by Cleo Coyle
“So they’re betting on Nate confessing and naming an accomplice who built the bomb?”
“Yes.”
“He won’t, you know, because he’s innocent.”
“I’m with you, Clare, I am. But who framed him? And why?”
“That’s where your favor comes in. Did you do it for me?”
“I did. I spoke with a friend in the LAPD.”
“So you got the information?”
“It’s locked in my briefcase, but only one thing will persuade me to give up the combination.”
“Let me guess: my Triple-Chocolate Italian Cheesecake?”
“Okay, two things. Come here . . .”
*
THE next morning, I woke to the heavenly smell of buttermilk pancakes on the griddle. In a nice switch, Mike made breakfast for me. As I stuffed myself with comfort-food carbs, he retrieved his handwritten cop notes. Then I made a big pot of coffee and he sat down to give me the skinny on Bianca Hyde’s death and the police investigation that followed—straight out of the Los Angeles Police Department files.
“Okay,” he began, “Bianca Hyde died at the Beverly Palms Hotel via blunt force trauma. Officially, it was determined that Ms. Hyde was intoxicated, stumbled, or passed out; struck her head against a heavy glass table, and bled to death.”
“That much I knew from Tucker’s tabloid account.”
“Patience, Cosi . . . The investigating officer was convinced her death was foul play, and from the files he seemed eager to pin the crime on Eric Thorner.”
“His evidence?”
“They were recently estranged. He’d had enough of her drinking and insisted she check into rehab. She refused and checked into the hotel. The Beverly Palms had been sued the previous year and forced to provide camera footage for a divorce trial, so they removed most of their interior security cameras, promising discretion to future guests.”
“What about the elevators?”
“There were cameras in the elevators and in the underground parking garage. The police viewed the footage closely, but there was no visual evidence that Eric Thorner, Anton Alonzo, or any of Bianca’s other former boyfriends, who sometimes had jealousy issues, appeared on camera.”
“That’s it?”
“The police brought Thorner in for questioning. He claimed to be at his Silicon Valley residence that day, all day. It turns out that Mr. Thorner owns considerably more security cams than the Beverly Palms, and the LAPD quickly found time-stamped video images showing Thorner and his butler, Anton, at the residence in the hours leading up to Bianca’s death and many hours after.”
Mike set his notes aside to pour another cup of coffee. “That’s about as solid an alibi as you can ask for, so the LAPD had no choice but to back off.”
“Then Eric is innocent.”
“Maybe,” Mike said.
“Maybe’s pretty vague. What’s your theory, Detective?”
“I’ll put it to you this way: What sounds more believable to you? A chubby, out-of-shape old man like Nate Sumner constructs a bomb and finds some way to plant it in a car that’s always either in a secure garage or driven by a former NYPD cop? Or . . . a tech genius like Eric Thorner and a former member of Special Ops like his butler, Anton Alonzo, find a way to trick their own security cameras and falsify an alibi?”
I blinked. “You think Nate was framed by Eric and his butler?”
“I do.”
“You’re crazy.”
“And you’re willfully blind. Brush those dollar signs away from your eyes, Cosi, and maybe you’ll be able to see the truth.”
“Don’t be insulting. For your theory to work, that means Eric would have planned to kill Charley and almost kill himself.”
“Every insurance adjuster knows that the easiest way to appear innocent of starting a fire is to make sure you get burned in it.”
“I can’t listen to this!”
“DeFasio did.”
“You think Eric Thorner murdered Bianca Hyde and then—”
“Yes.”
“No, I can’t believe it.”
Mike exhaled. “More like you don’t want to believe it. Like that daughter of yours who broke up with Franco because of his salary.”
I held my head. “Don’t make things worse.”
“Sweetheart, listen to me. I know Nate Sumner got a raw deal, but it’s his problem now—and his attorney’s problem. I want you to stay away from Thorner.”
I swallowed hard. “I promised Madame I’d help. But even if I went back on that promise, I can’t live with the situation the way it is. I’m going into business with Eric, and I want to know the truth about him. I really don’t think he framed Nate.”
“Then who did?”
“I don’t know. We don’t have enough facts yet to conclude anything.”
“And how are you going to get your facts?”
“I’ll continue to work with Eric and keep my eyes open.”
“But I don’t want you anywhere near Thorner or his people. I’m worried about you.”
“Look, someone around Eric has to be guilty—someone close enough to know his schedule and get to his car without suspicion. I don’t know if the motive was personal or monetary, but I’m going to find the truth.”
“The truth? Okay, Clare, you think about this truth on your train ride home: the last person to investigate the truth around Eric Thorner was an ex-cop named Charley. And if you’re not careful, you’re going to end up where she did—on a cold, steel slab at the city morgue.”
Forty-three
FOR the next few nights, I tossed and turned. Matt was off on his hunt for the best coffee beans in the world. Madame was inconsolable with worry. And me? I was feeling powerless and without a clue (literally).
To make matters worse, Eric himself remained out of touch.
He’d left the city upon Nate’s arrest and had yet to return. His behavior was beginning to feel suspicious, and I couldn’t help wondering whether Mike was right.
On Wednesday night, I tried to call Quinn. His voice mail declared that he was on an unexpected special assignment and temporarily unreachable. I lay awake, hoping he’d get back to me, my mind playing our last conversation over and over again . . .
“You’re willfully blind. Brush those dollar signs away from your eyes, Cosi, and maybe you’ll be able to see the truth . . .”
*
ON THURSDAY morning, Tucker took one look at my eyes and gave me a brotherly hug. He didn’t see dollar signs, he saw dark circles.
“Listen, CC, there are two remedies for insomnia: physical exhaustion or better ZZZs through chemistry.”
I gave the former a try by taking a long afternoon swim at the 14th Street Y. By my tenth lap, I could swear I heard someone gurgling my name under the chlorinated water.
“Ms. Cosi!”
I popped up to find Anton Alonzo at the edge of the pool, wearing full chauffeur livery, standing stiff as a towel rack—complete with a fluffy, white one on his arm.
I climbed out of the water, and he wrapped the soft material around me.
“What are you doing here?” I asked (uncomfortably aware that a dozen of my fellow swimmers were wondering the same thing).
“I have something for you from Mr. Thorner.” He pulled a small, gold gift bag from his pocket and opened it. “Please . . .”
“But I’m soaking wet.”
“No matter.”
I dipped my hand into the bag and brought out a mobile phone, but not just any mobile phone. This was a prototype THORN, Inc., smartphone. The sleek, black design was beautiful, gently caressing my wet hand.
“This phone is shockproof, fireproof, and waterproof to a depth of one kilometer,” Anton briskly informed me. “All new data is backed up daily at midnight.”
“How do you turn it on?”
“Phone on!” he commanded.
“Good afternoon, Ms. Cosi . . .” I shivered at the familiar fembot voice, the one from Eric’s cyber-wired luxur
y apartment.
“It’s Miss House,” I whispered to Anton. “Now what?”
“Wait for it,” he whispered back.
The fembot spoke again: “I have an incoming call from Mr. Eric Thorner. Will you take the call?”
“Yes,” I said.
Eric’s visage instantly filled the little screen. “How’s my favorite coffee lady?”
“Dripping wet and dog tired.”
“Good,” he said with a feline grin. “You’ll get some good sleep tonight, and when you wake up, we’ll have a late breakfast meeting.”
“At the Village Blend?” I assumed.
“Anton will give you directions. Trust me, Clare, and I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Wait! I have some important questions for you—”
“If you do as Anton says, you can ask me anything.”
Then the screen wiped his image, and I shivered in my swimsuit, certain the billionaire’s Cheshire Cat grin was the last thing to disappear.
*
A FEW hours later, I was shivering again, this time from the winter weather. As snow lightly fell, Anton pointed to a rabbit hole in the form of a Gulfstream jet, sitting on the tarmac at Teterboro Airport.
“I should have taken the sleeping pill,” I muttered.
This was Eric’s private plane, I was told, which I would have guessed anyway from the THORN, Inc., logo of barbed-wire thorns stenciled around the G5’s blue and white tailfin.
“Where am I going?!” I called over nearby roaring engines.
“The pilot will answer your questions, Ms. Cosi! Please board now!”
The pilot answered none of my questions because he was busy flying the plane. The copilot, who acted as steward, wouldn’t tell me, either.
“It’s a surprise, Ms. Cosi,” he said. “My apologies, but I’m under strict orders from Mr. Thorner to keep it that way.”
The jet was set up like the cabin of a small yacht—all polished, blond wood and cream-colored cushions. Its small help-yourself galley was stocked for a baby billionaire: champagne, chocolate, caviar, Coca-Cola, Doritos, and Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups . . .
At the very back was a private bathroom, complete with a shower, and a bedroom with a large mattress and a flat-screen TV set up with high-speed Internet and a head-spinning selection from Thorner’s personal movie library.
I’d been told to pack light—a change of clothes, underthings, and a nightgown. I changed into sweatpants and an oversized T-shirt, collapsed onto the cloud-soft bed, and slept like a dead person.
Maybe it was the purring sound of those jet engines, maybe it was the relief that I would finally get a chance to question Eric about Professor Nate Sumner’s arrest, but my insomnia was officially over and my last thoughts before drifting off: a Ping-Pong match between “How cool is this?” and “What kind of Interweb did I get myself into?!”
Forty-four
“BONJOUR, madam . . .”
The sounds of our jet landing had woken me, but the airport didn’t look familiar. I washed up, changed into clean slacks and a sweater, and disembarked. As I knotted my topcoat on the chilly tarmac, a bulky man approached.
“Please to follow me,” he said, his breath steaming as he took my Pullman. He had a barrel chest and wore a microphone bud in his ear. From the cut of his jacket, I assumed he was carrying a shoulder-holstered gun—and I didn’t know whether to feel safe or threatened.
“Excuse me?” I asked him. “Are we in France?”
“Oui, madam.”
“Where?”
His reply was to pull open the back door of a black SUV. “Please to go inside.”
“Won’t you tell me where I’m going?”
The big guy didn’t answer. He just slid behind the wheel and took off, but when I saw the sign for the A1, I knew: we were driving into Paris.
*
AS WE rolled through the early traffic of tiny cars and giant trucks, all I could think of was Joy. Whatever Eric wanted me to do here, I would absolutely insist on the chance to see my daughter before we left.
As billionaires go, Eric would likely be staying in the center of the city at an ostentatious hotel, something near the majestic Palais-Royal or Champs-Élysées, maybe the Hotel Le Meurice along the Tuileries Gardens.
Frankly, all I cared about on this bright, winter morning was how far we would be from Joy’s restaurant.
Could she get a few hours off for a visit? Would Eric let me make the time . . . ?
I prayed it would all work out.
Nose pressed to the car window, I watched the egg-like domes of the Sacré-Coeur basilica draw closer—and closer! With growing excitement, I realized we were heading into Montmartre, where Joy lived and worked.
Tears filled my eyes as we moved through the narrow, cobblestone streets. Then my heart was in my mouth. The SUV pulled up right in front of Les Deux Perroquets!
I burst out of the car before it fully stopped. The restaurant wasn’t yet open, but I saw her immediately, sitting in her chef’s whites at a table near the window. My daughter rose, opened the front door, and then her arms—
“Mama!”
“Joy!”
Together at last, we held on tight.
Forty-five
“MOM, I can’t believe you’re here!”
I couldn’t, either, and it was hard to find my voice.
As we headed into the restaurant, arm in arm, I tried to sense how she was doing. Her chestnut hair appeared shorter than the last time I’d seen her (nearly four months ago), and was presently scraped back into a kitchen-ready ponytail. Her curvy figure was hidden by the blocky chef’s jacket, but it was her face that worried me. It looked thin and pale. Shadows under her eyes and a tightness around her mouth made her look older than her years.
In my view, there were two likely causes for this: anxiety about her work or love life (or both).
I was about to launch into a battery of Mother Hen questions when a gentleman roughly the height of the Eiffel Tower rose from a table to greet me.
“Good morning, Ms. Cosi. How was your flight?”
The last time I’d seen this man, he’d been having dinner with Eric Thorner’s half-crocked sister in the Source Club’s River Room.
Eric had described Garth Hendricks as his medicine man—after a fashion. He’d replaced medicine with the Greek term for wisdom, but “Metis Man” was a title I’d never heard before. And I still didn’t understand his function at THORN, Inc.
“Sometimes I think of him as the Energizer,” Eric had attempted to explain, “because he inspires me and my staff. Sometimes we joke that he’s the Ventilator—because he allows my people to vent. He’s like a father confessor and court jester rolled into one . . .”
Given Garth’s penchant for brightly colored clothing, the court jester part was easy to believe. I recalled the jacket he’d worn in the Source Club’s formal dining room—shiny, turquoise silk with a Nehru collar.
On this morning, he stood before us in billowing, black slacks and a shocking red Indian kurta with gold embroidery around the dipping neckline. His long, salt-and-pepper ponytail was held in place by a beaded leather tie that caught an eagle feather in its webbing.
Despite his odd attire (for a Caucasian man in a Montmartre eatery, anyway), Eric’s consigliere radiated confident authority.
“Where’s Eric?” I asked, glancing across the leather banquettes and brass rails of the empty dining room.
“Busy in meetings,” Garth replied, “but he has a View-Mail message for you.”
“View-Mail?”
“Check your THORN phone, Ms. Cosi.”
I pulled the sleek, black smartphone from my bag.
“Phone on!” I said (a little too loudly).
“Mom,” Joy whispered, “are you crazy—oh, wow . . . cool phone!”
Miss Phone lit up and with my command to play new messages, the device displayed Eric’s image in a prerecorded visual communiqué.
“Bonjour, Clare!”
he began (that cryptic grin back on his face). “Did you get what you wished for?”
A chill went through me. On the night of our dinner, I had indeed wished for this chance—an opportunity to speak with my daughter face-to-face about her life and the direction it was taking.
Eric’s View-Mail continued: “I can’t imagine either of you would be able to concentrate on the little assignment I have for you both—”
Assignment? I thought. For us both?
“—So please, take the morning to catch up and enjoy each other’s company. Joy is off today; I’ve arranged it with her employer—”
“Oh, my goodness, thank you!” Joy told the recording.
“I’ll see you both tonight for dinner. My treat,” Eric cooed. “Until then, au revoir!”
During the playback, I noticed Garth seemed distracted, glancing several times at his very own THORN, Inc., “Dick Tracy” phone watch on his skinny wrist. When my own phone’s screen went black, I turned to him.
“Mr. Hendricks, will I get a chance to question Eric?”
“Question him?” Garth’s skyscraper body stiffened. “About what, if I may ask?”
About his feelings on Nate Sumner being arrested, I thought, but said: “About . . . what we’re doing here. About this secret ‘assignment’ for me and Joy?”
“Ah, I see . . .” His posture appeared to relax. “Patience, Ms. Cosi. Enjoy this bit of time with your daughter, stretch your legs after that long flight, and walk these beautiful, old streets, and I’ll catch up with you both this afternoon.”
“Where?” I asked. “What time?”
“When the time comes, I’ll find you.”
Then Garth Hendricks left the restaurant, folded himself into the SUV that had brought me, and spoke intensely into his wrist phone while the armed chauffeur drove him away.
*
“MOM, who was that odd man?”
“His name is Garth—”
“I know his name, he introduced himself, but what is going on? He showed up an hour ago, spoke to my boss, and the next thing I know I’m having coffee with him and answering questions about living and working here. Then he tells me, ‘Your mother is going to pay you a visit this morning.’”
