Espresso Shot Page 23

  Rocky Friar worked out of the Ninth Precinct and lived in Mike Quinn’s Alphabet City apartment building (Divorced Badges ‘R’ Us). He was also Sue Ellen’s old boyfriend, the one who’d declared her banned from the building.

  “Frankly, Ms. Cosi, I don’t buy your theory on the case. Sounds like a tangled mess to me. I think you’re overwrought from the attack.” He jerked his thumb at the bar. “Do yourself a favor: have a good stiff drink and find a seat.”

  “But Lori Soles and Sue Ellen Bass might have a new lead on the—”

  “Forget it. I’m not talking to Sue Ellen Bass about this case, or any other.”

  Friar turned his broad back to me and gestured to a young Hispanic detective. Like Friar, the younger man was dressed in a sport coat and dark slacks. He wore his gun on his hip and his gold shield on his belt. The man nodded to Friar, ended his conversation with a waiter, and hurried to Friar’s side. I willed myself invisible and stepped closer to the pair.

  “What d’ya got, Victor?”

  “Nobody from the kitchen staff saw anything out of the ordinary. The party guests are still being interviewed, but no one’s come forward with an eyewitness account other than the woman you were interviewing. And I got the victim’s statement before the ambulance took off—”

  “Did the perp make any sexual advances? Fondle the victim?”

  Victor shook his head. “She claims he didn’t even demand money or valuables, just started choking her—”

  “You mean he grabbed her necklace,” Friar said.

  Victor glanced at his notes. “The victim called it choking.”

  Friar noticed me lurking, just then.

  “I’ve taken your statement, Ms. Cosi, so I’m done with you. Move along.”

  Gritting my teeth, I walked away, fumbled in my bag for my cell phone, and hit the second number on my speed-dial list. Mike Quinn’s voice mail picked up.

  Damn.

  Okay, next. I fished out the card Detective Soles had given me. She said to call if I uncovered any new developments in Hazel Boggs’s murder. In my opinion, this was a new development, so I pulled out my cell phone and punched in the number, half expecting to get her voice mail, too. But I got an answer on the second ring.

  “Detective Lori Soles.”

  I identified myself, and the woman’s tone instantly turned friendly. “Clare Cosi, my favorite PI.”

  “Anything new in the Hazel Boggs case? It’s important I know, or I wouldn’t be bothering you.”

  “The bullet was recovered at the autopsy,” Lori said. “We’re expecting a ballistics report this afternoon, tomorrow morning at the latest. Anything new on your end?”

  “I’m at Machu Picchu in Soho, and Breanne Summour was attacked here about thirty minutes ago. The senior detective on the scene thinks it’s a mugging.”

  “Who is it?”

  “Rocky Friar.”

  “Oh, brother.”

  “But Friar is wrong,” I quickly added. “I was there, an eyewitness to the attack, and I say it was a hit. I’m more convinced than ever that the death of Breanne’s look-alike and this murder attempt on the real thing are connected.”

  “I don’t know what you’ve got,” Lori said. “But it certainly sounds interesting. I’ll run it by my partner. If she’s good to go, we’ll be there in fifteen.”

  I closed the phone and returned to Madame and the luncheon.

  Breanne was gone by now. The ambulance was taking her to Beth Israel’s ER. The paramedics didn’t think her vocal chords were damaged, but they suspected a hairline fracture of her collarbone. For that she needed X-rays.

  By now, my daughter had returned to the Village Blend to visit with some of the baristas she hadn’t seen since leaving for Paris. Frankly, I was glad to get Joy clear of this mess. A dozen or so guests remained. They were speaking in hushed whispers by the bar. Two uniformed officers were taking final statements. Seated at a corner table, I saw Madame nursing a glass of sangria blanco. I sat down beside her.

  She glanced at me and sullenly shook her silver white head. “The groom stormed off, and the bride-to-be was strangled within an inch of her life. I’d say the luncheon was a stunning success, wouldn’t you?” She drained her wineglass and asked her boyfriend, Otto, to fetch another: tout de suite.

  “There’s a silver lining, though,” she added. “This ill-advised marriage will very likely be canceled.”

  “Not so loud.”

  Madame waved me off. Otto came back with her fresh glass of sangria, and she downed it nearly as fast as her son had chugged beers at the White Horse.

  “Are you grieving or celebrating?” I asked.

  “Both.” She shook her head again. “Neither. Oh, Clare . . . I just want my son to be happy. Matteo won’t be. Not with that woman.”

  “Well, don’t be so sure the marriage is off. Breanne Summour generally gets what she wants.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

  Suddenly, a bright flash of light shot through the room. Everyone froze. Then I heard Rocky Friar’s voice boom, “Grab that guy, now!”

  Near the entrance to the restaurant’s front bar, a uniformed officer caught the arm of a middle-aged, balding man. I saw an expensive-looking camera in the man’s hand, a khaki photographer’s vest around his paunchy torso, and shook my head.

  “The paparazzi are here—or at least one paparazzo.”

  “I said no reporters,” Friar barked. “Who let this vulture in?”

  The uniform shrugged. “He was in, Detective. Liquid lunch up front.”

  “I’m only alone because my date was delayed,” the photographer said.

  “I’ll do the talking,” Friar shot back. “What’s your name, and who do you work for? And for the love of God, don’t tell me you’re a tourist.”

  “I’m not a tourist, Detective. I’m a freelance photographer. So I don’t work for anyone, specifically—”

  “That’s a load of bull!” shouted a familiar female voice.

  Sue Ellen Bass’s never-ending legs strode boldly into the restaurant and right up to Friar. Hustling up behind her were the blond cherub curls of Lori Soles. I was relieved to see both women.

  “That mook’s name is Ben Tower,” Sue Ellen said, “and he works for that sleazebag Randall Knox at the Journal.”

  Ben Tower?

  I blinked, suddenly seeing the black courier type on the white card that I’d found hidden away in Monica Purcell’s secret drug box. So this was the freelance photographer who’d given Monica his card.

  When I first read the man’s handwritten note, I thought Tower was a fashion photographer seeking work from Trend, somebody who was young and hot that Monica might have been interested in personally. But the bald man in the rumpled plaid pants and bulky vest was not young, and he was obviously a newshound, not a fashion photographer.

  Meanwhile, Rocky Friar was already starting in on his old girlfriend. “Oh, man . . .” He grabbed his head. “My freakin’ migraine headache just got a whole lot worse.”

  Sue Ellen flipped her sleek black ponytail over her shoulder. “I’m not the cause of your headache, barrel neck. It’s those muscles of yours. They constrict and squeeze the blood outta your pea-size brain.”

  I realized there was something different about Sue Ellen today: makeup and earrings, delicate pearl studs. She’d applied fresh lipstick and gloss, too.

  Friar glared at the smoldering Amazon. “What do you know about biceps and triceps? From your reputation, your interest lies in another muscle on the male anatomy.”

  “What? Yours?” Sue Ellen rolled her eyes. “Speaking of pea-size.”

  “Listen up, Bass. You’re not only banned from my apartment building, you’re banned from my crime scene.” Rocky jerked his thumb in the direction of the exit. “Hit the road.”

  “Banning me from the building is a load of crap, and you know it.”

  “Listen, honey, it’s for your own good,” Friar said, his voice theatrically softening. �
��The building’s full of guys on the job. All single. All virile. All teeming with testosterone. I wouldn’t take an alkie out drinking, or a junkie to a crack house—”

  “You son of a—” Sue Ellen lunged forward.

  Lori snared her waist. “Whoa, partner! Hold up, there!”

  Friar laughed. “That’s right, Annie Oakley. Simmer that filly down!”

  “You’re not helping, Rocky,” Lori shot back. “And you can’t ban us from this crime scene. We’re here at the behest of one of the witnesses to investigate possible links to another crime.”

  “Which witness?”

  “Right here!” I said, waving my hand like Roman Brio signaling a waiter.

  “Oh, jeez,” Rocky groaned, his hands mashing down his toasted-walnut hair. “Victor!”

  “Yeah, Rock.”

  “Liaise with these—”

  “Watch it,” Sue Ellen warned.

  “—detectives from the Sixth. And look out for the big brunette. She’s a freakin’ man-eater.”

  “Hey, shutterbug!” Friar shouted at Ben Tower, who was trying to slip away. “Where the hell do you think you’re going?”

  “I’m not breaking any laws.”

  “No?” Friar said. “Let’s see how the management of this chic eatery feels about paparazzi hanging around and bothering their celebrity customers. Then let’s see how Ms. Summour feels about having her party photographed on private property. Maybe she has a restraining order out on you. Or maybe she’ll want to take one out. Either way, I’ll have to check downtown. That may take a long time.”

  “Okay, okay!” Tower held up his hand.

  I stifled a smile. Friar was a long way from winning me over, but I couldn’t help being impressed with his turn-the-perp dance step. He was almost as good as Mike Quinn.

  “I do work for the Journal,” Tower admitted. “The lady cop was right, okay. But I was just having a few drinks and a bite at the bar. Then you guys showed, and I figured there was a story—”

  “A story? It’s a lousy mugging. Big deal. Why should you and Randall Knox care about something so small-time?” Friar leaned close to the man, his face inches from Tower’s. “Unless you had another reason to be here besides the gourmet tacos.”

  Tower dropped his voice. “Knox sent me here to watch Ms. Summour, okay? Maybe shoot some interesting pictures.”

  Friar folded his arms. “And did you get anything interesting?”

  “Some dame waving a wedding announcement. The groom storming out. A lover’s spat, I guess. Not exactly JFK, Jr.”

  “I hope not. The man’s been dead quite a few years now.”

  “But those photographs of him fighting in public with his fiancée were worth a fortune.”

  Friar shook his head. “Breanne Summour’s not nearly that famous. Why bother?”

  I stepped up to the men. “Excuse me, Detective, but I have a few questions for Mr. Tower.”

  Friar rolled his eyes, but he didn’t stop me.

  “Mr. Tower, were you at your boss’s birthday party a few months ago?” I asked pointedly. “The one that featured a stripper dressed up like Breanne Summour? Did you shoot any interesting photos there?”

  Tower frowned down at me. “I must have missed that bash.”

  “What about Monica Purcell?” I asked. “What can you tell me about her?”

  “Who?” Friar asked.

  “Monica Purcell overdosed on prescription medication,” I said, “presumably from the painkillers and uppers I found in her desk. There was a business card hidden with those drugs, Mr. Tower, your card.”

  “I had nothing to do with Monica overdosing,” Tower said, his bald head vehemently shaking now. “I had nothing to do with any of that!”

  “Why did she have your card then?” I asked. “And why did you write that you enjoyed your lunch with her and were looking forward to working with her?”

  Tower held up his hand again. “I didn’t set up that lunch. Randy Knox did. If you want to know about Monica’s deal with Randy, you ask him.”

  “All right, that’s enough questions from you, Ms. Cosi,” Friar said. “I have my own questions for this guy.” The muscle-bound detective grabbed the collar of the photographer’s vest and pulled him away.

  I approached Lori Soles. “You’re going to interview Randall Knox, right? He’s obviously fixated on Breanne Summour.”

  “We already interviewed Knox,” Lori said. “We came up empty.”

  “What if it wasn’t a coincidence that Tower was here?” I said. “What if Knox knew Breanne would be attacked, maybe killed, and he wanted his photographer on hand to capture images of the crime scene?”

  “Look, I know Tower is a shark. I caught him sneaking into the apartment of that TV actress who OD’d last year, so he could shoot pictures of her body. But I can’t see Tower as a party to murder.”

  “But you can question Knox again, right?”

  Lori frowned. “I don’t see the point. There’s nothing suspicious about paparazzi hanging around celebrities.”

  “But there’s a connection to Monica Purcell. You know about that case, right?”

  “Drug distro and conspiracy to commit robbery of Ms. Summour’s rings. Yeah, Quinn talked to Sue Ellen and me about it already. But I don’t see how Tower is involved.”

  “I found Tower’s card hidden in Monica’s desk.”

  “That’s pretty thin, Cosi. Even for you.”

  Suddenly Sue Ellen Bass took off, chasing after Detective Friar—presumably for another round of verbal sparring.

  Lori blanched. “Sorry, got to go!” she said, hurrying after her partner.

  “But somebody’s got to talk to Randall Knox,” I called. Then I felt a warm hand on my shoulder. I turned to find Madame standing there. “How long have you been listening?”

  “Long enough,” Madame said. “I learned a thing or two watching you, my dear.” She threw me a wink. “And I already have a solution to your problem.”

  “Which is?”

  “You and I will talk to Randall Knox together.”

  I nodded. “You’re on.”

  “You know,” Madame said, as we headed for the street, “after surviving the Indonesian tsunami, drug violence and terrorism in Colombia, and the post election chaos in Kenya’s Rift Valley, our guests probably didn’t blink an eye at this disaster of a luncheon, but I’m certainly relieved to be walking away from it.”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  THE receptionist was hardly out of her teens. Hispanic, with dark hair and hot-pink lips, she was filing her moon-and-stars fingernail design when we approached her desk.

  “Madame Dreyfus Allegro Dubois to see Mr. Randall Knox,” Matt’s mother declared with the aplomb of Queen Elizabeth.

  From her doe-eyed expression, I could tell the elaborate name had bewildered the poor girl.

  Madame cleared her throat. “Simply inform your boss that Matt Allegro’s mother is here to dish dirt on mutual foe, Breanne Summour.”

  While the receptionist dialed her boss, I looked around. The Journal’s run-down digs were a far cry from Trend’s ultramodern headquarters. There was no Columbus Circle view here, no ready access to Central Park, either. The Journal’s offices were on a dingy stretch of Eighth Avenue, a few blocks south of Penn Station, and the building’s other occupants weren’t Time Warner Inc., CNN, and Thomas Keller’s Bouchon Bakery, but Manny Kinn Enterprises, a “manufacturer of vinyl outerwear,” and the Circle Jay Group, publishers of Wag and Live Nude Girls.

  “Mr. Knox will see you now,” the girl said, waving a tiny night sky on her long fingernails. “Down that hall, make a right. You’ll find Mr. Knox in the corner office.”

  The hallway’s avocado walls were dingy, the beige carpet threadbare, and a fluorescent light fixture buzzed somewhere above our heads. The short hall ended in a large room divided into cramped cubicles and offices along the wall. As we approached the corner office, a man stepped forward and extended his hand.

  “I’m Ra
ndall Knox. Come in, please.”

  Most of the view in Knox’s office was of another building’s brick wall. The wooden desk was small and the steel shelves cluttered with magazines, file folders, and back issues of the Journal. Knox himself stood in sharp contrast to his shabby office. Pressed and polished, the slight, bald gossip columnist wore a London-tailored suit of blue pinstripes with a silk tie of bright scarlet.

  He gestured to two battered wooden chairs opposite his desk then moved to occupy his own worn leather chair. While he silently regarded us through little, round Joseph Goebbels-style glasses, I read the large plaque hanging off one shelf:

  PUBLIC OPINION IS A SHIP ADRIFT. OUR JOB IS TO TAKE THE HELM!

  Reading that, I suspected Knox’s resemblance to the Nazi propaganda minister wasn’t limited to his eyewear.

  “Mr. Knox,” Madame began, “my name is—”

  “No need for introductions, you’re the mother of Matteo Allegro, costar in the wedding of the week.”

  Randall Knox leaned across his desk and spoke in a conspiratorial whisper. “I also know you’re not particularly happy that your son is marrying Breanne Summour. By the way, that heart attack you staged was masterful. My kudos. We had a nice photo of Matt partying at Le Shellac, and we were all set to go with the headline ‘Boy Toy Clubs While Mom Has Coronary,’ but our reporter found out you were faking it.”

  Madame looked down her nose at the gossipmonger. “And how in the world did he accomplish that?”

  “I don’t usually give up a source, Madame, so I’ll just say it was a hospital aide who clued us in. You see, I have feelers everywhere.” He smiled. It wasn’t warm.

  “Not everywhere,” Madame said. “Surely, you exaggerate.”

  “Oh, you’d be surprised. I know many things about many people in this town—the sort of things one thinks are completely private. For instance, I know that you covered the travel and hotel costs for many of your son’s Third World chums so they could attend his wedding. Despite some valuable assets—your Fifth Avenue penthouse, the West Village town house, an impressive collection of jewelry, and a museum-quality wardrobe of vintage designer clothes—you are not a very wealthy woman when it comes to liquidity. Your expenses are covered by your late husband’s annuity, so to come up with that quick chunk of change for your son’s celebration, you sold off a valuable painting in the collection Pierre Dubois left you—”