by Cleo Coyle
As we drove through the next block, I considered Friday’s timeline. “Tell me something. Did you happen to call Moirin yesterday afternoon?”
He shook his head.
“Well, did you set up a rendezvous for someone else to meet her? Or maybe she had an appointment to meet with someone?”
“Neither. I hadn’t spoken with Moirin since Tuesday night, when we had a dress rehearsal for last night’s show.”
I sat back and stared blankly out the front window as I tried to think it all through. Whoever called Moirin Friday afternoon had been making plans to meet her. If it wasn’t Dave, then who was it? And was that person her killer? Before I could ask more questions, Dave pounded the steering wheel.
“What’s the matter?”
“Check your mirror,” he advised.
We were now sitting at a red light in a four-way intersection with apartment buildings flanking us and a cargo van idling behind with lettering across its front—X-I-something or other.
A single red-faced man was working at the side of the road behind us, attempting to dig his parked car out of a city-plowed wall of ice-packed snow.
“What is it?” I asked. “Do you know that guy?”
“Not the man shoveling. Look behind us. The van.”
I looked again, bending down to see more of the van reflected in the mirror, and realized the idling vehicle wasn’t just any cargo van. It had a microwave dish on the roof and a pissed-off-looking man behind the wheel in a snow-dusted blue parka.
Oh crap. Mirrors reverse lettering!
I turned in my seat to reread the van’s front inscription and confirmed the ugly development: News Channel Six!
That crew was on an ambush mission, and the second we got out of this “Wildman’s” Mazda, I knew Ned the cameraman would start rolling, and Dick Belcher would begin firing hardball questions—one of which would certainly be why this former rock star, who’d just lost his too-young girlfriend in a brutal murder, was tooling around in a sports car with the dead girl’s shapely employer.
“You want a free lunch?” Dave asked. “Help me get out of this.”
“How far is the Belt Parkway?”
“Maybe a quarter mile.”
Well, I thought, snapping on my shoulder harness, I am hungry.
“I have a few ideas how you can lose them,” I said. (Actually, given my years with authority-loathing Matteo Allegro, I had more like a dozen.) “To start with, don’t go anywhere on the green light. Wait right here for it to turn red again.”
Dave looked puzzled a moment then nodded. “Oh yeah, I remember that trick. Okay, I’ll give it a try . . .”
The traffic light flipped from red to green, and we just sat there.
Traffic behind us became impatient and the honking began. Dave glanced at me. “Are you sure you’re up for this? I mean, managing a coffeehouse, you probably aren’t used to high-stress situations.”
“Are you kidding?” I said as our green light went from warning yellow to angry red. “Floor it!”
Twenty-five
DAVE’S sports car shot through the intersection on the solid red light with the oncoming traffic barely missing us. Horns blared at our audacity. But we made it across. And News Channel Six didn’t.
From my side mirror, I saw the van attempting to lurch forward, Dick Belcher leaning over the driver’s seat, shaking his fist. But there was no way for Ned to move without getting smacked. So they were forced to sit and watch as we sped away.
“That felt good,” I said.
“Yeah . . .” Dave smiled. “It did.”
The apartment buildings were flying by us now—red brick then yellow brick then red again—their sizes dwindling down with each block we traveled away from the bay.
“Didn’t you say something about having a ‘history’ with that news guy?” Dave asked, manually shifting from third to fourth.
“That’s right—a very short history.”
“Love affair?”
“Let’s just say it involves loud threats and cream pie.”
Dave arched an eyebrow. “Kinky.”
“More like hinky.”
“I don’t follow.”
“Some jerk in the NYPD leaked names in Moirin’s case file. This morning, Dick Belcher used that information to ambush me and my friend Janelle. When he wouldn’t let up, I asked him to leave her bakery. He ignored me, so I threw a meringue-topped root beer–laced sweet potato pie in his face.”
“You’re kidding?”
“Extreme, I know, but—”
“No buts,” Dave said. “You were protecting your friend.”
“Yeah, well, pie or not, it was an assault.”
“At least it was an edible one.”
“Actually not. According to Janelle, the filling had all the appeal of slimy hospital medicine. It’s no wonder the man threatened to sue me.”
Dave shot me a half-amused glance. “In my day, I did far worse.”
“With that wrist hold you put on me, I can believe it. Where did you learn that move, anyway?”
“When you play concerts on the road, you have a lot of downtime. I learned it from a bouncer.”
Three blocks later we hit a red light. No big deal, except that when it turned green again a long gasoline tanker truck was stuck in the middle of the intersection, “blocking the box,” as we say in New York. By the time the truck driver swung his big rig around the bend, the light had gone to red again and we were stuck.
That’s when a familiar microwave dish appeared in my side mirror. News Channel Six.
Dave cursed.
“You can’t sit through the light and go through the red this time,” I said. “They won’t fall for the same trick twice.”
“I couldn’t do it anyway. Look at the traffic, Clare. There’s no way to shake them on these streets.”
“Then we’ll shake them on the expressway. I’m sure your sports car goes faster than their van. As a last resort we can outrun them.”
“I’m in,” Dave said, eager to punch the gas.
“But take it slow this time,” I warned. “We want to make them think we’ve given up.”
“Okay . . .” Dave downshifted into second. Moments later, we rolled up the ramp, the News Channel Six van hugging our bumper. In my side mirror, I could actually see a victorious smirk on Dick Belcher’s face.
When we merged onto the busy four-lane highway, News Channel Six backed off a little, but continued to dog us.
“So, Clare? Do you have a plan besides breaking the speed limit? I’ll go there if I have to, but . . .”
“Drive casual. Just let them follow us for a while.”
“Then what?”
“When we get close to the Brooklyn–Battery Tunnel, I’ll let you know.”
Dave nodded and settled in for the ride. “Answer me another question.”
“If I can . . .”
“Why is a Greenwich Village coffeehouse manager tracking an ex-hair-head all the way to the tip of Brooklyn?”
“Short answer or long one?”
“Let’s try short.”
I glanced in the mirror, at the news van stalking us. “Honestly? It comes down to one word: guilt.”
“Guilt?” He pursed his lips. “You better give me the long answer.”
I did, explaining what had happened at the Cookie Swap. How I saw Moirin go out for a cigarette break and never come back. How I assumed she was shirking work, and led Janelle to think so, too. How neither of us bothered to look for her.
Dave’s hands tightened on the steering wheel. “The cops told me she was killed instantly. What could you have done? Found her body sooner, maybe? She’d still be dead.”
“Maybe I could have seen the killer. Maybe even stopped the murder. But I’ll never know. And I have to live with that.”
“So what do you want from me, Clare? Absolution? I’m not a priest.”
“I just want information. The police . . .” I paused, wondering how to avoid soundin
g grandiose (or delusional). “Look, I found Moirin’s body. I was there when the Crime Scene Unit arrived, and a pair of homicide detectives, too. One of those cops is a regular at my coffeehouse. I know and trust her, but the other . . .”
“What about the other?”
“Well, he’s senior to my detective friend, and he has city hall backing. He’s also the lead on the case, but I think he’s leading the investigation in the wrong direction. Meanwhile, with every hour, every minute that goes by, M’s case gets colder, and the chance of catching this killer slips further away. The officers who frequent my coffeehouse tell me that most murders—”
“I know,” Dave said, nodding. “Most are solved within twenty-four to forty-eight hours. That was my hope. That the killer would be caught quickly, so that when I delivered the bad news to the residents, there would at least be some closure with the pain.”
“Well, there won’t be any closure if the investigating team doesn’t get their act together. Believe me, Dave, I want closure, too. Frankly, I’m not going to stop until I see Moirin’s killer brought to justice.”
Dave’s face hardened. “What can I do to help?”
“M was a very private person. I didn’t know much about her. I’d like you to help me fill in some blanks about her life.” I straightened in my seat when I saw the sign for the Brooklyn–Battery Tunnel. “But first let’s lose these losers, shall we?”
“What’s the plan?”
“Dick Belcher knows I’m with you. And he knows my coffeehouse is in Manhattan, so let’s make him think that’s where we’re going. I want you to drive past the entrance to the Brooklyn–Battery Tunnel, then speed up like you’re heading to the next East River crossing—the Brooklyn Bridge. Got it?”
I held on as Dave shifted from third to fourth and we blew by the Tunnel exit.
“Now what?” he asked.
“Look for a way to hide. We need a big vehicle, something to cut off Belcher’s line of sight long enough for us to slip off the exit just before the bridge. Like I said, he knows I’m with you. If he can’t see us, chances are he’ll assume that we’re heading to Manhattan. Their van will continue on the expressway, trying to catch up to us—but we’ll be gone.”
“There’s our camouflage,” Dave said a few moments later. “I’ll slip around that mattress delivery truck. That thing’s big enough to cut off Belcher’s view.”
Without warning, Dave grimaced and punched the gas, shifting to fifth. I was jerked back in my seat as the Miata went from fifty to seventy-five in what felt like three seconds.
“Nice pickup,” I said with faint bravado.
The tires squealed and I was thrown against my harness as we moved into the left lane. When we slipped around the truck, and came back in front of it, Dave nearly clipped the safety wall. I straight-armed the dashboard and watched the News Channel Six van disappear from sight. It may have been a trick of the light, but I swear Dick Belcher’s face turned purple.
We continued to fast-forward, moving around an SUV, another delivery truck, and a van. As we guessed, the Channel Six team couldn’t keep up with us. All they could do was stay on the expressway and hope to catch us down the road.
Finally, the last exit before the Brooklyn Bridge came and we flew down its ramp. Near the bottom, Dave hit a patch of dirty snow and the car fishtailed. I had visions of a rollover, but he managed to regain control before we were dumped out onto a neighborhood street.
We pulled over, waited, and watched, but the van didn’t follow. They took the bait, driving past the exit, assuming we were going over the Brooklyn Bridge.
“By the time they realize we gave them the slip, they’ll be in Manhattan.”
“Should we loop around?” Dave wondered, his face a tad pale. “Get back on the expressway in the other direction and take the Battery Tunnel?”
“I have a better idea. This is Cobble Hill. I know a little restaurant off Court Street. Nunzio’s specializes in Sicilian seafood, and they make a mean pizza, too. Best of all, they have parking behind their restaurant. So even if Belcher and his team figure out what we did, they’ll never find us because your car won’t be on the street.”
“Sounds good,” Dave said. “And pizza sounds even better.”
Twenty-six
AN hour earlier, Nunzio’s would have been packed, and they certainly would be again for dinner. But this late in their lunch service, their dark-paneled dining room was quiet, and we were given a very private corner booth, away from the window, as Dave requested.
We ordered quickly on my suggestions. Then Dave leaned back and rolled up the sleeves of his denim shirt. I could see why he’d have to wear long sleeves on the job. Tattoos heavily covered both arms—I caught a glimpse of scarlet chains on one forearm, the elaborate bottom of a Gothic cross on the other.
“So what were your Top 100 hits, anyway?” I asked.
“Let’s see . . . ‘Hard as Steel’ made it to the top fifty. ‘Bones to Dust’ went higher . . .”
He reached for the bottle of Valpolicella the waiter opened for us and poured wine into my glass. It was early in the day for me to have alcohol, but I’d learned a thing or two over coffee talks with Detective Mike Quinn.
In unofficial interviews, you used what you could to loosen tongues. Like Mike (not to mention Pliny the Elder), I believed in in vino veritas.
Unfortunately, the vino portion of our program was mine alone. Dave set down the bottle after filling my glass. Then picked up the bottle of sparkling water, twisted off the cap, and filled his glass.
“What was your third hit?” I prompted.
“That was the biggest, by far. We were in the top ten for three whole weeks.”
“The title?”
“‘A Fine Line Between Heaven and Hell.’”
My gray cells spun again—and this time they hit three cherries. “I think I actually heard of that one.”
“You don’t have to humor me, Clare. I have no ego about it. Not anymore.”
“Wait, I can remember.” I held up a finger. “When your planet’s spinning madly / on a burning white-hot core . . . Right?”
“You got it.”
“You can scream in rage and fury. / You can beat, beat, down the doors . . .”
“I’m impressed.”
“Then how does it go? Something about a tale to tell.”
“If no one upstairs hears me / won’t heed the tale I tell. / Then down below they’ll fear me / I’ll turn heaven into hell . . .”
“That was a great song—I mean, I admit heavy metal was never my thing, but when I was growing up, the boys on my block really connected to it. You expressed something there for them.”
“Yeah,” he said flatly, “adolescent anger.”
I shifted, unsure how to read him. “What are you getting at?”
Dave sipped his sparkling water. “I used to scream those lyrics without giving them a thought. Most teenage boys do. Believe me, they hold a lot more meaning after your career crashes and burns. There really is a fine line between feeling on top of the world and having it all go to hell.”
“You don’t have to be a failed rock star to understand that . . .”
The previous evening’s events had illustrated that enough for me: The heavenly party followed by the hellish murder. And then that awful scare with Quinn. All week long, I’d been aching to shower him with kisses the moment I saw him. Then what did I do? Thrash him with angry fists when he walked through my door.
I studied David Brice and made a simple deduction. “I take it your fall included addiction?”
“Are you fishing?”
I shrugged. “In vino veritas, in aqua sanitas.”
“Excuse me?”
“In wine there is truth, in water there is health. So, either you’re trying to make sure I speak the truth while you stay sober, or you’re a former alcoholic.” I pointed to his glass. “People on the wagon don’t drink.”
He nodded. “That’s right. We don’t.”
>
“How long?”
“Thirty years, give or take the occasional slip.”
Our Caesar salads came with a basket of garlic knots, and Dave finally connected the dots for me, explaining how a heavy metal headbanger becomes a retirement home activities director.
Drug and alcohol addiction was the first step. After his band’s third Top 100 hit, nothing clicked again. The new album tanked, and the new manager was honest but not nearly as competent as the previous manager in getting them booked. The band members fought, and they finally broke up.
Dave landed hard with little money. An overdose of drugs and drink landed him in an ER, then a detox program where a social worker and man of the cloth began the long process of getting his head straight again.
It was an AA program that turned Dave around, helped him “get up and grow up,” primarily because of the relationship he’d forged with his sponsor, John Macardle.
“Jackie, that’s what he liked to be called,” Dave said. “The guy was a former marine, Golden Gloves champ, and tough-as-boot-leather father figure—one I’d never had . . .”
Dave had never formerly studied music, and Jackie, a high school phys ed director and wrestling coach, helped him apply to colleges.
“I taught music after that, middle-school level. It was a solid, respectable income while I kept trying in the music scene—some backup singing until the voice went, then record producing, songwriting. Small-time stuff. Nothing ever broke out again, not like my early years, but I did all right for myself. Got married, had a beautiful girl. My wife died of cancer about ten years ago; my daughter got married, moved to Indiana; she teaches music theory at IU . . .”
“How did you end up at Evergreen?”
“Jackie ended up there. He’s in another wing now, pretty much bedridden—and I visit him as often as I can. But a few years back, he asked me to help him find someone to play the piano for a holiday party. Hell, I did it myself, was happy to. The activities director job opened up a month later, and he called me about it, knew I was looking to retire—I loved the kids at school, but PS budgets were being cut, especially for music programs, and I was ready for a change anyway.”