Holiday Buzz

by Cleo Coyle

  Endicott was interrupted by the beep from his police radio.

  “Pardon me, Captain, but I have vital business to attend to! I shall give you my update straightaway!”

  Oh good heavens . . .

  Endicott lowered his smartphone, snapped up the police radio, and barked into it: “Officer Chen? Are you hard of hearing? Did I not order you to report in if the suspect left the coffeehouse during his shift?”

  As he listened to the reply, Endicott massaged his forehead, as if in pain. “What do you mean he never left? Perhaps he slipped by you while you were in the little girls’ room?”

  Endicott listened again—to an earful, apparently. “Yes, yes, I understand. You’re looking at him right now. Fine. Keep looking. He might not be guilty of this murder, but I am convinced that espresso jockey is our Christmas Stalker!”

  Espresso jockey?

  As Endicott tucked the radio back into his pocket and turned around, I didn’t hesitate.

  “Dante Silva is not the Christmas Stalker,” I loudly called from behind the police tape. “You’re chasing the wrong suspect!”

  Every uniformed officer and CSU detective stopped what he or she was doing to give me a blank stare. With pursed lips and squinting eyes, Endicott looked as if he just sucked on a candy shop sour ball. With righteous vigor, he strode up to me.

  “If you recall, Ms. Cosi, I chased your suspect the first time around. I’m referring, of course, to Piper Penny—”

  “What you chased were a few hairs!” I corrected. “And I tried to tell you that I had doubts about her, that the timeline was off, but you refused to listen. Then you fixated on my employee instead of looking for viable suspects.”

  He folded his arms, considering his options. “Fine. We’re in a toy store. I’ll play your little armchair detective game. Whom do you think is a ‘viable’ suspect?”

  “Certainly not my barista.”

  “Maybe not for this murder, but I’m keeping a tail on him.”

  “Why?!”

  “For one thing, he remains my prime suspect in last week’s case—and in our series of Christmas Stalkings.”

  “Dante Silva would never bludgeon a girl to death. You’re wasting valuable time thinking he could. And if your stalker really is working out of my coffeehouse, I’ll tell you who you should be looking for and why . . .”

  Endicott was still scowling, but I could see he was curious. “Go on.”

  “Times are tough right now and the holidays make it feel even tougher. I’ve overheard plenty of complaints after this season’s office parties and seen outbursts from drunken customers, especially middle-aged men.”

  “So what are you saying?”

  “That your Christmas Stalker is probably a male commuter who doesn’t have an apartment in Manhattan, someone who’s been using my shop to stay warm, stew, and consider victims to follow so he can get his pervy jollies bashing her. As for the reason . . . I’m sure he has some undiscovered mental problems. And the attacks are misplaced rage over feeling helpless about what’s happening to him. If he hasn’t been laid off, he’s probably been marginalized in some way, demoted or passed over. I’ll even bet you his boss is—or was—a woman.”

  “You’re reaching, Ms. Cosi,” Endicott said with a dismissive wave. “Some anonymous, angry office worker has no connection to last week’s murder victim. Your barista does.”

  “And you’re still assuming the two cases are connected. I’m telling you they’re not. The Stalker’s victims were random. And it’s clear that Moirin knew her killer.”

  “She knew your barista. If he’s the Stalker, that explains it.”

  I wanted to scream. But before I could, a white-suited CSU detective came out of the party room and tapped Endicott’s shoulder.

  “We’ve got something,” he said.

  The look on Endicott’s face told me he was thinking the same thing I was: I hope it’s better than dog hairs!

  Forty-six

  LORI joined them, and the three stepped away from me (which didn’t stop me from moving along the crime scene tape until I could overhear).

  “The killer tried to clean up after the murder,” the CSU detective explained. “We found a single fingerprint in the victim’s blood on the back of the hot water faucet. It’s not legible enough to be admissible in court, but it’s clear enough to point to, or eliminate, a viable suspect for this homicide—if you have one.”

  An uncomfortable silence followed. Endicott said nothing. But Lori spoke up in an animated whisper. She gestured in my direction, and Endicott’s frown deepened. Finally, all three detectives approached me.

  “All right, Ms. Cosi,” Endicott began. “You found the victim. We’ve reviewed your statement with the uniformed officers. Now tell us . . .” He let his words trail off as he shook his head.

  Lori jumped in. “Cosi,” she said plainly, “we want to know what you think.”

  Finally! I took a deep breath and admitted: “I didn’t witness Rita Limon’s murder, but I did eyewitness a threat against her earlier this evening. The other baker stationed on this floor during the Cookie Swap was smitten with Rita. He suggested they hook up in that very party room after hours. When she rejected him, he swore at her and menaced her with physical violence—and I wasn’t the only one who saw this. There were two other witnesses.”

  Endicott nodded. The sour ball was gone. “Clearly, this is its own particular case!” he declared. “That would explain the barista’s lack of involvement—and the discrepancy.”

  “What discrepancy?” I asked.

  “Rita Limon’s skull was cleaved, not bashed,” Lori said.

  “Well, I can’t explain the changing MO,” I said. “I mean, I don’t know why this killer used a rock last week and some kind of bladed weapon this week, but this person I’m telling you about was at the last Cookie Swap, too. I saw him talking with Moirin Fagan shortly before she was killed. His name is—”

  The smartphone vanished from Endicott’s pale fingers, and the digital recorder reappeared. He waved it under my nose.

  “Nick Bacque,” I finished, reaching in my pocket for his card. I recited the address of his bakery. “But I doubt you’ll find him there. Nick left this toy store fifteen minutes before I found Rita’s body. If you’re lucky, he’s still in that bar across the street.”

  Lori blinked. “Vintage 58?”

  I nodded. “When the bakers were finished here, they left through this store’s 58th Street exit, which means they had to walk through the café I was managing. Nick even caught my eye as he left and fired off a smirk. I saw him cross the street and go into the bar.”

  “What was Mr. Bacque wearing when you saw him leave?” Lori asked. “And was he carrying bags? Boxes?”

  Though it was Lori who asked the question, both she and Endicott seemed to be hanging on my reply.

  “All the leftover cookies are sent to homeless shelters, so Nick didn’t have to haul anything away—”

  “What was he wearing?” Endicott repeated.

  “He dressed in a tux for the event, and he was wearing a long charcoal gray topcoat when he went out the door. He was also carrying a large green tote bag. Big enough to contain a change of clothing, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

  Endicott faced Lori. “I have to report in, but I want you to take two . . . no, four uniformed officers . . . take them over to that bar and pick this guy up. If that saloon has a back door, I want two officers covering it.”

  “He’s had time to change his clothes, maybe even dump the bloody stuff somewhere,” I warned.

  “Maybe,” Endicott said. “But he can’t change his fingerprints, and he probably didn’t change his shoes, either. Even if he did, we can examine his skin for traces of blood or other indicators that he bludgeoned Rita Limon to death—”

  “Other indicators? You mean defensive wounds, that kind of thing?”

  Lori nodded as Endicott’s smartphone buzzed and he waved us all to be silent—though the CS
U techs were still playing their plunky concerto.

  “Captain? Yes, I’m moving to apprehend a suspect as we speak!”

  With a silent wave, Endicott dismissed me and sent Lori off to marshal her four-man arresting force.

  I hurried to catch her. “Will you check in with me again? Tell me if that bloody print can be matched to Nick?”

  “I’ll update you when I can, Cosi. But do one thing for me, okay?”

  “What?”

  “Stay out of sight during this arrest. If this Bacque character is as violent a scumbag as you claim, you don’t want him knowing you had anything to do with fingering him.”

  Nice sentiments, I thought. But the moment Nick Bacque arrives in an interview room, he’s going to hear how an “eyewitness” heard him threaten Rita this evening.

  Two and two was four, and Nick would add up another obvious clue. He saw me watching him leave the store. He’d know I sent the police to pick him up. But given the violence of the crime, bail would be set impossibly high. I doubted Nick would have the cash or collateral to post it.

  As I headed down the escalator, I was sure my endless night was over. Unfortunately I’d forgotten my grade school astronomy: this was December, the month with the longest nights of the year.

  I’d have to get through plenty more darkness before dawn.

  * * *

  RETURNING to the toy store’s café, I found Esther and Janelle waiting for me. They rose for a group hug, then Esther poured me a cup of the French roast that she and Janelle had been sharing. I spied a plate of leftover pistachio and raspberry macarons, downed the treats, and gulped the coffee.

  Reinvigorated by the caffeine and sugar, I told them everything that had happened upstairs. As I got to the part about Nick Bacque’s imminent arrest, Lori Soles clicked through the café.

  We all watched the Amazonian detective in dinner dress and cover girl makeup lead her small blue army of uniformed men out the 58th Street exit.

  “Whoa,” Esther whispered. “It’s NYPD Barbie. ‘Comes with two outfits, and her own badge, cuffs, and pepper spray!’”

  “I can’t understand how Nick could set up a bakery business so quickly,” Janelle said.

  “I think we both know how he did it,” I said. “While he worked for you, Nick double ordered everything, then moved half the stuff to his own bakery.”

  “But that’s just it,” Janelle countered. “Nick didn’t have a bakery, and he would have had the same trouble renting one that I had. With no prior history of retail rental, I had to jump through lots of hoops. Credit checks, stuff like that. Nick could never manage it. His financial situation was shakier than mine.”

  I handed Nick’s card to Janelle. “Maybe he partnered up with someone, or maybe Nick got a special deal for a run-down dump—”

  Janelle released a string of obscenities, the more colorful ones in Creole French.

  “I know this address! Nick and I checked out this retail space together when I was searching for a place to expand—back when I trusted Nick and thought my books were in good shape. It’s a third-floor commercial kitchen. The previous tenant installed a giant dumbwaiter that ran from the basement to make deliveries easy.”

  Janelle shook the card in her hand. “I almost leased that space, too, but Nick convinced me the rent was too high for the inconvenience of a third-floor walk-up.”

  “He talked you out of it, only to grab the space behind your back.” Esther shook her head. “That’s a special kind of cad.”

  Outside, loud voices were shouting. “What’s happening?”

  Janelle moved to look out the glass door. “A bunch of cops just led Nick Bacque out of the bar across the street. I do believe that man is in handcuffs, too.”

  A minute later, a siren wailed, and faded just as quickly.

  I finished my coffee in a single gulp. “Janelle, how would you like to prove Nick Bacque ripped you off? Nail him to the wall harder than he is now.”

  Janelle’s smile doubled in size. “I’m game. But how?”

  “Where there’s a dumbwaiter and a camera, there’s a way.”

  Forty-seven

  A shivering Esther whispered to Janelle through nearly blue lips. “The last time we tried something this radical, she had to climb a fire escape!”

  “No fire escapes tonight,” I said. “But we do have to convince one of the residents to buzz us in.”

  “Leave that to me,” Esther said with confidence.

  The four-story brick building was located in the Village, not far from my coffeehouse but on an unfashionable corner of Sullivan Street. The ground floor was occupied by Sherpa, a Himalayan restaurant, which was shuttered for the night. Above the eatery there were three floors of dark windows. Janelle led us around the corner, to a quieter, more shadowy side street.

  “That’s the kitchen,” she said, pointing to a high window beside a neat row of aluminum-hooded oven vents.

  “Looks like the only way in is through the front door,” Esther said as she led us back around to the front and up a short flight of granite steps to the building entrance.

  “How are you going to get us in?” I asked.

  “Watch and learn, grasshopper . . .”

  Esther moved her hand to the twin rows of intercom buttons next to the door. Each button had a name listed beside it, but she didn’t bother reading any of them. Instead, she ran her finger down the left column, hitting every bell.

  Inside of ten seconds the intercom crackled. “Yeah?” said a male voice.

  “It’s me,” Esther whispered into the speaker.

  The door beeped, and we pushed through.

  We moved quickly down the hallway to a battered stairwell door and took the stairs down to the open basement. Esther found a switch and harsh fluorescent lights flooded a large, damp room with a dingy concrete floor.

  “There it is,” Janelle called. She moved to the large dumbwaiter embedded next to a sidewalk chute in the front wall. I could see how deliveries would be made. The locked doors above the chute would be opened up, and goods would be sent down the chute and loaded into the dumbwaiter. Then the baker could activate the little elevator, lifting the deliveries right up to the kitchen.

  Esther twisted the dumbwaiter’s handle and the door popped open. The boxy inside was about the size of your average dishwasher.

  “Somebody’s got to crawl in there,” I said.

  Janelle frowned at Esther’s ample bosom and generous hips. Esther stared back at Janelle’s expansive waistline and well-padded posterior. Then they both turned to face the comparatively short and slender me.

  “I have an idea!” Esther chirped. “Janelle and I will both squeeze in there. But I doubt we’ll have the space to bring the camera along, too.”

  “Okay, I get it. I’m the only one small enough to fit.”

  “Have a fun ride, Sherlock.”

  “If it nails Nick Bacque, I will. Here, hold this—” I handed Esther my large shoulder bag. “And help me inside . . .”

  They did. After I was squeezed in there, camera case tucked under my chin, I told them to send me up—

  “And when this thing stops, you two go outside and around the corner. Wait three minutes. If you don’t see me, it will mean the third-floor exit doors are locked, and I can’t get out—so come back in and bring this thing back down.”

  “What if you do get in?” Esther asked.

  “I’ll open the window that Janelle pointed out and wave. Then I’ll take pictures while you guys keep watch. Yell up to me if you see a nosy cop, a curious building super, or Nick Bacque—in the unlikely event the skunk is kicked loose by the NYPD.”

  “Yell?” Esther said. “You never heard of a cell phone?”

  “The signal could be iffy up there, depending on his appliances. I think my way is better.”

  Janelle nodded. “It’s a plan, then.”

  I fumbled around the inside of the box. “Where’s the up button?”

  “This isn’t an elevator,
sugar, and it’s not electric. I’ll have to reel you up.”

  “What?”

  As Janelle gripped a flywheel embedded in the wall, Esther closed the door and plunged me into total darkness.

  “Make sure you throw the brake when you get to the top!” Janelle called, and with a squeaky lurch, the car began to ascend.

  The creepy ride through the narrow aluminum shaft seemed eternal. Finally the box bumped to a halt. Thankfully, Nick hadn’t locked his dumbwaiter doors. They burst open and I literally rolled out.

  For a good ten seconds I laid on the linoleum floor of the darkened commercial kitchen, just listening. I heard the tick-tick-tick of a wall clock, the hiss of a gas jet, a muffled voice in another apartment.

  I pulled the phone from my pocket and opened it. As I feared, with all these metal machines, my cell signal was weak. Meanwhile, my eyes grew accustomed to the darkness and I could discern shapes around me: A pair of commercial ovens. A sink. A large stove. Rows of cabinets. A massive refrigerator. I spied a wall switch and flipped it. Overhead fluorescence came to life.

  I crossed the room and opened one of the large windows. There was no screen so I stuck my head out and waved to Janelle and Esther on the sidewalk below. I was about to duck back inside when I spotted movement on the sidewalk.

  A woman strolled along the boulevard a half a block away. I soon realized this woman in a powder blue ball gown and matching topcoat was blissfully unaware that a man was following her.

  With his face wrapped in a black scarf and a fedora hat pulled low, the man increased speed until he caught up with her.

  Before I could shout out a warning, the man seized the woman by her arm and spun her. I heard a startled cry, and a struggle ensued. That’s when a wooden club appeared in the man’s gloved hand!

  “Oh my God!” I screamed to Esther and Janelle. “The Stalker is attacking a woman up the block.” I pointed. “Go! Both of you! Help that poor woman now before she gets bashed!”