by Cleo Coyle
“I’m very glad about that. Tuck’s more than an employee; he’s my best friend.”
“Well, your best friend is about to receive a very generous compensation check, unless he wants to sue us—in which case all bets are off.”
“I doubt Tuck will sue anyone. He’s just happy to be alive.” I leaned forward in my chair. “So how did this happen?”
“A freak accident. The power cable to the Spectrum Digitizer, if you know what that is?”
“The holographic projector . . .” The device Minnow told Garth she worked on all night.
“The high-voltage wire to the projector was frayed, defective,” Eden explained. “Somehow it made contact with the metal table.” The table I was supposed to work from during my demonstration!
“You saw the result, Clare.”
Yes, someone I love almost died in my place. “I need a favor, Eden. It concerns Charley Polaski—”
“The private investigator?”
I blinked in surprise. “You knew the truth about Charley?”
“Of course. Charley came to me early on. She was investigating the death of Bianca Hyde, and she asked me to do a meta-search of our database to find any files referencing the actress.”
“What did you find?”
“Not me.” Eden shook her head. “That’s not my function here. I asked my intern to do the work, Darren Engle.”
“Is he here?”
“Sure.” Eden used the phone to summon the giant.
Darren arrived in under a minute.
“Darren, do you remember the search you did for Charley Polaski?”
His head bobbed. “Sure. I copied and stored the results.”
“Call them up on my terminal. You know the password.”
Darren sat behind Eden’s desk and worked the keyboard. A huge LED screen sprang to life. It took Darren just seconds to retrieve the files.
“Yeah, I remember,” Darren said. “There was one huge file called Witch/Bitch filled with nothing but pictures of Bianca Hyde. Tabloid photos, scans from entertainment magazines, stuff like that.”
The photos began to appear in a slideshow format. They kept on rolling by the whole time we spoke.
“This looks wrong,” Eden whispered. “Like something a stalker might do.”
“Who collected these images?” I asked.
Darren faced me. “The data was stored in Wilhelmina Tork’s computer, Ms. Cosi.”
Minnow? “Why would she have these files?”
“No authorized reason,” Eden said. “However . . .”
“Go on.”
“Well, the truth is that Minnow has had a serious crush on Eric for years, ever since college. It’s totally unrequited on Eric’s part. He knows about it, and he’s very kind to her, but he’s told me privately that he can’t see her as more than a platonic friend—”
“Wait,” I cried. “Go back to that last photo and freeze it.”
Darren tapped keys. The image showed Bianca Hyde in a pink, string bikini, arm in arm with another starlet. What interested me about the picture was the background. The photo was taken in front of a yacht christened Made in the Shade.
“That’s Grayson Braddock’s yacht!”
It was Eden’s turn to be shocked. She looked closer at the photo. “Oh my God. What is this?! Is it just a coincidence? Or was Bianca spying on Eric for Braddock?”
Darren checked the date stamp and told us the photo was taken about six months before Bianca met Eric. I asked Darren to print a copy for me. When he left the room to retrieve it, I turned to Eden and lowered my voice.
“Did you know that Charley Polaski was working with her ex-husband, Joe? Apparently she was sending him important notes.”
Eden did a double take. “I didn’t know. How do you know?”
“Joe Polaski paid me a couple of visits. Unfortunately, the police think Joe may be involved in the bombing so he went underground.”
When Darren came back, I thanked him for the photo and stuffed it in my bag. “Quick favor,” I added. “Can you unblock someone on my THORN phone?”
Darren and Eden exchanged glances.
“Didn’t you ask Miss Phone to unblock?” Darren asked. “It should be very simple.”
“On this particular issue, Miss Phone has become Miss Attitude.”
“That’s weird,” said Darren. “I wonder why.”
Ask the billionaire genius, I thought.
“Give me your phone and the numbers you want unblocked, and I’ll program the fix via computer interface.”
“Thanks,” I said, and handed everything over.
A few minutes later, I was good to go, THORN phone back in hand, incriminating photo in my bag.
“One last thing,” I said. “Is Minnow in the building now?”
Eden rose and called up the security log. “Yes, she is.”
I rose. “Then I’m out of here.”
As I crossed the hall, I ran through various scenarios in my mind. One thing I did know. I had to reel this little fish in, and by the time I’d pressed the elevator button I had a plan.
Now all you have to do is get out of Appland alive . . .
It’s a funny feeling to be waiting for an elevator in a building with someone who may want you dead. My hairs prickled as I watched the digital numbers count up the floors. Suddenly a hand gripped my shoulder!
I screamed.
“Sorry, Ms. Cosi, we didn’t—”
“Mean to scare you.”
Oh, good heavens. It’s just Casey and Sunshine.
I took a breath. “What is it you two want?”
“To show you our barista app. Eric told us to work with you—”
“Yes,” Sunshine continued. “He sent us a memo. It’s a really cool app. Eric told us—”
“That you know how to make so many drinks you can really add to the archives—”
“So, do you want to see it now?” asked a grinning Sunshine.
“We’re happy to give you a demo,” Casey added. “Come with us . . .”
The elevator arrived and I jumped inside, eager to escape this “fun” house.
“Later!” I called as the doors shut.
Right now I have a Minnow to catch . . .
Sixty
FOR the first time in her life, Esther Best was dressed for success—and it made her thoroughly miserable. In the bedroom of my duplex above the Village Blend, Esther stared at her reflection in my full-length mirror and shuddered.
“Do I have to go out in public like this?!”
“If you want to catch the person who nearly fried Tuck, yes,” I said.
“I look so normal I could be my sister!” Esther cried.
In the pinstriped suit and button-down blouse, she looked ready to officiate a will or manage a hedge fund. In truth, she was going undercover.
“Don’t forget the shoes!” Tucker waved the patent leather pumps. “Heels define the woman. Four inches is optimum in business settings. Any taller and you’re a showgirl. Any shorter and you’ve got the ‘mommy look.’ You don’t want to look frumpy.”
“Call me frumpy again and you’ll see stars!”
Tuck winked. “As long as Channing Tatum is one of them.”
Esther frowned at her hair—what she could see of it, anyway. The flamboyant half beehive had been tamed down and tied back into a neat little bun with a gray, velvet scrunchy.
Nancy stepped up. “I should preserve this moment.” Before Esther could duck, she snapped a phone picture.
Esther glared. “Post that on Facebook and I’ll break your thumbs.”
“What’s the matter? Don’t you need a professional photo for the next Barista Latte Pouring Competition?”
“In this outfit? I look like an espresso idiot! Delete it!”
“No.”
“Then say good-bye to working thumbs.” Now Esther turned to Tuck and pointed at her shoes. “I can’t walk in these, Broadway Boy! I need my Keds.”
“Stop whining,” T
uck said, covering his ears, “or I’ll forward Nancy’s photo to your Boris.”
“Enough!” I clapped my hands. Two days had passed since Tucker’s near-fatal mishap, and my floppy-haired barista was still pallid and walking with a slight limp. I was out of patience. It was time to nail the person responsible. “Okay, kiddies, the cab’s waiting downstairs for Esther and me. Everyone else, back to work!”
On the cab ride over to Chelsea, I reviewed my plan to tap on Minnow’s aquarium and see where the little fish swam.
I knew from yesterday’s surveillance that Wilhelmina Tork took her morning lattes at Driftwood Coffee and hung out at a table for about an hour before reporting for duty at Appland.
Today, a disguised Esther would be waiting for her.
While Esther observed, I would phone Minnow with alarming news. If the girl hung up and followed her normal routine, then Minnow was likely guilt-free. But if Minnow panicked and took off to meet with her accomplice (Joe Polaski’s “they”), then Esther would follow, keeping in touch with me by smartphone until we hooked up.
It was a desperate plan, but with luck I would either learn the identity of Minnow’s accomplice, or eliminate the girl from the suspect list.
*
I WAITED in Madison Square Park for Esther’s call. It came on schedule.
“The Minnow has landed,” she reported.
“Time for my call,” I replied. I placed Esther on hold and rang Minnow (it was nice of Eric to provide the directory to his entire organization in my THORN phone). She answered on the first ring.
“What?”
“Minnow? This is Clare Cosi.”
“I know. Never heard of caller ID? What do you want?”
“To give you a heads-up. Lieutenant DeFasio of the Bomb Squad thinks you were involved in the death of Charley Polaski—”
“Are you mental?” Minnow cried.
“The police have evidence, and it looks convincing—”
“What evidence?!”
“Got to go,” I said, ending the call.
I quickly took Esther off hold. “Well?”
“Oh God,” Esther said in a whisper.
“What’s happening?! Did Minnow spot you?”
“No, it’s this awful Driftwood espresso. The crema is like dish soap. And you should see what passes for latte art. The oak leaf on their maple latte looks like poison ivy—”
“Focus, Esther, you’re undercover!”
“Sorry, boss . . . Yes, Minnow is acting somewhat frantic. She’s holding the phone. She’s sending a text . . . She’s checking her screen . . . Nothing yet . . . Wait! Looks like she got a reply, and now she’s flying—like a bat out of Brooklyn.”
“Stay close to Minnow and stay on the line,” I commanded.
Esther sighed in relief. “Anything to avoid drinking this swill.”
Fifteen minutes later, Minnow climbed the stairs of the 20th Street entrance to the High Line, an elevated freight train bridge over Manhattan’s West Side that had been transformed into New York City’s most unique public park. The High Line ran from 14th Street and the Meatpacking District, right up to 30th Street, to end just four avenue blocks away from Penn Station.
“Where are you, boss?” Esther asked.
“Just down the street. I can see the High Line’s concrete pillars.”
A blast of January cold buffeted me and I missed Esther’s reply. “Say again?”
“This is bad, boss, in so many ways.”
“What’s the problem?”
“First, these heels are killing me. Who wears shoes like this, masochists?”
“Esther!”
“Second, this section of the High Line is very narrow and practically deserted. There are no bushes or trees, and nothing to hide behind. If I follow her, then try to loiter until she meets her secret friend, Minnow is going to spot me a block away—literally.”
“Is she walking uptown, or downtown?”
“Down.”
“Maybe we caught a break,” I said. “Dante moved into that high-rise building near the Meatpacking District, right? Do you think he has a view of the High Line?”
“I wouldn’t know,” Esther huffed. “The jerk hasn’t invited me over yet.”
“Let’s go find out.”
*
DANTE Silva was my nighttime barista and my late-shift superstar rolled up in one charming, tattooed ball. He could pull a killer espresso, and his cool, laid-back artist persona, coupled with his warm smiles, drew lots of coeds from NYU and Parsons School for Design.
He followed in a distinguished tradition of the Village Blend’s struggling artists: barista by night, painter by day—although that was usually midday. Dante was plenty peeved when we rousted him out of bed before noon, then dragged him up to his building’s frozen rooftop.
“Best I can do,” Dante said, blowing into his hands to warm them. “I don’t have a view of the High Line from my apartment, or much of anything, so I come up here to the roof when I want to paint.”
It was even windier up here than it was on the street, and railings were nonexistent. Thankfully no one had a fear of heights.
Dante led us across the silver-painted tar to the very edge of the building. Unsteady on her heels, Esther stumbled once and nearly brought down some resident’s satellite dish.
The view was spectacular, but the High Line was a half block away, so Dante handed Esther his Nikon SLR camera with a giant telephoto lens, and kept a pair of opera glasses for himself. He gave me the big guns, a pair of German-made binoculars his grandfather “got in the war.”
“Told you this was a great spot. You can see blocks of the High Line from up here,” Dante said.
“I can practically read lips, too,” I replied as I gazed through the powerful lenses.
“That’s nothing,” said Esther. “With this lens, I can see molecules!”
The High Line was practically deserted, and for a tense minute I thought Minnow had slipped the net. Then I spied her, huddling on a bench overlooking 16th Street. She was near the stairs to the street, but no accomplice was in sight.
Esther and Dante homed in on her, too. Together we watched and waited.
“Someone’s coming up the stairs,” I said, followed by an “Oh, Lord.”
In a vintage Cossack coat and Russian fur hat, the Metis Man was easy to spot. I watched Minnow wave Garth Hendricks over, and the Metis Man sat down beside her.
“Where did he get that outfit, Nicholas and Alexandra’s Pre-Revolutionary Czarist Boutique?” ragged Esther.
“Isn’t that on Fifth Avenue between Tiffany and Fen?” Dante asked.
“He looks like he just stepped out of Anna Karenina,” Esther cracked.
“Nah,” said Dante. “More like War and Peace.”
Down below us, Garth and Minnow were arguing. Minnow rose to leave, but Garth pulled her back down for a finger-wagging lecture. Soon they were practically shouting. Though I was too far away to hear, I could guess what was happening: the bad guys were having a falling-out.
“Actually,” I said, “this whole mess is starting to look more like Crime and Punishment.”
Sixty-one
THAT night, I sat on the edge of my bed, considering my next step.
How can I break this news to Eric? How can I tell him that two of the people he trusts most in the world are murderers?
To me, it made perfect sense. The Metis Man was head of the Junior Rocketeers. If he could teach kids how to build rockets, he was perfectly capable of constructing the bomb that killed Charley.
But why?
That’s what Eric would ask, and I had an answer.
Minnow was in love with Eric and insanely jealous over his affair with Bianca—that’s why she kept those digital images of the actress in the Witch/Bitch folder. She must have killed Bianca in a fit of jealousy.
The LAPD had reviewed hotel surveillance tapes. But they had been looking for Eric and other past boyfriends of Bianca. If Minnow had disguised he
rself enough, she could have gotten away clean. And it appeared she did—until Charley started investigating.
At some point Minnow had sought out Garth, the company’s Big Brother, and confessed to the crime. Then Garth found out about Charley’s private investigation (on behalf of Bianca’s family), and he became the Fixer and eliminated the problem along with the PI.
It made absolute sense; but it was still only a theory. How was I going to prove it?
I didn’t know. Not yet. But Eric had to hear it anyway, and I had to tell him, face-to-face.
That meant I had to get Eric over to the Village Blend on some phony pretext—and it had better be a good one, too. Or he’d get the wrong idea about our “romantic prospects.”
None of the coffee Matt sourced had arrived yet, so inviting him for a tasting of his Billionaire Blend was out of the question.
I could bake up something special and invite him over for a taste. But Matt’s “Lovin’ from the oven” phrase warned me away from that ploy, too.
Then I saw Nate Sumner’s book, lying on the dresser. He’d handed it to me before he was arrested, making me promise to give it to Eric.
Perfect! I’ll tell Eric about the book and ask him to stop over and pick it up.
As I reached into my bag for my THORN phone, I picked up the book and checked to see if Nate had autographed it.
Spilling the purse, I jumped to my feet.
There was no signature, but Nate had left a message. He’d scribbled an e-mail address inside the front cover—for the missing Joe Polaski, Charley’s ex-husband! Under it, Nate had scrawled that now-familiar stanza—
“Roses white and red are best.”
The poetic words were the same ones Nate had blurted out when the Feds arrested him. At the time, I thought he was merely reacting to the blue roses that I’d placed on the table. But now I knew Nate meant it as a warning, just as Mike had: Stay away from Eric Thorner!
In my heart, I didn’t believe Eric was a murderer. But . . . what if Eric already knew about Minnow and his Metis Man? What if Eric was protecting Minnow because of her value to the company?
Could Metis Man have cleaned up the mess and played the Fixer with Eric’s consent?
