Here Comes the Body

by Maria DiRico

  “We ‘girls’ do love our parties,” Mia couldn’t stop herself from saying. Luckily, the brothers took this as fact and not sarcasm.

  Bradley got up and left the room without a good-bye. Kevin scurried behind him. He stopped in the hallway to talk to a heavily made-up tiny doll of a young woman with shiny flaxen hair extensions that hung down to her waist. She wore tight designer jeans, a beige cashmere turtleneck that was tight across what Mia pegged as enhanced breasts, and platformed brown leather boots with a six-inch heel and the designer red sole that indicated they cost five figures. Whatever Kevin was telling her, which Mia assumed was about her birthday party switcheroo, was making the girl very unhappy. Kevin put a hand under her elbow and steered her into the conference room. She crossed her arms in front of her chest and glowered at Mia. “This sucks,” she said. “You suck.”

  “Cimmanin! Don’t say that.” Kevin motioned to Mia with a small move of his head and added, sotto voce, “Her father’s in the mob.”

  Cimmanin’s face cleared. “Really? Cool.” She sat down at the table.

  “You gals have fun,” Kevin said, and darted out of the room.

  There was an awkward pause, then Mia recovered and introduced herself. “I’m Mia. Mia Carina.”

  She extended her hand and Kevin’s girlfriend shook it with a grip stronger than either of the brothers. “Cimmanin Doonan. Sorry if I was rude. It was before I knew you were interesting.”

  Mia detected a slight accent she couldn’t place. “Not a problem. Cimmanin, that’s an interesting name. What nationality is it?”

  “This one. Like, America.” Cimmanin twirled a bleached extension around her finger. “It was supposed to be Cinnamon, but my mother could never say it or spell it right. It kept coming out ‘Cimmanin.’ So that’s what they put on my birth certificate.”

  Mia picked up on the dropped r’s in Cimmanin’s short speech and in a flash, got who she was: An Outer Boroughs girl masquerading as a Manhattanite. She didn’t have a foreign accent; she was trying to hide the one she brought with her over a bridge or through a tunnel from Brooklyn, Staten Island, Queens, or the Bronx. Mia relaxed. Now that she had Cimmanin’s number, she knew how to play her. Only the trendiest of trendy for Miss Cimmanin Doonan. Mia pulled out her elegant and incredibly expensive Korri Designs wallet. The wallet, a freebie going-away gift from her boss, had been paid for but returned by the husband of Palm Beach’s most notorious wealthy kleptomaniac.

  While Mia pretended to search the wallet for a business card, Cimmanin’s eyes traced her moves. “Is that the Korri N’Est Plus Ultra?” Kevin’s girlfriend asked, practically drooling.

  “Yes. You know how they say something feels like butter? Feel this.”

  Mia handed the wallet to Cimmanin, who gave it a gentle, reverent stroke, then handed it back. “I am so putting that on my birthday wish list.” Cimmanin said this with a feverish intensity.

  Mia put the wallet away as slowly as possible, making sure her new client saw every angle of the impressive object. “Cimmanin, I know this change is big and very sudden. What I want to do is keep everything about the party you liked and take anything where you were ‘meh,’ and kick it up.”

  “Awesome.” Cimmanin smiled a big smile that showed off a mouth of perfectly installed veneers. “The food and booze are all fine, I can have Kevin’s assistant Becca get you a list of what’s what so you can work off it and add anything you think would be cool. For the décor”—which Cimmanin pronounced as ‘day-coo-hua’—“it’s supposed to be super elegant. Like, orchids and stuff.”

  “Vogue says ‘simple is the new black. ’” Vogue hadn’t said this, but Mia was vamping. For her, “simple” meant less to decorate, which was key to pulling off a big party in less than a week.

  “I love Vogue,” Cimmanin said with reverence.

  “Don’t we all, girlfriend,” Mia said. She held up her hand for a high-five, then feared she’d gone too far. However, Cimmanin responded with a hearty slap. “Now, how many guests are you expecting?”

  “I dunno. A hundred? Two hundred?” Mia blanched. “Becca has the list. She’s supposed to be helping with the party. She’s a pain, though. Acts like she doesn’t even want to be doing it.”

  Recalling the snobby uptown girl who escorted her to the conference room, Mia thought it was safe to assume Becca despised being her boss’s girlfriend’s lackey. “I’ll talk to her. What was the plan for music?”

  “Becca booked some friend of hers.” Cimmanin got a devious look on her face. “But I think that’s a place where you can kick it up a notch, like you said.”

  Mia had a sudden flash of inspiration. “I know DJ DJ.”

  Cimmanin gasped. “You do? He is so lit. But can you get him? He’s like, everywhere.”

  The thought of DJ being unavailable hadn’t occurred to Mia, but she hid her concern. “That won’t be a problem.” I hope, I hope, I hope.

  “Okay, now I’m excited.” Cimmanin used her hands with their perfectly polished nails to push herself up from the table. “If you got—have—any questions, call the office, Becca’ll put you through to me. If you need anything, she’ll be glad to help you.”

  “No, she won’t.”

  “You’re right. She’ll be miserable. So call her a lot.”

  The two Outer-Borough girls exchanged a conspiratorial grin. “By the way, I have to ask,” Mia said. “Where are you actually from?”

  “Sunnyside. You?”

  “Astoria.”

  “Queens girls, represent!” Cimmanin put a hand on her hip, held the other in the air, and Nae-Nae-ed her way out of the office.

  Mia picked up her shoulder bag, surprised that she was being allowed to let herself out of the Koller building. Whether the brothers trusted Mia or had forgotten about her didn’t matter. The lack of security offered a great opportunity to poke around the office. She took a leisurely stroll in the opposite direction from the reception area, eyeing each office she passed. All were either occupied or a glass wall would put her in plain view of anyone who walked by. She gave up and turned around. Cimmanin’s party would give her an opportunity to see the Koller brothers in their natural habitat. Since it was an evening event, she might also be able to sneak off and search their offices for any evidence that might link them to suspect real estate dealings in Queens. Now all she had to do was put a call in to DJ DJ.

  * * *

  Mia sat by herself at a two-top table in the back corner of the Happy Hour Bar and Grill, the restaurant across from Koller Properties that her brother, Posi, pegged as the possible location where Angie had met up with future groom John Grazio and his bestie with a drinking problem, Chris “Drinker” Tinker. An actor-waiter handed Mia a menu. “Welcome to Happy Hour Bar and Grill, where every hour’s Happy Hour.”

  “Thank you. I’ll need a few minutes. But can I get an iced tea?”

  “You got it.” The waiter practically sang this and danced off. As Mia ate a buttery garlic knot from a basket he’d placed on the table, she wondered if his chipper demeanor was a by-product of the fat tips generated by a constantly inebriated clientele. She pulled out her cell to call DJ DJ and suddenly felt nervous. Texting would have been the easy, impersonal way to go, but it would be harder for him to say no to her actual voice. She took a deep breath, released it, then tapped in his number.

  “Hi, Mia.”

  Mia was thrown for a minute. “Oh. My name came up on your phone.”

  “Yeah, I put your number in my contacts when you texted me back. If I don’t see a name, I don’t take a call.”

  Mia realized she’d never heard the DJ speak. He had a low, melodic voice—like that of an actual radio DJ. She found herself glad that he hadn’t wanted to miss a call from her. “I know this is a long shot, but I’m doing Kevin Koller’s girlfriend’s birthday party on Saturday, and I was wondering if there’s any chance you’re free to DJ it. You can pretty much name your price.” This was a guess on Mia’s part, but given how Kevin Koller’s
eyes turned into big hearts, and animated songbirds danced around his head when he gazed at Cimmanin, she figured it was a safe bet.

  “You might want to buy a lottery ticket because it’s your lucky day.”

  “Really?” Mia’s heart beat a little faster.

  “I was supposed to do a first-year anniversary for”—Kevin named the previous year’s Oscar winner for Best Actress—“but she decided to divorce her husband instead, so the party’s off. I picked up another gig, but I can pass it off to someone else. I’d like to get in the Koller orbit.”

  “Oh, DJ DJ, that’s fantastic. Thank you so much. You’re saving my life.”

  “That reaction’s a little extreme, but I’ll take it. And call me Dee. DJ DJ’s my working name.”

  “Dee. Much better. One of our waitresses said you’d changed your name so that it gave you the initials DJ. Being the nosy person that I am, now I want to know what your real name is.”

  “Let’s just go with Dee.”

  “Oooh, a mystery man.”

  “Mystery Man. Maybe that’ll be my new pseudonym.” He chuckled a low, sexy chuckle. “But yeah, I find being a little mysterious makes me way more interesting to party planners than the boring real story. Hey, are you okay? You sound stressed.”

  “It’s kind of hard not to be when there was a murder at your new business.”

  “Right. That’s raw.”

  Mia flashed on the argument she saw between the DJ and John in Belle View’s parking lot. The direction of her conversation with Dee offered a chance to bring it up. “That was such a horrible night. What happened affected everybody. I saw you and the groom get into it in the parking lot.”

  “Ugh, that guy is a giant d-bag. I asked for my check and he refused to pay me. He said I hadn’t finished the gig. Worse, he said he hated my playlist, so he wasn’t going to pay me anyway. What a deadbeat. And that friend of his. Total drunk. He kept saying, ‘It was her, it was her.’ I thought he was going to barf on my boots.”

  “I should warn you, Grazio will be at the Koller party. He’s head of security.”

  “No bigs. He texted me that you got stuck with all the bills. Sorry about that.”

  “Don’t be.” Mia was assuaged by Dee’s explanation of the fight, but something still bothered her. “You’re one of the most famous DJ’s in the city. I love our place but it’s not exactly high-profile. Why did you take the job?”

  “It was a new venue for me. You never know when someone’s going to book your place for a Super Sweet Sixteen. You would not believe what people pay me to be a trophy hire, a name that their little princess can use to show up all the other Sweet Sixteen parties in her crowd.”

  “Got it. I’m glad you haven’t written off Belle View.”

  “Are you kidding? Never. It’s a great location.”

  “Thank you. We think so.” Mia couldn’t contain her emotions. “It’s new to us, too. My dad’s only been running it a few months. He’s doing such a good job. I don’t want that stupid murder messing things up for him. I’ll do anything to help him and keep the business going. Anything.”

  “Wow. He’s lucky to have a daughter like you.”

  Mia regained her composure. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to get like that. Back to Cimmanin’s party—”

  “Cimma what?”

  “Long story. Anyway, it’s at the event space in the Koller Property headquarters on 51st Street. I’ll text you the address. I can bring your check then, too.”

  “I’ve got a better idea. Are you free Friday night?”

  I’m free every night there’s no party at Belle View because I don’t have a life, Mia thought but didn’t say. “I think so. I need to double-check my calendar.”

  “I’m DJing over at this club called The Union in Union Square. Do you know it?”

  “I could try to be cool and say, ‘No, doesn’t sound familiar,’ or I could say, ‘Uh yeah, it’s only the hottest club in New York.”

  “If you’re not doing anything, come by.”

  “I’ll never get in. The doorman will ID me as B and T—Bridge and Tunnel.”

  Dee released another low, sexy chuckle. “Don’t worry. You’ll get in. I’ll see you then.”

  “Maybe. Oh, who am I kidding? Union? The club? I will so be there.”

  “Excellent. See you around ten.”

  Mia managed not to blurt out, “That’s so late!” Instead, she went with a simple “Bye.”

  Dee signed off and Mia suppressed the urge to do a little happy dance in her chair. Her waiter reappeared. “Somebody’s smilin’, and that puts me in a good mood.”

  “You may be in a less good mood when I tell you I filled up on the rolls.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I already made a ton of tips from the morning drinkers.”

  He refilled her iced tea and Mia took a sip. “Thanks . . .” She checked out his nametag. “. . . Ricky.”

  His smile grew wider. “You called me by my name. Just for that, the iced tea is on me.”

  He winked and headed to another table. Mia vowed to return with a crowd and an appetite, and request Ricky’s station. She glanced around the restaurant. It wasn’t even two in the afternoon and the place was packed. The floor was tile, the booths wood, and the hard surfaces amplified the cacophony of chatter. She noticed a pretty girl in her twenties clinging to the arm of a soused middle-aged businessman. She was dressed in sort-of office attire, less like a real outfit than one of those Sexy Secretary costumes in Halloween stores. Her thoughts wandered to the late Angie. She’d worked the crowd, like this girl. Mia wondered if Angie had seen or heard something at the Happy Hour Bar and Grill that led to her murder, although overhearing anything in the noisy restaurant would take the sonar sense of a bat.

  Mia tapped a number into her cell phone. Cammie answered the call.

  “Hi.”

  “You sound out of breath.”

  “I’m on the elliptical.”

  “Oh. Any chance you can take a break and see if you can finagle the late Angie’s address from Pete?”

  “I don’t need a break to do that. Call you back in a sec.”

  Cammie ended the call. A minute later, she rang back. “It’s 641 West 87th Street, number 10D. Roommate’s name is Sofeea Sloan, first name spelled S-o-f-e-e-a, God knows why, probably some Millennial who has to be ‘different.’ She’s still living there.”

  “Thanks. As you were.”

  “Oh, I’m done with the elliptical. I was killing time until my facial. Bye-yee.”

  Today’s my day for weird names, Mia thought as she scribbled the name and address Cammie had given her onto a cocktail napkin. The next item on her agenda would be paying Angie’s roommate a visit. But first, a little research. Mia typed “Sofeea Sloan” into her phone’s search engine. The unusual spelling provided a quick result: “Sofeea Sloan Public Relations.” Mia clicked on the link to Sofeea’s website. The image of a stunning redhead wearing glasses she probably didn’t need graced the site’s home page, which featured the tagline, “We know how to handle your business.” “What does that even mean?” Mia muttered. A few testimonials followed the tagline, all of which spoke highly of Sofeea’s efforts. Mia clicked on a link for pricing packages, which had cutesy names like “Newbie” and “Flying High,” ranging from least to most expensive. Mia was impressed. Belle View might benefit from a PR maven like Sofeea. In addition to digging up whatever she could on Angie, she’d get some information on the “Middle of the Road” package, which had a price point she could live with.

  Mia stuffed her phone and the napkin into her purse. She left a tip equaling the price of her iced tea for Ricky, then departed the Happy Hour Bar and Grill. Although it was spring, the April day had a chill to it, so as soon as Mia got outside, she put on her blazer. She buttoned it, then looked up and saw an unexpected visitor being greeted with familiarity by the Koller Properties doorman and ushered inside the building: real estate agent and despised 46th Place interloper Felicity Stewart F
orbes.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Mia watched as Forbes disappeared into the Koller lobby. Now that’s interesting. What is she doing here?

  There was only one way to find out. Mia dashed across the street, ignoring the honk of a cabbie who was blowing a red light but had the nerve to be annoyed at her. No one had asked her to return the temporary Koller ID, so she flashed it at the reception desk guard. “I left something upstairs. What a ditz, huh?”

  “Okay,” he said, nonplussed.

  “I’ll sign in again.”

  “You don’t have to.”

  “I insist. I wouldn’t want you or any of the guards to get in trouble.” Mia wasn’t about to miss the chance to see where Forbes was headed. She scribbled her name under the real estate agent’s flowery signature. As Mia guessed, she was headed to the fifty-third floor, home to the Koller brothers’ offices. And now, so was Mia. She hurried to the turnstile and swiped her way into the elevator bank.

  Moments later, she was back in the fifty-third floor’s marbled reception area. “Hi, I’m doing Cimmanin’s birthday party, we had a meeting an hour ago, and I left my favorite sunglasses in the conference room.”

  “Oh. No problem, I’ll have someone get them for you.”

  The receptionist went to push a button on her console. Mia waved her hands. “No! I need to go myself. I lost other stuff, too. My purse fell and God knows what rolled out of it.” She leaned forward and whispered, “possibly a feminine product.”

  The receptionist hesitated. “Well . . . I guess it’s okay. Go on back.”

  “Thank you. You’re the best.”

  Mia flashed a smile that she hoped relayed a relaxed self-confidence she didn’t feel. She refrained from adding a wink, figuring that would be overkill, then scurried down the hallway toward the conference room. It was occupied by Forbes, who appeared to be arguing with the Koller brothers. I have to hear what they’re saying, Mia thought. She checked out the office closest to the end of the room where the three were standing. If she could get into it, she could try listening to the conversation through the common wall. Luckily, the office occupant was familiar to her.