A Brew to a Kill

by Cleo Coyle

  I recalled what Dante had said about these two. He called them a “power couple,” and that might be true. But it seemed to me they were using their powers for good, and I found myself sincerely hoping Dom would fight hard in the election and become our next mayor.

  Suddenly, I noticed Gwen tensing. Her animated good cheer stopped, her face frozen into an unreadable mask. I quickly learned the reason. Helen Bailey-Burke had entered the tent.

  Helen was alone tonight, pressing the flesh with members of the city hall staff. Dom tactfully shifted position, trying to shield Gwen from Helen.

  “I hope that woman doesn’t come near me,” I murmured.

  Gwen heard me. “Is she suing you, too?”

  Suing me, too? “Helen is suing you? Why?”

  Dom cleared his throat.

  “Oh, sorry…” Gwen shook her head, embarrassed. Her face had finally relaxed. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”

  But she did say something, and I recalled that terrible slap Helen had given her at our Red Hook truck-painting party. I needed to question Gwen privately. She clearly wanted to let off steam, and if I could get her away from Dominic, I was sure she would spill something useful.

  A call on Dr. Fischer’s smart phone interrupted us. Gwen stepped away to talk and returned a minute later looking very distressed.

  “Dom’s mother was right. Bad things do come in threes,” she said.

  “What’s the problem?” Dom asked.

  “I just got a call from the lab. There’s been some kind of fire. My research may have been damaged. I have to go.”

  “I’ll drive you,” Dom offered.

  “That’s silly. You’re due to make a toast soon. I’ll catch a cab on Central Park West.”

  After another hug from Gwen, she hurried out of the tent. Concerned, Dom watched her go.

  “I’d better get to work.” He shared a smile. “A little more hand-shaking couldn’t hurt…”

  The mention of a hand reminded me of Dante, and ten minutes later, I was heading back out to the Muffin Muse to lend him mine.

  The sound of muted music and laughter carried on the evening breeze. But as I emerged from the tent, the tranquility of the evening was shattered by the roar of a speeding car—and not Max’s GTO.

  West Drive ran through the entire western edge of Central Park, and right past Sheep’s Meadow and the white wedding tent. The four-lane road was closed to traffic on weekends, and cars had also been banned from the roadway during the wedding.

  But somehow a car had gotten onto that road. It raced along at twice the legal speed until it hopped the sidewalk and struck one of the guests from the wedding party. The victim, a woman in a formal gown, was tossed by the impact.

  As the car disappeared around the bend, the victim sprawled on the pavement. Amid a chorus of screams and shouts, I raced to the poor woman’s side—and recognized her immediately.

  Helen Bailey-Burke was gasping out her last breaths. She was also conscious and aware that her life was slipping away.

  “It was Fischer, I saw her,” Helen gasped, foamy blood bubbling on her lips. “She aimed for me. I couldn’t get away. It was Fischer who did this to me. Gwen Fischer…”

  Helen’s rasping voice faded after that. She was too weak to talk. An elderly man in evening clothes knelt beside her and performed CPR. The concerned crowd gathered around them.

  Finally Helen closed her eyes and slipped away. A shocked, shroud-like silence descended over all of us, until the only sound we heard was the mournful wail of the approaching ambulance.

  FORTY-NINE

  DANTE loaded a final stack of folding chairs onto the Muffin Muse and paused for a big gulp of coconut water.

  “Everything’s loaded,” he said, rubbing the sweat from his neck.

  “Sorry you had to do that alone. I sent Franco to talk to the investigating officer, but I thought he would have been back by now.”

  My gaze shifted to the cluster of police cruisers and uniformed officers still working the crime scene on West Drive. Twilight had turned to night, and flashing emergency lights strobed the trees.

  “I hope Franco is helping the cops find the real killer,” Dante replied. “There’s no way Gwen Fischer ran Helen down. The police are wrong.”

  “But I heard Helen’s accusation with my own ears, and others heard it, too. Her dying testimony will be tough to refute.”

  Dante shook his head. “I still don’t buy it.”

  “You know Helen was harassing Gwen, with a lawsuit and with physical violence? Those are strong motives for murder.”

  “But Gwen is a Smile Train fund-raiser, boss!” Dante cried. “I’ve talked to her a million times. She and Dom are two of the nicest people I’ve ever known.”

  “Look, I don’t believe Gwen is guilty, either, Dante. I was just following the policemen’s logic.”

  The misery etched on Dante’s face was mirrored on my own. Without Helen Bailey-Burke as a suspect, Buckman and I were back to zero. We thought she was the culprit, and her motive was her daughter Meredith’s death by malpractice.

  Buckman and I were wrong about Helen, but I was still convinced Meredith’s death was the key to everything, despite what happened tonight.

  “Here’s Franco,” Dante said, and we both rushed him.

  “Have the cops figured out their mistake and released Gwen?” Dante asked.

  Franco frowned. “Sorry, kid. The detective in charge is convinced Gwen Fischer is the killer, and he can prove it.”

  “Helen’s accusation?”

  “That, and a whole lot more,” Franco replied. “The detective knows the killer slipped around the police barricade at Seventy-Seventh Street about ten minutes before the murder, because there’s an eyewitness.”

  “Who?”

  “A uniformed officer from Traffic IDed the car and the driver, which he described as a female redhead wearing a scarf and sunglasses. The woman flashed a VIP wedding pin, so the dumb-ass waved her through without even talking to her.”

  “Did they find the car?” I asked.

  “It was abandoned on Central Park South, near the Pond. Detectives are going through it now.”

  “Great! Maybe they’ll find fingerprints that will exonerate Gwen.”

  “Sorry, Coffee Lady. It’s her car. A 2011 Volvo 360, registered to Dr. Gwen Fischer.”

  Dante cursed. “Poor Dom must be going nuts.”

  “This has to be a frame-up,” I said. “Gwen told me her car was stolen earlier in the day.”

  “She told the detective that, too. He’s actually using her stolen-car story to build a case for premeditated murder.”

  “Oh, no…”

  “When they scooped her up, Gwen couldn’t account for her movements,” Franco continued. “She told the detective she’d gotten a call about a fire at her lab, and left the park to hail a cab.”

  “That’s right, and I was standing beside her when that call came in!”

  “Only there was no fire. Maybe Gwen got pranked; they can probably trace that call if it’s real. But the detective is so convinced Gwen is lying that he’s not going to look too hard for evidence that clears her.”

  “We need to help her.”

  “I hate to burst your balloon, but the case looked open and shut to me,” Franco said. “It was the doctor. In the park. With a car.”

  Burst your balloon… that’s it!

  “The balloons!” I cried. “The custom-made balloons! There’s your Clue.”

  Franco leaned into Dante ear. “She’s lost it.”

  “Don’t you see? Josh made the balloons. And Josh was good friends with Meredith Burke, though he didn’t much care for her mother, Helen.”

  Dante snorted. “You got that right. Josh sued Helen last year. The case is still moving through the courts.”

  “Sued? For what?”

  “He and Meredith worked on a comic together. She wrote, he drew. It was Meredith’s autobiography, real emo stuff. After Meredith died, Josh wa
nted the comic to be published, but the artwork was in Helen’s possession and she refused to give it back.”

  “I still don’t see the connection to balloons,” Franco said.

  “You saw the balloons Josh created for this wedding,” I told him. “They looked just like the bride and groom, right? Well, what if Josh could make masks, too—”

  “Josh does make masks,” Dante interrupted. “He made a dozen masks that looked just like the mayor for the guy’s birthday party. The Rockettes performed a dance number wearing them. Josh said the show was kind of creepy.”

  “Josh was there? At Gracie Mansion?”

  Dante nodded. “Judge Fowler was on the guest list. Josh sat with his family.”

  “His father is a judge? But I thought Josh was some kind of working-class kid from Five Points.”

  “No way,” Dante replied. “Josh lives on the East Side. He went to the same private school that Meredith attended. He’s got a Vacheron watch that probably cost more than Gwen’s Volvo.”

  “Let’s get back to the masks,” I said. “How are they made? Where are they molded?”

  Dante shrugged. “At Five Points. All Josh needs are a couple of photographs and he can make a mask of anyone. He has 3D computer graphics software and a digital sculpting program that pretty much does the work. Josh has a molding machine, too. He’s like a one-man factory.”

  My mind raced. Josh cared for his friend Meredith, maybe too much. He blamed Helen and the plastic surgeon for her death—maybe he blamed everyone involved, including Meredith’s nurse, Lilly Beth.

  Josh probably resented Gwen Fischer because she was once married to the man who killed his friend, so why not frame her? And that’s why he stole the glass from the Gracie Mansion dinner. It was probably Gwen’s glass, with her fingerprints all over it. He was hoping to frame Gwen for Lilly Beth and the surgeon, but he preserved the glass improperly and the prints got smudged.

  So Josh tried again, this time killing Helen with Gwen’s stolen car, so there wouldn’t be any doubt about the killer’s identity in the minds of the police.

  “Is Josh still around?” I asked. “I saw him here earlier.”

  “He dropped by the Muse around seven to say good-bye,” Dante said. “Said he was leaving early because he had things to do.”

  Like commit murder and frame an innocent woman?

  “Do you think he’s at Five Points?”

  Dante shrugged. “Maybe. He hangs out there a lot.”

  “I need to ask Josh some questions. Can you give him a call?”

  Dante used his iPhone, but he had to leave a message. Josh was unavailable.

  “Maybe this is better—”

  A double ringtone interrupted me. My own cell was singing. So was Franco’s. My call was from Mike Quinn.

  “Clare, I just wanted you to know the meeting is going down.”

  “When? Where?”

  “Nine thirty. The rendezvous is a restaurant in Chinatown. The squad’s there now, setting things up. Sully and his team are inside a surveillance van on Mulberry Street, near Columbus Park. They’ll listen in on Matt’s meeting with the drug dealers, make sure nothing goes south.”

  “I want to be there,” I said.

  “That’s not a good idea,” he warned.

  “This isn’t a debate. I’m on my way.”

  “Fine. Have Franco drive you. But do what Sully says. This has to go down right. It’s our only chance to get clear of this mess.”

  I closed the phone and faced Dante. “Franco and I have to go. Another emergency.”

  “Anything I can do?” Dante asked.

  “I want you to go to Five Points. If Josh is there, keep him there until you hear from me. If he’s not, go through his computer, his locker. Everything.”

  Dante scratched his head. “What am I looking for?”

  “Proof that Josh made a mask of Gwen,” I said. “Proof that he’s a murderer.”

  FIFTY

  THERE was only one van parked along Mulberry Street at Columbus Park. Blue-black and windowless, it seemed empty. I went around to the back, slapped my hand against the doors, and they opened.

  “Get in.” Finbar Sullivan said as he pulled me inside. A man in a tailored suit shut the door behind us.

  The van’s interior was dim, stuffy, and stank of ozone. A small fan tried to circulate air, but it was hopeless.

  Beside Sully’s familiar carrot-top, a young Asian cop gave me a nod. I recognized him, too, but the third man I didn’t know. Hunched over a computer console, tapping keys and frantically whispering into a headset, the stranger was too preoccupied to notice my arrival.

  “So where the hell is Franco?” Sully asked.

  “He drove me here. Now he’s looking for parking.”

  “In Chinatown? Good luck with that.” Sully gave me a hard look. “And what are you doing here, Clare?”

  “I had to come.” Bent in a half crouch, I bumped my head against the ceiling light. “Matt is my business partner, the father of my child.”

  Sully’s expression softened, and he slid a folding chair my way.

  “Please, tell me what’s going on,” I said, sitting.

  “We were ready to go when the call came down,” Sully began. “Lucky for us, Detective Hong has intimate knowledge of the area and was familiar with the restaurant in question. Have you met Charlie?”

  “We’ve met,” I replied, reaching for his hand. “You were Franco’s partner once, right?”

  Hong smiled. “Who do you think recommended me for Chinatown recon?”

  “Lou, here,” Sully hiked a thumb at the man behind the keyboard. “He’s establishing contact with his partner, who’s on Pell Street with a parabolic aimed at the chophouse.”

  “Parabolic? Is that like a wire?”

  “More like radar. Think of it as a wire without a wire,” Sully said. “We’ll be able to hear the conversation, provided the meet takes place inside the restaurant.”

  “So if the smugglers drag Matt into a back room, he’ll be out of range?”

  Sully waved my fears aside. “No worries. We have an undercover couple. A man and woman. They’re going to wander into the joint before Allegro arrives and order a meal. They’ll listen, observe, and make sure nothing goes wrong.”

  “What if the smugglers try to take Matt for a drive?”

  “We’ll follow,” Detective Hong answered. “Lieutenant Quinn is sitting at the end of Pell in an unmarked chase car, and another detective’s waiting on Mott. Nobody leaves this street without a tail on them.”

  I understood what these men were saying, but there was no denying it. I was incredibly anxious. No matter how much Mike and Sully and Charlie Hong insisted Matt would be safe, I found it a difficult to believe.

  “Visuals are up,” Lou said, gesturing to the console’s panoramic screen.

  The Hop Sing Chophouse was close to a dive. The entire dining room was visible behind a picture window, with red vinyl booths along the walls, Formica tables in the center. Faded bamboo prints with Asian landscapes decorated the walls, and a pot with plastic flowers squatted in a corner. Business was poor; only one booth was occupied.

  “The food’s always great in Chinatown,” Sully told Hong, “so why are the restaurants so shabby?”

  “I could say it’s to ward off fussy shamrocks like you, but that’s not why,” Hong replied. “Truth is, my people don’t trust fancy digs. They figure if a restaurant is spending money on décor, they’re probably skimping on the food.”

  I could hardly follow what they were saying. Why aren’t they as worried as I am!

  Sully glanced at me, seemed concerned about my emotional state. “Hey, Clare, you know it’s too bad you didn’t bring any of those oatmeal muffins from the other day.”

  “What?” First Chinese food, now muffins?

  “Yeah, they were a big hit at One PP. You know I even saw Popeye munching one—”

  “The police commissioner?”

  “He was actu
ally smiling as he ate—well, his lips curled a tiny fraction, anyway. For him, that’s a full-blown grin.”

  “Here’s the audio,” Lou said. Voices speaking Cantonese filled the cargo bay. We were listening in on the diners.

  “And here comes our undercover tourists,” Sully announced.