by Cleo Coyle
“Thank you.”
“And you may have been reckless going up in that dumbwaiter, but you were also brave and self-sacrificing when you sent both of your backup ladies to help Punch.”
“What are you getting at?”
“Just that . . . down deep, there’s something in you, something I’ve struggled with myself over the years. You’re dogged when it comes to finding the truth, but you’re a little too impatient for justice.”
“Is that such a crime?”
“No.” He held my gaze. “It’s one of the reasons I love you. One of the many reasons.”
I smiled at that.
“But if you’re not careful,” he added in quiet warning, “that impatience is going to get you into real trouble. Do you hear me?”
“I do.”
Quinn’s lips twitched. “You know, Cosi, I like hearing you say those words.”
“Oh really?”
“I know this separation of ours hasn’t been easy, but I still look forward to the day we say those words to each other, in front of a witness or two.”
“You do?”
“I do.”
My spirits lifted at that, and I wanted to return the favor. “I have something for you . . .” I said, reaching for my handbag on the nightstand. I fished inside and pulled out a surprise. Jingle, jingle, jingle . . .
“What’s this?” Quinn asked.
“A little holiday spirit, courtesy of the Village Blend.”
The jingle bells were attached to a long wool scarf of Village Blend blue with a beautiful pattern of white snowflakes.
“I’m giving these to all my baristas as a Christmas gift this year.”
Quinn laughed. “You expect me to wear a scarf with little sleigh bells? To the Federal Triangle?”
“Yes,” I said. “It represents the happy, jingly spirit of Christmas, something to keep you comfy through the months of winter.”
He smiled as I wrapped the soft material around his neck. It jingled merrily as I gently tugged both ends, pulling his lips against mine, and for the next two days, we spent our time kindling the kind of heat that could keep us warm through another lonely week of nights apart.
Fifty-four
BY Tuesday afternoon, I was back on the job—the coffee job. With Quinn’s revelation about Irish gangsters, I assumed M’s case was beyond my help. But I assumed wrong.
Espresso in hand, I had just taken a seat with my laptop when Madame swept in, swinging two colorful holiday shopping bags. She charged right up to my table with an accusation—
“My great-great-grandmother was quite an accomplished matchmaker. I had humble aspirations in that direction, but you, my dear, are thwarting them!”
“Me?”
“Yes, you! I am trying to instill visions of marital bliss in my granddaughter, but how can I do that when you have yet to send Joy those photos you took of Emmanuel Franco skating in the park?”
I blinked. “Somehow the words ‘marital bliss’ and ‘Emmanuel Franco’ refuse to add up in my mind, and you know what? I am positive they wouldn’t in your son’s, either.”
“Oh poo!” Madame spat, sinking into a chair. “Who cares what Matteo thinks?”
“Because you’re desperate for a great-grandchild?”
Madame grinned. “Or maybe two. A boy—and a girl. Perhaps at the same time! Oh, wouldn’t twins be a delight!”
“I’m not sure my daughter would agree with that, but . . . I’m game. I’ll send the photos to Joy right now.”
As I opened the Bryant Park photo files on my laptop, Boris delivered fresh espressos and a dish of newly baked Chocolate Candy Cane Cookies. After he served, he pointed to the screen.
“Ah, so cute! She is like a tiny Galina Kulikovskaya!”
“That’s Molly Quinn, my boyfriend’s daughter,” I explained as I displayed more pictures, in quick succession.
Boris pointed. “There! You see . . . Molly imitates Sleeping Beauty, Galina Kulikovskaya’s famous ballet on ice. For years now, she skates in worldwide show to music of Tchaikovsky. See the way the little girl makes a pillow with her hands then rests head on it? Very nice . . .”
“Clearly, Molly’s a fan of the former Olympic skater.”
Boris nodded. “She must love you then.”
“Me? I haven’t ice-skated in at least a year—”
“But you look just like Galina.”
I rolled my eyes. “Please.”
“You do!” he insisted. “She is about your age now. After I take next batch of cookies out of oven, I will show you.” Boris disappeared behind the counter and went to work.
“Where are the photos of Franco?” Madame asked.
I jumped to the next image.
“Oh yes, that’s lovely,” Madame cooed.
I glanced at the image—but it didn’t make me coo. The shot of Franco holding Jeremy’s and Molly’s hands was adorable enough, but a bad memory spoiled it. In the background loomed the darkened carousel, where I’d found M’s body.
Madame touched my arm. “Clare? Did you hear what I said?”
“Sorry, I got a little sidetracked.” I tapped the screen. “That’s where M was murdered. I took this picture shortly before she was killed.”
Madame frowned. “Have the police made any progress?”
I brought her up to date on what Quinn had discovered, including a very basic revelation: “Moirin Fagan’s real name was Emma Brophy.”
“Hmmm . . .” She tapped her chin. “Have you tried searching the girl’s real name on the Internet to find out more about her?”
I nodded. “The hits were astronomical. Over eight hundred thousand. Facebook pages. High school yearbooks. Twitter. Dating services. I still want to find out where M spent those three years in America—before she came to New York City, but . . .”
I shrugged. “I’m trying to take Quinn’s advice and let it go. Lori Soles is on the case in New York. The Garda is working the Irish angle. Quinn’s probably got his Fed friends looking for Cormac and associates by now. What can a coffeehouse manager accomplish that the pros can’t?”
I stared at the image again. This time I looked beyond the human figures, at the shadowy carousel.
“What’s this?” I blinked, leaning closer to the screen. Madame did, too, and we clunked heads.
“Either I’m seeing stars or that’s a speck of blue!” Madame declared.
I moved the photo to the Edit Picture program and magnified the image. The blue speck turned into a blue blob. Another magnification and the blob became a familiar bright blue logo—the symbol of the Raiders hockey team.
“It’s an ice skate bag,” I said. “See, it’s shaped like a triangle. Someone hung it on a wooden horse inside the carousel.” I turned to Madame. “That bag wasn’t there when I found M’s corpse! Do you know what this means? That bag must have belonged to the killer, who was waiting there to meet M!”
“Is it possible you snapped an image of the murderer?” Madame asked.
I expanded another section of the photo, then another. “There!” I tapped the screen. “A silhouette!”
Madame shook her head doubtfully. “It might be a silhouette.”
“You’re right. Even if that is a person, there are no details. It could be a man or a woman. But Ross Puckett skated for the kids that night. That could be his bag.”
“Too easy a conclusion, dear. I’m afraid there were a lot of Raiders fans in attendance that evening. I saw several young men with Raiders backpacks. Parents and nannies carried Raiders skate bags, too.”
“You’re right, but this must mean something—”
The tinny sound of Bing Crosby singing “White Christmas” echoed through the quiet coffeehouse. I looked up to see Vicki Glockner emerging from our pantry area.
“Someone placed a Secret Santa gift under the tree,” Tuck announced.
“No, the other way around . . .” Vicki said with a sigh. “I’m taking one back. Those Purple Lettuce tickets that I was going
to give to M? I’m sending them to my cousin on Long Island instead. He’s a huge fan.”
So was M, I recalled.
On the night of her murder, Vicki had mentioned how M had followed Purple Lettuce since their start on Long Island.
Wait a minute. Since their start on Long Island!
“Vicki!” I called. “When did Purple Lettuce start performing?”
She shrugged. “At least four years ago.”
I looked at Madame. “Let’s search ‘Emma Brophy’ and ‘Long Island’ together and see what we find . . .”
“Did you know there’s another gift addressed to M on the Secret Santa shelf?” Vicki was saying to Tucker as I frantically typed.
“It’s probably from Dante,” Tuck replied sadly. “Just leave it there for now . . .”
There was no ‘Emma Brophy’ that seemed relevant, but I refused to give up. Broadening the search to simply ‘Brophy’ and ‘Long Island’ did the trick.
We struck sleuthing gold.
Fifty-five
FOR vanity’s sake, Madame had “forgotten” her reading glasses, so I read the Long Island Newsday article out loud.
“‘Baker’s Assistant Dies in Fiery Late-Night Crash’ says the headline,” I began. “It’s dated last December.”
According to the story, the victim was Kaitlin Brophy, twenty-two, a recent Irish émigré who was sleeping in her apartment over a local bakery when a late-model BMW convertible slammed into the building, igniting the gas lines feeding the ovens. The owners didn’t live on the premises, so they survived. But there was no saving the young assistant. The unknown driver fled the scene.”
A follow-up story proved even more explosive.
“Look at this!” I cried. “The car that struck the building belonged to Raiders hockey captain Ross Puckett!”
Madame nearly dropped her demitasse. “Was he driving?”
“Puckett reported the car stolen shortly after the accident occurred. He must not have been charged with anything, because I can’t find anything else. The whole story just disappears.”
I caught Tuck’s attention and waved for another round of caffeine.
My mind raced. “Kaitlin died almost exactly a year ago. I remember something David Brice said. He heard M bitterly crying in her apartment around this time last year. He said the next day M borrowed money to buy a black dress. A funeral dress!”
I faced Madame again.
“Kaitlin must have been the unnamed ‘cousin’ who was mentioned in Quinn’s transcript from Dublin—and she was killed by Ross Puckett’s car! Then Ross turns up again, right before M dies? Whether the car was stolen or not, this is too much of a coincidence . . .” (And I knew how Quinn felt about coincidences.
“But what about Rita Limon?” Madame asked.
“Lori Soles believes that was a different killer. Right now, Rita’s estranged husband looks guilty as sin.”
Madame arched an eyebrow. “But how does this fit with your man’s Irish criminal theory?”
“Back in Ireland, M’s troubles started when her boyfriend began stealing cars. And when she turned on him, he fled. Maybe this guy Cormac is in America now, seeking revenge.”
“So this Irish hoodlum came to America and stole Ross Puckett’s car to kill Kaitlin? Then he attacked M, a year later, pretending to be the Stalker?”
“I know,” I said, shaking my head. “That theory sounds far-fetched. But here’s something that doesn’t. What if Cormac or his friends came to America to do more than take revenge and jack cars?”
“Like what, dear?”
“What if they came to set up some kind of sports betting operation? Maybe Ross Puckett got involved with it. Maybe he threw a game or two, changed the point spread for a payoff?”
“You’re thinking like your father,” Madame said disapprovingly.
“Maybe I am . . . but I’d love to have a long talk with that hockey captain, peel away a few layers of jock armor, and get to the truth.”
“I believe he’s invited to the next Cookie Swap,” Madame suggested.
“That’s days away, and he might not show. Anyway, a kids’ party isn’t the right venue. Ross has a weakness for the hard stuff. If I could get him good and loaded first, who knows what that genius would admit.”
I pulled out my cell phone. “I better tell Lori Soles what I found . . .”
She answered on the second ring. “What’s up, Cosi?”
“I found something . . .” I told Lori about my digital photos and about my suspicions concerning Ross Puckett and the manslaughter of Kaitlin Brophy. She took it all in without comment. The pause was so long, I finally asked—
“Well, what do you think?”
“I’m taking notes . . .”
When she said nothing else, I asked, “What have you been working on, detective?”
She exhaled. “The forensics people are driving us all mad. They’re still testing bladed weapons, trying to find a match to Rita Limon’s head wounds. Last time I checked, they were on a Gurkha knife.”
I glanced again at the image in the corner of my computer screen, the magnified photograph of the triangular bag with the Raiders logo, and said—
“Try an ice skate.”
“An ice skate? Why do you think the murderer used an ice skate?”
“It’s just a hunch, based on my photos. I’ll e-mail them to you . . .”
“Good. And good enough for me, Cosi. I’ll suggest an ice skate.”
“Great, then—”
“Hold on. I have a question for you.”
Lori surprised me by mentioning Danni Rayburn’s nanny. She described the woman, and I realized it was the same one I’d encountered on the toy store escalator last Friday, after I’d left Rita.
“Have you had any contact with that woman since the Cookie Swap?”
“No. Is she a person of interest?”
“I can only say the NYPD wants to question her, but it seems she has turned up missing.”
“Missing or presumed . . . ?”
“Presumed missing, Cosi. Thanks for the tip. Got to go.”
The line went dead just as Tucker showed up with our espressos. Boris arrived, too, waving an issue of Sports Illustrated.
“Cookies are cooling. Now I want you to look at the cover,” Boris insisted. “See? You do look like Galina Kulikovskaya.”
The woman on the cover was beautiful, but the headline and subtitle were more intriguing. They said:
GALINA, WE LOVE YOU
Why Do Filmmaker Brian Kelly, the House of Fen, and Hockey Pro Ross Puckett All Think Galina Kulikovskaya Is the Hottest Thing on Ice?
“And here,” Boris said, flipping pages. “Galina at practice.”
I hardly glanced at the photo. I was too busy reading the breakout text:
“I’d give up hockey and turn to figure skating if I thought I could get into Galina’s leotards,” says Raiders captain Ross Puckett . . .
Suddenly Madame’s nearsightedness miraculously cleared up and she read that line over my shoulder.
“My word, Clare . . . Perhaps you could fool Mr. Puckett into thinking you’re Galina Kulikovskaya.”
“Certainly not!”
Tuck nodded excitedly. “Oh, I could pull that transformation off! A little makeup, a convincing wardrobe, some body shifting—”
“Body shifting!”
“I could teach you some moves, too. Like that Sleeping Beauty thing Galina does,” Tuck went on. “It’s a cinch.”
“So I just show up at the Barclays Center disguised as the great Galina and ask to see Ross Puckett?”
“As a matter of fact, my Matt and his Breanne are attending a party at the Barclays Center tonight,” Madame said. “I do believe my son mentioned that it’s sponsored by the Raiders. I can’t say for sure whether our Mr. Puckett will be there, but it is worth a thought.”
I felt Tuck’s hand on my shoulder. “It’s destiny, CC.”
“But I can’t skate,” I protested. “N
ot like an Olympian.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Tuck said. “It’s a holiday bash. Nobody will expect you to skate!”
“But I can’t speak Russian!”
Madame grinned. “Boris does. He can teach you.”
“Better idea. I can be translator!” Boris declared. “Then I, too, can go to this fancy-shmansy hockey party.”
“Matt would never agree,” I stated with absolute certainty. “And Breanne? Forget it.”
“You won’t know until you ask.” Madame rose. “I’ll pressure him from my end, too, and you’ll have to let me know how it all turns out.”
“You’re abandoning me?” I wailed.
“Otto has his own holiday party this evening, and I simply must attend. Busy, busy, busy . . . au revoir!” Madame gathered up her packages and strolled out the door.
I stared up at Tuck and Boris. They grinned back expectantly.
“Fine, I’ll call Matt. But I’m telling you, he’ll never, ever go for it.”
Fifty-six
THE tension inside Breanne Summour’s stretch limousine was so thick you could cleave it with an ice skate.
The fashion maven hadn’t spoken a word since we climbed into her car, and her sullen silence pretty much set the tone. Resplendent in a silver sheath and pashmina stole, Breanne sat beside a sour yet dashing Matt Allegro, who was just as nonloquacious as his wife. I sat facing the couple, so Breanne kept her eyes focused on the scenery during the entire trip from her East Side apartment to the Barclays Center in Brooklyn.
Boris, my “translator,” seemed to be the only person having any fun. In Fen formal wear, he grinned as he adjusted his gold cuff links for the tenth time.
“I feel handsome as Yames Bond,” he’d declared when he first saw his reflection in the full-length mirror. I hoped Esther would get a chance to see his Cinderella transformation before he had to return the borrowed duds.
The lead-in to my masquerade was something out of a reality show.
Breanne agreed to produce Clare’s Total Makeover once Matt convinced his wife to go along with our deception. What she demanded in exchange, I didn’t ask. A special favor? A tighter leash? A devil’s contract signed in Matt’s blood? All I know is that she absolutely insisted the disguise be convincing. To that end she spirited Tuck, Boris, and me to her Sutton Place penthouse apartment, where a hairdresser, two wardrobe specialists, and a fashion editor waited to advise us.