by Cleo Coyle
“Oh, yes. I see. If Jerry Lassiter is afraid of losing his wife to Ric, maybe his solution is to lose Ric first?”
“Exactly.”
“Well, my dear, as far as proving it, we need to start right here with this agency. TerraGreen may be on its client list, but that doesn’t prove Jerry Lassiter hired them to tail his wife.”
“I know, and that’s why we’re going to dump your ‘lost keys’ approach.”
“We are?”
“Yes.”
“Then what are we going to do?”
“I think we should—”
The front door opened just then and I stopped talking. A well-dressed gentleman boldly strode up to the receptionist as if he owned the place. When I caught sight of his face, I realized he did.
Tapping Madame on the shoulder, I pointed to the section of the brochure that displayed the photo and bio of the man standing right in front of us.
Anil Kapoor’s twenty-five-year career spans work for the Drug Enforcement Administration, which led to his work in that agency’s office in Marseille, France; Rabat, Morocco; and Brussels, Belgium, where he served as the technical advisor on U.S. drug intelligence and investigative matters. From there, he moved to the worldwide International Criminal Police Organization more commonly known as Interpol. There he worked for twelve years as the Director of the Criminal Intelligence Directorate, the number-two position in the organization, subordinate only to the secretary general.
Now retired from his official work, he runs the New York branch of WPI. Located near the United Nations and the diplomatic office for which his office often consults, he has assembled a New York team with extensive experience in criminal investigations and intelligence collection from around the world.
Mr. Kapoor’s education and studies include: Princeton University, Bachelor of Arts degree in Sociology and Business; D.E.A. Executive Management and Financial Investigations; Harvard University, graduate course on National and Internal Security; USDA Graduate School Performance Audits.
An attractive man in his fifties, Kapoor looked much like his photo, with the exception of his jet-black hair, which now displayed noticeable strands of silver-gray. He had a full face, olive complexion, and East Indian features. Well under six feet, he had a paunchy physique, but he wore his clothes beautifully: a London tailored suit, a fine charcoal overcoat draped over his arm, a slim attaché case in his hand. Like Madame, he presented himself with a confident air of dignified elegance.
As he spoke to the receptionist, Madame leaned toward me. “Clare,” she whispered. “What do you want us to do?”
“Just go along with me,” I whispered in reply. Then I silently pointed to the brochure and Anil Kapoor’s bio. Madame began to read it over.
“Ladies?” the receptionist called after Mr. Kapoor left the waiting room and headed towards the agency’s offices. “Do you have an appointment?”
“No, we don’t.” I rose from the couch and moved toward her desk. “This company was recommended to us . . . and we were in the neighborhood today, visiting friends at the French Embassy, so we thought we might just drop in and ask a few questions . . .”
I ran out of words, but Madame was ready—
“Oui, oui . . .” she said, summoning her old French accent. “We’re a bit uncertain about the whole process, comprenez-vous ? But of course if no one is available to talk to us about your company, we can call for an appointment, une certaine autre heure, oui? I believe there’s another agency the deputy secretary recommended . . .” Madame made a show of looking through her Prada bag. She glanced at me. “Do you have that other agency’s card, my dear, or do I?”
The receptionist quickly spoke up. “I’m sure you won’t have to leave before seeing someone. Just give us another few minutes, and I’ll ask if Mr. Kapoor’s available. If not, I’m sure a member of his staff will answer all of your questions.”
“Merci,” Madame replied.
“Your names please?” the receptionist asked.
Five minutes later, the young woman was escorting us into a corner office. The decor in here was markedly different from the bland waiting room. Mahogany bookshelves lined the walls with leather-bound volumes. A thick Persian rug of sapphire, jade, and ruby covered a parquet floor, and the large room was dominated by a substantial desk of dense wood lacquered a shiny black.
Behind a sleek flat-panel computer monitor sat Anil Kapoor. He rose when we entered, his hand moving to smooth his pearl colored tie.
“May I present Madame Marie LaSalle and her daughter, Vanessa LaSalle,” the receptionist announced.
“Madame, mademoiselle,” Mr. Kapoor said. He extended his hand and we all politely shook. Then the receptionist backed out of the room and her boss gestured to the two mahogany chairs in front of his desk.
“What may I do for you today?” Mr. Kapoor asked, discreetly swiveling his whisper-thin computer monitor to the side.
“We have a few questions for you,” I began. “We’re looking to hire an investigator to help . . . with an investigation.”
One of Mr. Kapoor’s dark eyebrows rose very slightly. “What sort of investigation?”
“Well, the details are . . . they’re very private. First we have some questions about your agency . . . you understand?”
Mr. Kapoor shifted in his chair, gave me a polite smile. “I’ll answer any questions, if I can.”
“You see, this is the first time we’d be using you, although a friend of ours recommended you to us.”
“And who might that be?”
“He’s an executive,” I said, “with TerraGreen International.”
“Oh? What division?”
“Division? I . . . I’m not sure . . .”
“What country then?” Mr. Kapoor asked.
“The U.S. He’s based right here in Long Island.”
“I see.”
“Anyway,” I said, “Jerry mentioned to us that he’s very happy with the case you’re working on now for him . . .”
Mr. Kapoor’s forehead wrinkled. “Jerry?”
“Jerry Lassiter, of course. He did give me the right agency? You’re investigating his wife, Ellie, aren’t you?”
The man remained quiet for a long moment, his dark eyes studying me and then Madame. “I’d like to be helpful,” he said, “but I’m not familiar with every case this agency handles. And, of course, it’s not our policy to discuss any ongoing investigation. Now, tell me a bit about your needs. What sort of case do you have?” His eyes squinted a fraction. “If you really have one . . .”
“Of course we have one. It’s . . . it’s a case of . . .”
“It’s a missing person’s case,” Madame levelly replied.
“I see,” said Mr. Kapoor. “Man, woman, or child?”
“Man,” said Madame.
“Age?” Mr. Kapoor asked.
“About thirty,” Madame replied.
“And where was he last seen?”
Madame glanced out the window a moment. “The French Riviera.”
“Can you be more specific?”
“The beaches of Nice. It’s simply a question of finding the man again, you see?” Madame said. “After he shared himself for a few unforgettable months, he simply disappeared.”
“Oh, yes. I think I see now.” Mr. Kapoor nodded. “It’s a love affair?”
“But of course,” Madame replied.
Mr. Kapoor locked eyes with me. “And exactly how long did this missing man and your daughter have this love affair?”
“My daughter?” Madame repeated. “Non, monsieur. The love affair was mine!”
Mr. Kapoor didn’t appear the sort of man to surprise easily, but his stoic expression cracked just then. His jaw slackened and his throat issued a grunt of incredulity.
“Yours, Madame?”
“Oui!”
He leaned forward. “Do you . . . have a photo?”
“I do . . .”
I tensed as Madame searched her bag. I had no idea what s
he was up to with this tale, but I was grateful she’d come up with something on a dime.
“Here you are,” she said, handing Kapoor a snapshot from her wallet.
He gazed at it, then handed it back. “A very handsome man.”
“Oui,” said Madame with a quick glance at me. “His name is Antonio.”
“And you’d like us to find him for you?” Kapoor asked.
Madame nodded.
Good luck with that, I thought. The late Antonio Allegro might very well have been on the beaches of Nice in his lifetime, but he’d been “missing” for a few decades.
“Well, Madame, I’m happy to inform you that we do have an office on the Riviera, and I’m sure we can accommodate this search. We can coordinate everything from here in the New York office. Would you like us to get started today? I’ll assign a case officer . . .”
As Mr. Kapoor picked up the phone, I spoke up again. “I think we’ll need to consider it for a few more days, won’t we, Mother?”
Madame nodded. “Oui . . . you know, it is possible Antonio might still get in touch.”
“Yes, of course,” said Mr. Kapoor setting the phone down again.
“But, you know . . .” I said. “If Mother does decide to use your agency, she needs to make sure we have the right one recommended to us. Jerry Lassiter is a client here, isn’t he? You can confirm that much at least, can’t you? You are investigating his wife?”
Mr. Kapoor pressed a button on his phone. “Ms. Cassel, if you please,” he said into the intercom. Then he stood and glanced at his slim platinum watch. “I’m afraid I must apologize. I’ve forgotten about an agency meeting.”
“But—”
He extended his hand. “Thank you for your interest in our agency. If you decide to pursue your case, please call Ms. Cassel for an appointment—” He gestured to his office door. The receptionist was standing there, waiting to escort us out.
Less than ten minutes later, we were back on the sidewalk.
SIXTEEN
On the cab ride back to the Blend, my cell phone rang. It was Matt. Apparently, his morning had gone much differently than mine.
“Clare, I had to call.”
“Matt? What’s wrong?!”
“This is the first time I’ve eaten at Joy’s restaurant and the place is exceptional!”
“That’s nice, but I have to tell you . . .”
“I’m just finishing my lunch of seared skate with baby root vegetables and sauce grenobloise. Our daughter prepared everything on my plate, and—”
“Matt, I need to . . .”
“—the skate just melted on my tongue! You know, I haven’t had skate like that since—”
“Listen to me!” I finally shouted. “I have a lot to discuss with you and none of it involves Jacques Pépin’s favorite fish!”
“Clare, why are you freaking?”
I quickly recounted my morning: interrogating Ric about the smuggled cutting; tracking down Ellie at the Botanic Garden; adding the word biopiracy to my vocab; seeing Ellie being spied on as she kissed Ric at the V Hotel; then tailing the man who’d tailed her to a private investigation office.
“Good god, Clare, have you lost your mind?”
“That’s your response? Don’t you understand that Ric is in danger? And Ellie may be, too, for all I know.”
“Or all you don’t know,” Matt said. “You’re not a professional investigator, and you’re not a cop.”
“I know, Matt, but I am—”
“I’ll tell you what you are. You’re a certifiable nose-hound with an addiction to conspiracy theories.”
“Well, if I am, then so’s your mother.”
“Back up. What are you saying about my mother?”
“She’s been with me all morning, and she’s right here in the cab with me now.”
A long pause followed. “Clare,” Matt said tightly, “I know Halloween’s around the corner, but please tell me that you didn’t drag my mother all over this town in some private eye masquerade.”
“I didn’t have to drag her.”
“For the love of . . .” He cursed. “Are you telling me that you’re taking my elderly mother on some ridiculous Nancy Drew joyride—”
“It’s not ridiculous—”
Madame tapped my shoulder. “What’s he saying, Clare?”
“He’s going on about how we’re ridiculous.”
“Give me that phone,” she snapped.
I handed over the cell. Matt was still ranting on the other end about how we were on a wild goose chase.
“Young man,” Madame barked into the cell, “this is your mother—”
I raised an eyebrow at “young man,” but then realized just how young a son in his forties was to a woman pushing eighty.
“Look here, Matteo, Clare and I were not just chasing feathered foie gras. We’ve uncovered some rather significant information. So stop spouting off, and for once in your life, listen to your wife!”
“Ex-wife,” I corrected as Madame handed the phone back to me.
“Okay, what?” Matt said. I could practically hear him pouting through the audio signal.
“Here’s what. You need to warn your friend Ric what’s happening with this private investigation business. I’ve already called Ellie—twice. But I’m only getting voicemail, and she hasn’t returned my calls. I don’t have Ric’s cell phone number, so I tried calling his room at the V Hotel, but they said Federico Gostwick isn’t registered there, and—”
“He’s not registered there because I booked the room for him under my name, just to be on the safe side.”
“Well, that’s exactly what I’m talking about, Matt! You see the need to protect your friend, right? That’s all I’m doing, and I’m telling you he’s not safe. A private eye was on Ellie’s tail, so now he knows where your friend is staying, which means whoever hired the P.I. also knows where he’s staying. I think that mugging last night was someone— possibly Ellie’s husband—attempting to steal the cutting or harm Ric.”
“Okay, okay. Calm down. I understand what you’re worried about, and I’ll talk to Ric about everything.”
“Promise?”
“Yes, I promise. But you have to promise something, too.”
“What?”
“I need you to chill. Stop interrogating Ric and following people he knows. This is important, Clare. I don’t want Ric spooked.”
“I’m only doing it to help him—”
“He’s a private man, and he’s not going to appreciate your butting into his business. And we need his business, Clare. We can’t afford for this deal to fail.”
“What do you mean by that? The Blend is doing fine.”
“We’re in trouble, Clare . . .” He paused. “Okay, I’m in trouble.”
“The cutting? Someone figured out it was smuggled into the country?”
“Forget the cutting. It’s far worse than that.”
I heard him take a breath. “The kiosks are in trouble. Financial trouble. For the last few months, I’ve been transferring funds from the profitable kiosks to the unprofitable ones, to shore them up. Keep them going until I can remedy the situation—and the kiosk expansions are partially leveraged against the Village Blend and its townhouse.”
It took me a minute to catch up with Matt, but I still couldn’t believe what he was saying. “I don’t understand. I saw the kiosks’ early numbers. They looked great.”
“The first wave of startups did well. Interest was initially high. But the new kiosks, mostly the ones in California, are in trouble.”
“Why?”
“A lot of the patrons of the high-end shops in those areas have a problem with caffeine. We tested processed decafs as a possible alternative, but a lot of them weren’t happy with the quality. Ric’s hybrid would be a high-profile splash, the kind of new product that’s sure to reel in those premium customers.”
“No wonder you’ve been so eager to make this thing with Ric work.”
“That’s
why Friday night is so important. These decaffeinated beans, my exclusive deal with Ric . . . they’re the life preserver for almost half of the Blend kiosks. It’s a new revenue stream, as well as a way to promote the kiosks that are about to go under.”
“Oh, god . . .”
“Clare, I need you onboard now more than ever. I need your support in making this launch a success. Do I have it?”
I touched my fingers to my forehead, where a migraine was about to set up shop. I knew how hard it was for Matt to confess this. He’d been trying to strike out on his own, to make his mark and probably prove to me, to Joy, to his mother that he could make up for lost time.
“Okay,” I said. “You have my support.”
“Then you’ll suspend this . . . this investigation of yours, at least until after the launch of the Gostwick Decaf on Friday?”
I sighed. “All right. On one condition.”
“What?”
“That nothing bad happens—to Ric or anyone else we know.”
“We’re not in an Alfred Hitchcock movie, Clare. I’m sure everyone is safe and sound.”
“Well, I’m not so sure. And, just so you know, I plan to keep calling Ellie until I reach her. I want her to know what I uncovered today—that she’s being followed by a private investigator or a team of them. And I still want you to talk to Ric. Tell him Ellie’s husband probably knows about their affair. Ric needs to keep his eyes open and watch his back—and so do you for that matter.”
“I will, Clare. I’ll tell him, and I’ll be careful.”
“And one more thing . . . since you happen to be at Solange, would you mind checking out this hot young chef Joy is working for?”
“Tommy Keitel? What do you mean check him out?” Matt asked. “I’m already eating here, and the food’s outstanding.”
“I’m not interested in his cooking. I want to know what sort of person he’s like. He’s Joy’s new boyfriend, isn’t he?”
“Yes, but—”
“Then just make up some stupid excuse to barge into the kitchen. I told you, Joy has yet to bring the young man around the Blend.”
“But that’s Joy’s business. We’ll meet Keitel when she wants us to. She won’t like my invading her—”
