted. On the Internet, I found plenty of info about Studio 19, including its address. But the only number I could find was for the general public. A message service answered when I called but refused to put me through directly to Mr. Young—although they did confirm he worked there.

  The most maddening part was that I knew the man’s home address, down to his apartment number, but I dared not approach the place. If the Matt-battered doorman saw me again, I was pretty sure he’d find a way to have me arrested, most likely for “harassing” his tenant.

  I didn’t have time for some half-assed stakeout of his place (to collar him before he went into or came out of his building), so I decided to contact a partner, just as Quinn advised.

  Madame Dreyfus Allegro Dubois was more than my boss, my landlord, my former mother-in-law, and my daughter’s biggest champion. Madame was my very best friend. She also happened to be the most beloved (and elegantly dressed) snoop in the vicinity of Washington Square Park.

  After Quinn left, I dumped the dregs of his java, which had grown unpalatably cold during our long talk, and pulled out my Moka Express pot. In more ways than one, I needed to get some hot jolts into my system. Using Alfonso Bialetti’s stovetop invention, I quickly produced the rustic version of coffeehouse espresso that Italians have been enjoying for nearly a century.

  On my third energizing shot of the day, I phoned Matt’s mother and told her everything that had happened—from Alf’s murder to my arrest for trespassing the night before. She started out sounding a little sleepy, but with each new revelation, she became more animated.

  “You actually climbed a fire escape in the dead of night and peered through a stranger’s window?” Madame said. “I certainly hope you saw something juicy.”

  “Sorry to disappoint. I only saw a photo ID for a man who works at a place called Studio 19. It’s an independent television facility located on Nineteenth Street, near Eleventh Avenue—”

  Madame laughed.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “I know all about Studio 19, dear.”

  I nearly dropped my demitasse. “What are you? Psychic?”

  “Even better. I’m nosy. And a good neighbor.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Madame laughed again, but she wouldn’t tell me anything more—except to say that she’d “make a few calls” and get back to me.

  Thirty-six freshly baked Golden Gingerbread-Maple Muffins and one four-hour barista half shift later, I was sitting beside the silver-haired matriarch, inside the cavernous Studio 19. We’d come to see the taping of one of the most popular television shows in the country, The Chatsworth Way.

  According to Madame, an illegal Pekingese is what gained us admission. “There’s a two-pet minimum in my building, you see,” she explained, which still left me confused.

  “And how exactly do the rules of your apartment building translate into instant tickets to a TV show with a three-month-long studio audience waiting list?”

  “Well, when someone snitched to the building manager,” Madame’s voice dropped conspiratorially, “and I have no doubt that someone was that music producer’s paramour on the second floor, the one who sleeps until noon and parties until four AM. Pooh, what a terror. Bohemians I can tolerate, but her—”

  “You were telling me about a Pekingese.”

  “Oh, yes. Someone snitched to the building manager that Mr. Dewberry and his wife Enid had a third dog, so I pretended the dog was mine. I walked Ming two or three times a day until the whole thing blew over.”

  “So it was Mr. Dewberry who got you these tickets to the taping?”

  Madame nodded. “Mr. Dewberry is the major stock-holder in the company that syndicates this program. He was very appreciative of my efforts on Ming’s behalf. So here we are.”

  I was appreciative, too.

  Now we watched from our front-row seats as technicians crisscrossed a darkened soundstage. Several large monitors dropped from the ceiling to flank the shadowy stage, each with a Chatsworth Way logo on a field of pastel pink or powder blue.

  “I have to say it. You’re amazing. Tickets and backstage passes in less than twenty-four hours.”

  “You really ought to include me in your sleuthing from the start, Clare,” Madame said flatly. “It’s lucky you caught me today at all, because tomorrow morning Otto and I are off to a charming little bed-and-breakfast in Vermont.”

  Otto Visser was Madame’s latest flame. A younger man (at nearly seventy), Otto was an urbane art dealer and appraiser who’d been smitten with Matt’s mother from the moment he “eye-flirted” with her across a French restaurant’s semi-crowded dining room.

  “Have you found that ‘perfect’ gift for Otto yet?” I asked.

  “What do you buy a man who collects medieval illuminated manuscripts?” she asked with a wave of her beringed hand. “But I thought about it long and hard, and finally settled on a fraud.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I acquired an image of the Madonna and Child that appears to come out of a medieval manuscript, but it’s really a forgery perpetrated by the Spanish Forger, a legendary counterfeiter who created hundreds of medieval fakes in nineteenth-century France.” Madame smiled, her gentle laugh lines impishly crinkling around her brilliant blue eyes. “Otto will absolutely adore it, I’m sure. A real conversation piece among his colleagues.”

  “It’s certainly unique,” I replied.

  “So when is Joy scheduled to arrive?”

  I’d dreaded this moment. I hadn’t yet broken the bad news to either Madame or Matt.

  “I’m sorry. I need to tell you. Joy phoned me earlier this morning. She’s not coming home after all,” I said. “She couldn’t get the time off.”

  Instead of registering disappointment, Madame nodded with a knowing smile. “That’s why I made sure her plane tickets were open-ended.”

  Now I nodded knowingly. “You assumed she’d get stuck working.”

  “Working?” Madame shook her head. “Joy’s not working, Clare. It’s a boy. She’s suddenly madly in love and can’t bear to be apart from him.”

  “She told you that?”

  “No! I just know my grandchild. I’m quite sure you’ll discover that she’s fallen for some adorable, flirtatious, irresistibly cocky French cook in her brigade. I can only hope the feeling is mutual,
for her heart’s sake . . . What’s wrong?”

  “I just . . . never considered that.”

  “She’s left the nest, dear. She wants her own life.” She leaned closer. “Don’t you fret now. It was hard for me when Matteo did the same, went off to Europe for an entire summer, but then he came back with you, didn’t he?”

  That was the abbreviated version of a much longer summer-of-love story that ended with me pregnant. Without that sweet bambina bun in my oven, however, I doubted very much the freewheeling, extreme-sports-loving, twenty-two-year-old Matteo Allegro would have taken me home to Mama.

  My frown deepened. The momentary glimpse down memory lane left me anxious—now I couldn’t stop wondering whether Joy had been listening during our talks about birth control.

  Madame squeezed my hand. “Just remember this, Clare. When Joy gets married and has a child of her own, she’ll need you more than ever.”

  An usher interrupted us. He was moving through the audience, handing out a brochure about the show. As Madame leafed through it, I scanned the studio for any man who resembled that ID badge photo of James Young.

  “Today we’re going to see a very special seasonal episode about holiday stress,” Madame informed me, a pair of reading glasses perched on her nose.

  “Timely,” I said.

  “It also says here that Dr. Chaz is a trained psychologist born and raised in Southern California. His wife, Phyllis, is a marriage therapist originally from the Twin Cities. They met during college, and The Chatsworth Way began as a local program in Minneapolis. The nationally syndicated version of the show is devoted entirely to the subject of mending splitting marriages and healing damaged relationships.”

  “Hmmm . . .” I glanced at the eager congregation around us. “That might explain why four fifths of this audience is female.”

  “Last year The Chatsworth Way went into syndication, and it is now the fourth most popular daytime show behind Oprah, Dr. Phil, and Rachael Ray.” Madame arched a silver eyebrow. “And apparently this James Young you’re looking for is the show’s executive producer.”