French Pressed

by Cleo Coyle

  “Who was that?” I asked.

  “Who cares,” he growled.

  I was wide awake now, but getting up wasn’t an option. It would be well over an hour before the man would let me out of his bed.

  “SO…” Mike said as I poured him a cup of coffee, “do you remember that phone call I got?”

  “Phone call? What phone call? That was over an hour ago. So much has happened since.”

  Mike laughed. He was sitting at the cheap card table in his kitchen; four creaky folding chairs completed the less-than-elegant set. The kitchen itself was new and clean with faux marble counters, a full-sized fridge, and a good gas range. As I expected, the larder was spare, but he did have a coffeemaker, a small grinder, and some of my Village Blend beans. It was gratifying to see I’d had some influence on the man, after all.

  In the fridge were bottles of a good Mexican beer, a few limes, a carton of half-and-half, Chinese mustard, and one egg.

  While Mike showered, I’d thrown on one of his T-shirts, made us the coffee, and rifled a cardboard box I’d found sitting on the counter. Someone had written Mike in big letters with a Magic Marker along with the address of this place. I got the impression from its contents—a collection of pans, dishes, cups, a small spice rack, and some unopened grocery items—that this was a box from his old Brooklyn brownstone, the one he’d owned jointly with his wife.

  Mrs. Quinn was now living on an estate on Long Island with the Wall Street whiz whom she intended to marry. I figured she had no use for these things from her old kitchen, and the movers delivered them here with Mike’s clothes and the few other items in the place—obviously very few.

  I dug out a cardboard container of cornmeal, a small sack of flour, some baking powder, and sugar, stirred them together with the egg, the half-and-half, and a bit of oil. I poured the batter in a square pan and baked it at 400. The timer was set for twenty, but Mike was out of the shower in twelve.

  Now he was sitting across from me at the table in gray sweats and a faded blue T-shirt, his feet were bare, and his dark blond hair looked even darker now that it was wet and slicked back against his squareish head.

  I wanted to kiss him again.

  It took a few gulps of hot coffee to focus and remind myself that Mike’s mouth occasionally did something other than that.

  “…and I need to talk to you about it,” he was saying.

  “Huh?”

  “The phone call, sweetheart.”

  “The call. Right. Was it serious?”

  “It was a colleague calling with some news.” He leaned forward in his folding chair. “Billy Benedetto’s your prime suspect in Keitel’s murder, right?”

  I nodded.

  “Well, this man named ‘Simon,’ who hit on you in Flux and then really hit on you in the street, was a perp with a lot of aliases. After a long, hard night of questioning, the little jerk spilled his guts to the interrogating detectives. He gave up Benedetto.”

  “Wait. You’re telling me that Benedetto was running the May-September gang?”

  “Yeah. He helped set up dozens of robberies. He was the beverage manager for three different nightclubs. He used security cameras at each club to select whales for his crew of young robbers to harpoon.”

  “Where’s Benedetto now?! Don’t you have enough on that creep to arrest him?”

  “Of course. My guys are looking for him as we speak.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me an hour ago?”

  Mike shrugged, sipped his coffee. “I didn’t want to break the mood.”

  Beep! Beep! Beep!

  Mike sat up, looking around as if an emergency alert had just gone off. “What the hell was that?”

  “It’s your oven timer.”

  “My what?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Don’t bake much, do you?”

  There were no oven mitts in the cardboard box, so I used a dish towel to pull the pan out. My knife got busy, and I set the warm, fresh squares of corn bread on a plate between us.

  Mike stared at me as if I’d just dug a five-carat diamond out of his sink.

  “Where did you get that?”

  “What? The corn bread?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You had the ingredients. I whipped it together.”

  He stared at me, still a little dumbfounded. “I had the ingredients? In this apartment?”

  I laughed. “Try some.”

  I didn’t have to suggest it twice. Mike grabbed a square, inhaled the aroma of the warm, sweet bread, and shoveled it in. “Hungry…” he said, as if he’d just realized it. He ate the entire square in about three bites and reached for a second.

  “The standard recipe calls for skim milk, but I prefer using half-and-half anyway. It gives a much richer mouthfeel to the product, don’t you think?”

  “Yhemmmh Immm thimnk so…” he replied. He swallowed the second square and reached for a third.

  Finally, I thought, a man who has no issues with palate fatigue!

  “So this Benedetto May-September gang thing…That’s good news, isn’t it?” I pressed. “I mean, once you get the man into custody, you can go over his computer files and papers with a fine-tooth comb, look for clues that he killed Keitel or hired someone to do it.”

  Mike chewed, swallowed, and winked. “Piece o’ cake.”

  Just then the phone rang. Mike got up, went into the next room for a few minutes. When he came back, he looked strange. I couldn’t read him—and that was unusual.

  “What’s up?”

  “My guys couldn’t find Benedetto at his apartment, so they started checking the clubs where he worked. They finally found the man about thirty minutes ago—or his corpse, anyway.”

  “What do you mean his corpse?”

  “He’s dead, Clare.”

  “Benedetto’s dead?” I rose from the table, paced the room, tried to process this. “Benedetto’s dead? Benedetto’s dead!” Finally, I stopped pacing and faced Mike. “Where was he killed? Which club?”

  “Club Flux. They found him in his upstairs office.”

  “And how was he killed, Mike?”

  “That’s the bizarre part. Someone slipped the man a Mickey. They found a half-empty bottle of champagne with two glasses. There are traces of the drug in Benedetto’s glass. They’re dusting for prints now.”

  “The drug killed him?”

  Mike shook his head. “When Benedetto passed out, the killer slit his throat.”

  “Another murder with a knife?”

  “Listen, Clare, I want you to think about your meeting with this guy. Did you pick up anything from Benedetto, any lead on who might have wanted him dead?”

  “Billy Benedetto said he was expecting a backer. This mysterious backer was going to put up money for Benedetto’s new restaurant. The reason, according to Billy, was that he had something on this guy—and it sounded to me like—”

  “Blackmail?” Mike said.

  “Anton Wright!”

  “What?”

  “The owner of Solange! That’s who I saw go up to see Benedetto after I left him, which means Benedetto had something incriminating on Anton Wright. ‘Something big. Something bad.’ Those were his very words.”

  “What did he have, Clare? What’s your theory?”

  “I believe Billy and Anton conspired to kill Tommy Keitel. Anton’s a polished entrepreneur now, but Keitel told me the man started out in life as the son of a butcher—so he must have had knife skills.”

  “You think Anton was the one who stabbed Tommy Keitel to death. And he did this for or with Billy Benedetto—”

  “Yes, Billy had a very strong motive to want Tommy dead. But then Billy must have turned on Anton and blackmailed him. Anton obviously decided to get rid of blackmailing Billy by drugging him and slashing his throat. I can’t prove it yet, but I’m sure I’m right.”

  “Murder needs a motive, Clare. And while your scenario gives a motive to Anton Wright for killing Benedetto—if he was in fact blackmailing Anton for so
me reason—it doesn’t answer the motive in the murder of Tommy Keitel. It comes down to a simple question. Why would Anton Wright want to kill Tommy Keitel?”

  “Motive, motive…” I drummed my fingers on the tabletop. “Why would Anton kill Tommy?”

  “He wouldn’t. Tommy was the jewel in the Solange crown. No sane man throws away a jewel, Clare. He goes to great lengths to hold on to it.”

  Mike paused just then; his blue eyes met my green ones, held them for a long, sweet, unnervingly suggestive moment, and I got the distinct impression that he wanted us to remember the emeralds from last night, the one’s I’d worn naked while we—

  I cleared my throat. Any thoughts in that direction weren’t going to solve Tommy’s murder and free my daughter.

  “I’ve got no answer for Anton Wright’s motive, Mike. I’ll grant you that. But Anton and Tommy were feuding about something. So I’m not clearing him off my suspect list. Not yet.”

  Mike nodded, sipped his coffee, and smiled inappropriately—probably at my use of the term suspect list.

  “What’s with you, Lieutenant? Half the time when I talk to you about my theories, I catch this little smile on your face. Do I amuse you?”

  Mike leaned back. “You really want me to answer that?”

  “No.” I rolled my eyes, glanced at the clock. “Listen, I better get dressed and get out of here. I want to shower and change back at the Blend. Then I have to go up to Joy’s apartment, pick up some of her clothes and personal items. She should be out of jail today, and she’ll be coming back to the Blend to stay with Matt and me until her trial. Even if the judge doesn’t put her under house arrest, I’m guessing she’ll just want to crash with us for the moral support.”

  “I’ll go with you,” Mike said, rising from the table. “You can use the help carrying her stuff, right?”

  “I’d love you to help me. But don’t you have to go in to work?”

  “I do. But there’s no hurry.” He shrugged. “The ME’s office won’t get back to us for a few more hours, and it’s not like I have to rush in to interrogate Benedetto. The only investigator getting info from that scumbag now is the doc who’s performing his autopsy.”

  TWENTY-SIX

  “WHERE are we going, exactly?” Mike asked.

  “Tenth Street and fifty-second.”

  “Hell’s Kitchen?”

  I nodded. “Joy moved into the two-bedroom about six months ago. It’s not too far from Restaurant Row—a prime location for two aspiring chefs.”

  Mike laughed. “Two chefs living in Hell’s Kitchen. Funny.”

  “Believe me, the irony was not lost on Joy’s roommate. Yvette’s family owns the Ice Castle ice cream franchise, and they subsidize her lifestyle here in New York and in Paris, where she’s interning now.”

  Outside, the sun was bright, and the air was crisp but thankfully not too cold. It was Monday morning rush hour pretty much everywhere on Manhattan Island, but once we were in the car, the trip wasn’t too heinous, owing to the fact that Mike seemed to know exactly how to get around most traffic snarls. The man had skills. And apparently a penchant for conjuring parking spaces because, miraculously, we found a spot right in front of Joy’s building.

  I paused in the large lobby to pick up my daughter’s mail, which had piled up in her box since Friday. I noticed a large envelope in the mix. The return address was Solange. A rubber-stamped note indicated the missive was hand-delivered by messenger service this morning. I tore into the envelope and found an invitation inside.

  Mike peered over my shoulder. “What’s it say?”

  “‘Dear employee or vendor of Solange,’” I read. “‘You are cordially invited to a memorial dinner to celebrate the life and legacy of Chef Thomas Keitel. A four-course meal will be prepared by Chef Robbie Gray and his staff. As part of this celebration, hosts Faye Murray Keitel and Anton Wright will make an exciting announcement concerning the bright new future of Solange, New York, and its sister restaurants.’”

  “Sister restaurants?” Mike said.

  “There are no sister restaurants. And since when has Solange been called Solange, New York?” I faced Mike. “This is it! “This is why Tommy Keitel was murdered! Anton Wright and Faye Keitel are going to franchise Solange. That must have been their plan all along—”

  “Whoa, Clare. Slow down.”

  But I was too pumped to slow down. “Don’t you see, Mike? Wright spent millions opening three restaurants, but Solange was his only success. Naturally he’d want to capitalize on it. He probably told Chef Keitel his plan, and Tommy went ballistic. He wasn’t interested in French cuisine anymore. Tommy wanted out. He wanted to move to Russia. He just wanted to be free again.”

  “But other chefs can cook Keitel’s dishes, right? Why did Anton even need Keitel?”

  “They’re signature dishes. According to Tommy’s contract, he owned all of Solange’s recipes, not Anton.”

  “Why couldn’t Anton buy them?”

  “Because Tommy was too much of an egomaniac to sell! Billy Benedetto told me that Tommy refused to sell him the Italian recipes he’d invented for his eatery, even though Chef Keitel never used them again.” I shook my head. “If Tommy wasn’t attached to a restaurant any longer, he simply didn’t want them serving his dishes. Period.”

  I waved the invitation in Mike’s face. “Don’t you see? Anton wanted to expand, Tommy didn’t, so Anton murdered him, then made a deal with Faye Keitel to use Tommy’s name and recipes for his franchise.”

  “You could be right, Clare, but you don’t have any proof—”

  “I have a theory! That’s more than I had an hour ago. Now I have to get the proof.”

  “You have to build a case. Which means you’ll have to go to this memorial dinner, for starters. When does it take place?”

  “Tonight at eight o’clock.”

  Mike looked at the invitation. “This must have been sent out as part of a mass mailing.”

  “For sure.” I nodded. “Someone in Anton Wright’s office probably just used a staff list. Joy was still on it, so she got the invite.”

  Mike grabbed my arm. Only then did I notice that others had gathered in the lobby. “Let’s go,” he said. “We’ll talk upstairs.”

  We climbed four flights in silence. I unlocked the door, and a blast of stale air hit us. I crossed to the window and opened it. I was relieved to find the place neat and tidy. Joy used to be a real slob when she had me to pick up after her, but it was apparently different now that she had her own place. I took the neatness as a sign of her budding maturity and I said so to Mike.

  “I just wish she’d been this tidy in her personal life, then she wouldn’t be in so much trouble right now.”

  On my way to the bedroom to gather up some clothes, I spied a blinking light in the living room: Joy’s and Yvette’s answering machine. The digital display indicated there were nine messages.

  I sighed and pressed Play.

  “Message one. Thursday, twelve fifty-five pm,” the electronic voice announced.

  “Bonjour, mon amie,” chirped Yvette. “I’m sitting in an outdoor café on the Left Bank, up to my chin in hommes, hommes, hommes. More fool you for interning in New York City, where all the men are married or unemployed actors. Oo-la-la! I’ll take Paris. Call me—and don’t forget to water the herb garden.”

  “I’d better do that before I go,” I reminded myself.

  “Message two. Thursday, eight nineteen pm.”

  There was a pause. I heard breathing on the digital recording, from a man who was no longer breathing. Then came the voice of a ghost. A dead man. “Hey. It’s Vinny—”

  “Mike, listen!” I cried.

  “I’m here,” he said.

  “Joy, I have to talk to you,” Vinny said. “I left a message on your cell, too. When you get off work, come out and see me, okay? Something happened last night when I stayed late to do all that prep work Brigitte assigned to me. I was in the walk-in fridge for a long time, so long that
Anton Wright thought he was alone. Well, I overheard Mr. Wright in the kitchen—”

  There was a long pause, and my heart stopped, thinking the time had run out on the message.

  “Anton was talking to someone on his cell,” Vinny continued. “He and this person planned on doing something bad. Stuff you wouldn’t believe. Listen, Joy, you have to come see me. I can’t go in to the restaurant. When Anton saw me, I ran. And now I’m scared to go back. Chef Keitel is, like, never there anymore, and I don’t have his cell number, so I don’t know how to warn him what Anton’s planning, but I know you see him. You have to warn him. He’ll listen to you. Then maybe he can tell me what I should do, too! You have to talk to him before it’s too la—”

  “End of message,” the digital voice declared.

  “There’s the proof,” I said. “Vinny heard Anton plotting the murder of Tommy Keitel. He tried to tell Joy so she could warn Tommy.”

  Mike shook his head. “That’s what you thought you heard, but to anyone else, that message is inconclusive.”

  “You’re crazy—”

  “Listen to it again, Clare. Then imagine how a jury might hear it. And how a defense attorney might spin it as referring to something completely innocent.”

  I played the message again, and my shoulders sagged. “You’re right, Mike. There’s no real proof here.”

  “No, there isn’t.” Mike folded his arms. “But I think I know how we can get it.”

  “How?”

  “Last night you went out on a limb for me. Do you think you could do the same thing for Joy?”

  My eyes met Mike’s. “I think we both know the answer to that.”

  I arrived at Solange at seven fifteen, almost an hour before the festivities were to begin. I flashed Joy’s invitation to the man at the door.

  “Madame, you’re—”

  “Early, I know. But I wanted to speak to Mr. Wright and Mrs. Keitel.”

  I breezed past the doorman, strode into the dining room.

  The tables were set, complete with name tags. Members of the waitstaff were still bustling around. I didn’t recognize anyone, but why should I? For this event, Solange was staffed by men and women from Robbie Gray’s restaurant, Anatomy. The crew from Solange was on the guest list.