by Cleo Coyle
“And who might you be?” he asked, his tone friendly yet guarded. “Do you have a relative here or are you new on staff?”
“Neither . . .”
Okay, Clare, your former mother-in-law put on Salvation Army clothes to look the part. The least you can do is turn on the charm . . .
While young and innocent had expired for me about two decades ago, my heart-shaped face, framed by softly wavy, dark-roast hair, offered an innocuous enough impression; and I pushed it, tilting my head and widening my green eyes.
“Actually, the reason I came here was to speak with you . . . It’s about M . . . Moirin Fagan?”
Dave’s affable expression instantly vanished. The trust me, I have no ulterior motive ploy was a bigger bust than Janelle’s root beer sweet potato pie.
“Are you from the police?” he hissed quietly, glancing behind me to make sure no one was around to overhear. “Because I already spoke with the detective who raided Moirin’s apartment last night, and I’m not about to put up with harassment, understand?”
“I’m not a cop.”
“Then you’re from the press, and I want nothing to do with you.”
Before I could stop him, Dave’s hand smacked the metal bar and he slammed through the back exit.
“I’m not the press, either!” I cried. “Please come back!”
Of course he didn’t. Dave Brice continued to stride away, leaving me holding open the building’s heavy back door. A frigid gust of air whipped around me, tossing a curtain of hair across my eyes. With determination, I raked it back.
I’ve come this far. I can’t stop now.
Given the photos I’d seen upstairs, there was no way David Brice could have murdered Moirin Fagan. Still, I didn’t know this man—or what he’d do to me if I pushed him too far.
You know what? I don’t care!
Moirin Fagan knew her killer. I was certain of it, yet I knew next to nothing about her life. Finally getting some answers was worth taking the gamble, so I made a split-second decision: I would chase down my murdered employee’s pissed-off boyfriend into a desolate employee parking lot.
Twenty-three
FEARING the thick metal door might auto-lock behind me, I cast about for something to prop it. I spied an old umbrella stand in the corner and dragged it over, positioning it against the frame. Then I hurried outside.
The air was freezing with frequent bone-chilling gusts sweeping in off the water. The previous night’s snowfall had been cleared, but the frozen pavement beneath my low boots felt slippery, and I nearly fell trying to catch Dave before he reached his car.
“Please talk to me! It’s important!” I assured him, but nothing I shouted would slow the man’s single-minded retreat.
Out of desperation, I grabbed his arm.
Bad idea.
The second I initiated physical contact, Dave felt justified in doing the same. Wheeling, he took hold of me by my poor, tortured wrist, and not gently.
“What do you want?”
He spoke low, through gritted teeth, and his hold on my wrist was expert, just enough pressure and torque to fold my arm and force me against the front of his car.
We were the only two people in this back parking area, which had slots for maybe two dozen vehicles and only five or six actual cars—including the sporty silver convertible directly behind me.
“Listen,” I pleaded. “I do not work for the NYPD or the media. I’m a friend.”
He considered my claim for a moment before smirking. “Okay, friend, come with me.”
Yanking my wrist, he dragged me to the sports car’s passenger side. As pangs of pain shot down my arm, I heard a distinctive click-clock sound, saw the keys in Dave’s other hand, and realized he’d remotely unlocked his car’s doors.
“Get in.”
Oh God. Confronting this man without backup hadn’t been the safest gamble, but I was certainly smart enough to keep myself from being driven off alone by a man who had no qualms about painfully restraining me.
“I’m not going anywhere with you.”
“You want to talk? We’re doing it on my terms.”
A below-zero gust howled off the water, sending a nasty shiver through my frame. Climbing into the car would shield me from the biting wind, but I shook my head.
“I am not getting into your car. Forget it.”
He frowned down at me in silence, obviously considering his next move.
Well, I didn’t have to consider mine. If David Brice tried to push me into his Mazda Miata, I was going to act like a drunken Rockette, kick him in the coconuts, and run like mad.
But Dave didn’t force me into his car, although the steel grip on my wrist remained annoyingly tight.
“Talk then,” he finally said. “Who are you?”
“My name is Clare Cosi. I’m the manager of the Village Blend coffeehouse in Greenwich Village. Moirin Fagan worked for me.”
“Show me an ID.”
“I don’t have a wallet on me. It’s in my bag, in Mrs. Beesley’s office.”
“Then find another way to make me believe you.”
I considered a half dozen, but any obvious identifiers involving Moirin would have been known by the cops and possibly the press. That’s when I remembered what Vicki Glockner had mentioned last night.
“One of M’s favorite bands was Purple Lettuce. A barista of mine bought her tickets for their concert in January. It was going to be her Secret Santa gift . . .”
Dave exhaled hard, his posture deflating. Finally, he believed me!
“Hey, you! What are you doing to her?!” The angry male voice was howling with more force than the wind across the lot. “Let her go!”
It was Matt, following my crumbs—he’d seen the scarf I’d left on the first-floor door handle, then the propped exterior door. Now he was moving toward us, sans coat (like me). His fists were balled beneath pushed-up sweater sleeves, and every few steps, his dress shoes slipped on the icy concrete.
Dave glanced up at Matt, then back down at me. “You know this joker?”
“He’s my business partner. I brought him to watch my back—in case you turned out to be a murderer.”
Dave blinked, looking confused. “You think I killed M?”
My ex-husband’s heavy hand landed hard on Dave’s shoulder. “I said, let her go.”
The man released me so suddenly I fell back against his car.
“I didn’t kill M,” Dave loudly proclaimed, palms in the air.
“I know that,” I said, righting myself and rubbing my poor wrist.
“You know that?” Matt’s head nearly spun on his neck. “Clare, are you crazy? You’re going to believe this guy, just like that?”
“It’s not a matter of believing him. He has a rock-solid alibi.”
Dave’s eyes narrowed on me, his expression suspicious again. “I thought you said you weren’t with the NYPD.”
“I’m not.”
“Then how do you know I have an alibi?”
“A person doesn’t need a degree in astrophysics to add two and two, and I don’t need a badge, a law degree, and a forensics lab to tell time.” I pointed to the building. “I saw the recreation room bulletin board in there. You were in enough of those photos to convince me that you sat at that piano at last night’s First Friday Follies from seven thirty to eight thirty, and I know exactly when M was killed. There is no way you could have traveled from South Brooklyn to Bryant Park in the time it takes to smoke a Lucky Strike.”
The look in Dave’s eyes changed after that. Not that he suddenly thought of me as a best friend, but his amber gaze certainly stopped spearing me as if I were going to serve him with a desk appearance ticket.
Another frozen gust whipped off the water, and I fought against a shiver as I turned to Matt. “That’s why the detectives didn’t ask Janelle Babcock about Dave. They already knew he couldn’t have killed Moirin . . .”
As I spoke, I felt a cloak of warmth being draped over my shoulders. Dave h
ad lent me his sport jacket.
“Thanks,” I said, pulling it tighter around me.
“Sorry I was rough on you,” he said quietly.
“It’s okay.” The garment still carried the warmth from his body heat, along with a pleasant citrusy whiff of male deodorant. “Now can we go back inside and talk?”
“Please,” Matt added flatly, rubbing his own arms for warmth.
But Dave shook his head. “No, I can’t do that . . .”
What?! I followed the man as he moved to the trunk of his Miata, pulled out a black leather jacket, and slipped it on.
“I don’t understand. Why won’t you talk to me?”
“I’ll talk to you,” he said, “but I’m not discussing M in that building. One of the residents might overhear, and we haven’t broken the news to them yet.”
“Look, I’m really sorry to inform you of this, but the local stations will have the full story, with Moirin’s name, by tonight’s broadcast. At least one station is out there trying to get exclusive interviews. And—”
“There he is!”
I looked up and gasped. Speak of the devil, my pop used to say, and hell will deliver him.
A pair of men emerged from the building’s back door wearing blue parkas and press credentials. One of them carried a video camera on his shoulder; the other held a cell to his ear and pointed directly at David Brice.
Bringing up the rear was the blond Marlboro Man in his Channel Six News blazer. The hair, I noticed, had been freshly washed and recoiffed—clearly a necessity when some crazy Village coffeehouse manager throws a pie in your face.
“Who in hell is that?” Dave asked.
“Dick Belcher, Channel Six News,” I replied. “And it looks like he’s here to ambush you.”
“Oh man, I hate paparazzi. Always did . . .”
Always did? I stared at the man. He said that like he’d once been famous. My mind raced, but I couldn’t place him. Clearly this Channel Six News crew could.
“Brice! Brice Wildman!”
Brice Wildman? Was that David Brice’s stage name? It still didn’t ring any bells, but the news crew rushed forward, shouting for the “Wildman” to stop.
Dave jumped behind the wheel, and I gripped Matt’s shoulder.
“I need your cell phone . . .”
“What?” he cried as I picked his pocket. “Why?”
“I’ll use it to keep in touch,” I said, yanking open the sports car’s passenger door. “My cell is in my bag in Mrs. Beesley’s office.”
“You’re not going with him!” Matt’s eyes were close to popping.
I pointed to the advancing news crew. “It’s better than dealing with them again!”
“Again?” Matt said. “You mean they’re the ones who made Janelle cry?”
“Yes!” I said, diving into the passenger seat. “Just take your mother to lunch, okay? I’ll see you later!”
Dave revved the engine. “Now you want to get in?” he quipped.
“Belcher and I have history.” I slammed the door. “Drive!”
Twenty-four
AS we peeled out, I peered into the side mirror. The little round glass reflected a curious spectacle—Matteo Allegro trying to buy us time.
Shouting like a New York nut, he rushed the newsmen, arms waving madly. The pavement was so icy that avoiding contact with my (seemingly) half-crazed ex was impossible without slipping.
Dick Belcher and his crew slid like penguins and crashed into one another, two of them going down. The cameraman managed to stay on his feet. Lucky for Belcher, the producer broke his fall.
Thank you, Matt!
He waved at our car and flashed a thumbs-up of triumph. I rolled down the window and returned it, just before Dave hung a left and blasted us out of the parking lot.
We stopped at the end of the drive and he made a turn onto the public road. There were two directions to go, left toward the bay or right toward the parkway. He went right.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“Lunch,” he said, adjusting his mirror. “You like Italian?”
“How do you think I got these hips?”
He smiled. “Italian it is. And it’s on me. Consider it an apology for the manhandling.”
“Thanks, I will.”
We began driving—at normal speed—through the neighborhood. This part of Brooklyn was mostly middle-class and residential with close-packed brick apartments and strips of shops and markets, nail salons and phone stores, bars and restaurants. I sat quietly for two full blocks, but I couldn’t wait until lunch to talk. I was way too curious—
“So you’re famous?”
“Was. Past tense.” He glanced at me. “It’s ancient history.”
“Not to Channel Six. According to them you’re Brice Wildman. What were you? An actor? A musician?”
“Musician is something of a stretch. Performer is more like it. I was the lead singer and founding member of a band.”
“Which band?”
He shook his head.
“Oh, come on. You can’t leave me in the dark. What was the band?”
“The Infernal Machine.”
I searched my little gray cells, but . . . “I don’t think I know that band.”
“That’s because you weren’t a teenage boy in the late seventies.”
“Excuse me?”
“We were an unsuccessful heavy metal band, Clare.”
Heavy metal? I blinked, wondering how a person went from hair-head screamer to retirement home activities director. And if Dave’s band was so “unsuccessful,” then why did those news guys call him by his stage name?
“Did you have any hits?”
He shrugged. “Three in the Billboard Top 100.”
“That sounds pretty successful to me.”
“Oh, when we were hot, the money rolled in—and, man, it was great. I had a luxury home in Malibu, a flat in London . . .”
My mind tried to paint that picture—Dave thirty-plus years thinner in skintight leather pants and a black fishnet muscle tee, wrinkles erased, along with those salt streaks on his tawny head. I shaved off his full beard, made the ponytail longer and set it free. The man did have an amazing voice, and I didn’t doubt he was a rock star back in the day. Yeah, I could see it.
“What happened?”
“I let our manager handle the money, and a lot of other stuff, too. What the hell? I was in my twenties and just wanted to party . . .”
He shook his head. “The guy put the titles to my properties in his name, embezzled a lot of our income, too. I fired him. He evicted me. I heard the bastard’s still got his mistress living in my London flat.”
“That’s awful. Did you sue?”
“Of course . . . and the lawyers took the rest of my money. The outcomes netted me very little. By then, my career was kaput. You know what kaput means, Clare? Finished. Utterly defeated.”
“You retained your music rights, though?”
Dave laughed. “I was the lead singer, the front man. I had the looks so I became the face of the band. When your kisser is on all the album covers and posters, the groupies are great. But when the party’s over, if you don’t write the songs, you don’t get music rights.”
“After all that success, you really ended up broke?”
“What do you think you’re sitting in? This is a Mazda, not a Mercedes.”
“There’s nothing wrong with this car, Dave. I think it’s a very nice car.”
“Yeah, well, let’s just say it’s not the driver’s seat I imagined for myself. Then again, it was my own damn fault.”
“Seems to me your manager should have gone to jail. How is that your fault?”
A horn blare interrupted us and our attention was drawn to a commotion ahead. The city’s snow plows had cleared the messy streets, but plenty of parked cars were still buried under drifts. One of those cars blocked our way, its wheels working to gain traction. With vehicles behind us, we were trapped.
Dave sa
t back and sighed. There was nowhere to go.
“I got taken for a reason, Clare . . .”
“Why? Was it a vendetta, something like that?”
“No . . .” He folded his arms and smoothed his beard. “As a kid, I wanted fame and fortune so badly that was all I thought about; and when I got it, I assumed—like every stupid kid who hits one out of the park on luck—that easy street had arrived for good and things would only get better. I wasn’t paying attention, so I got screwed. But the reason my career crashed and burned wasn’t because some gonif of a manager stole from me; it was because I had nothing else. And fires built on nothing flame out fast.”
“Not always.”
“Always.” He met my eyes. “If you want a long creative life in the arts, you have to build on a stronger foundation than a juvenile lust for fame and fortune. That was something it took me too long to figure out. It was a lesson I tried to impress upon M.”
“On Moirin? Why?”
“She was an aspiring songwriter and recording artist.” He glanced over. “You didn’t know?”
I stared, slack-jawed for a moment. “She never mentioned anything like that to me—or the pastry chef she worked for. I don’t think my staff knew, either.”
“I can’t say I’m surprised. That girl had a lot of firewalls.”
“What does that mean?”
“The residents at Evergreen didn’t know about her vocal aspirations. The people who hired her for singing jobs didn’t know she made rent money baking cookies. And nobody—including me—knew much about her life back in Ireland.”
“So let me get this straight. You tried to help her? With her singing and songwriting career?”
“I did what I could for her, with the limited connections I still have . . .” The traffic ahead was finally moving. Dave put the car in gear.
“Can you be more specific?”
“I’d give her advice, call her whenever I heard about a gig. She landed a few recording jobs. Backup singing, studio stuff. The jobs didn’t pay much, but she was starting to get attention.”