by Клео Коул
“I woke you then? I’m so sorry, dear.”
“It’s okay.” I yawned again and rubbed my eyes. “What do you need?”
“I was worried about you, Clare. The morning news is reporting that a woman was shot on Hudson last night. It’s on Channel 1 right now, and I can see from the background that the violence was perpetrated a block away from the Blend. Did you know about this?”
“Yes.”
“Are you all right?
“Yes?
“What about Joy? She’s not in yet, is she?”
“No. Her flight’s on Wednesday. She didn’t want to miss the luncheon you’re throwing Thursday for the coffee guys.”
“What about this woman who was shot? Did you know her?”
“In a way...”
“She was a customer?”
“No...” I slowly sat up and between yawns briefly explained what had happened. Needless to say, Matt’s mother was flabbergasted.
“My goodness! What a tale! You’re going to investigate, aren’t you? You know you can count on me to assist!”
“I’m sure I could,” I said carefully, “but there are two very capable female detectives already on the case.”
“Oh,” Madame replied, her disappointment obvious. “Well... how do you know the shooter wasn’t gunning for Matt or you, my dear? How do you know the shooter didn’t simply miss?”
I blinked, considering the possibility for an entire five seconds before letting it go. “There’s nothing to worry about,” I said, then quickly flailed around my sleep-addled brain for a change of subject. “So, listen, are you all set with your dress for the wedding?”
“The wedding...” Madame sighed. “Hasn’t that son of mine changed his mind yet?”
Oh, jeez, here we go... “No. Matt hasn’t changed his mind. So don’t you think it’s about time you considered changing yours?”
“Not until my boy opens his mouth to say, ‘I do,’ which I fully expect will come out ‘I don’t.’ ”
“The wedding is in four days!”
“And the universe was created in six.” Madame paused just then, and her voice went quiet, as if we were conspiring together. “Now that he’s moved back in with you, I have high hopes.”
For the hundredth time, I pointed out the list of reasons Madame needed to accept her son’s decision to marry whomever he wanted. Matt’s age for one—he was over forty now, probably old enough to make decisions without his mother’s approval. And the proposal hadn’t exactly been rash. Matt had been sleeping with Breanne Summour for quite some time. Finally, I reminded my former mother-in-law the myriad ways Matt had transformed in Breanne’s shadow: wardrobe, attitude, expectations of entitlement...
But all of my arguments were to no avail.
“He doesn’t love her,” Madame declared. “And I can’t accept that Matt’s father and I gave birth to a son who would pledge himself in marriage to a woman he doesn’t love.”
I massaged my forehead, desperate for another change of subject, because in about two seconds the woman was going to start in again about how Matt still loved me.
“Listen,” I said quickly, “do you know what Matt told me last night?”
“That he still loves you?”
Ack. “No! He said he thought maybe the young woman who was shot had been killed by mistake.”
“What do you mean?”
I explained Matt’s theory. “Given the remote possibility that Matt’s right, can you think of anyone who would want to harm Breanne?”
Madame laughed, short and sharp. “That woman makes enemies on a daily basis.”
“That’s not helpful.”
“Well, I can’t very well narrow it down for you if you don’t let me assist.”
“There’s nothing to assist!”
I took a breath. Then I calmly reiterated the stuff about the two very competent detectives already on the case. The line fell silent after that, but I could feel Madame frowning from fifteen blocks away.
“Well,” she finally said, “I am quite outraged that this poor girl was shot down in the street like some kind of game animal. Such a beautiful girl, too.”
“Yes, you know—” I blinked. “Wait. How do you know she was a beautiful girl?”
“New York 1 is showing a photo of her right now. Her employer provided it, I believe. And she had such a lovely, old-fashioned first name. I haven’t heard that one in years...”
I sat up straighter. “They’re giving out her name?”
“Yes, do try to follow me, dear. The newspeople have it right up there on the television screen: Hazel Boggs, twenty-two, of Wheeling, West Virginia.”
Crap.
“Clare? Are you still on the line?”
“I’ve got to go,” I said, scrambling off the bed. “Talk to you later.”
“But—”
I hung up the phone and grabbed my robe. I needed coffee and lots of it. Then I’d have to shower and dress fast. Matt would be waking in an hour or two, and I was going to have to break some very bad news.
I’d been wrong about the timing on Hazel’s name being released to the pubic. I thought we’d have a few days, but clearly the detailed report on the young woman’s murder was already being broadcast.
The fact was: if the shooter had wanted to kill Hazel, the release of her name wouldn’t matter one whit. But what if Matt was right? What if the shooter actually meant to kill Breanne?
I still had major doubts about Matt’s look-alike-stripper-shot-by-mistake theory, but the man nearly had a heart attack explaining it to me last night. As I stumbled toward the coffeepot, I knew I’d have to treat Matt with kid gloves this morning, because if he woke up still believing Breanne was in danger, then I was in for a heck of a lot more grief.
Eight
“You told me we had a few days! A few days, Clare, not hours!”
“I know, Matt, I know. Please calm down...”
We were walking north on Hudson. The air smelled springtime fresh with a hint of invigorating brine from the flowing river just a few blocks away. The morning sun was strong, and the swaying limbs of the newly budding elms were dappling the buttercup-yellow light with strokes of pearl-gray shade.
Matt didn’t notice. He was too busy power striding toward the Sixth Precinct station house, a squat, concrete, narrow-windowed iteration of midcentury modern that was described by at least one architectural critic as a visual catastrophe—which from one point of view, it was.
Just not from mine.
You see, the Village’s previous precinct building was located a few blocks away on Charles Street. Now that structure was indisputably impressive. Dedicated by Teddy Roosevelt in 1897, the thing was solid granite with a neoclassical facade. But the actions inside that grand civic monument weren’t always so prized.
Before the gay rights movement gained legitimacy, homosexuals and cross-dressers in the Village were routinely rounded up and dragged through the old precinct’s stately columns. During one of these attempted roundups, the legendary Stonewall Riots ensued. During another, an Argentine student became so distressed he threw himself out the second-floor window, impaling himself on the wrought-iron fence below. The young man lived, but the incident was an ugly moment in the Village’s otherwise flamboyant bohemian history.
In 1970, the Charles Street station house was sold, and the men and women of the precinct moved to their West Tenth address. So, okay, the Sixth’s new building was a monstrosity of pseudomodernity. But the contemporary windows no longer looked down on a spiked fence; they looked out on Seagull Haircutters, one of the country’s very first unisex salons. The climate inside the building was a lot more tolerant, too.
These days, the new Sixth had a female precinct commanding officer, employed a daring lady beat cop known as “the pit bull,” and championed the Gay & Lesbian Anti-Violence Project, the nation’s largest crime-victim service agency for the lesbian and gay communities.
All in all, even given the abysmal architect
ure, I didn’t see a catastrophe here.
As Matt jaywalked across Tenth between two parked vans, skirted a couple of police scooters, and pulled open the precinct’s heavy glass front door, I trotted along behind.
The Sixth’s interior had the same characteristics as a lot of city buildings from the early seventies: an institutional floor of high-traffic cement and walls of concrete block finished with a coating of shiny enamel. I could almost see some city official choosing a “calming earth tone” off the builder’s color palette. But under the harsh light of fluorescent bulbs, the gray green walls looked more like giant bricks of molding Gouda.
There was a booking area in the back of the ground floor. Closer to the lobby, a museum-type exhibit of police paraphernalia was displayed in glass cases. There was also a Wall of Honor with engraved plaques of the heroic officers from the Sixth who’d lost their lives on 9/11. (Sadly, far too many tributes like it could be found in precincts and firehouses throughout this city.)
Unlike me, Matt didn’t waste any time observing the scenery. He approached the desk sergeant, a brawny African American cop with a shaved head, a mustache, and a terminal stare.
“We’re here to see Detective Lori Soles.”
“And you are?” his basso voice asked.
“Matt and Clare Allegro.”
“Cosi!” I corrected.
Matt turned and glanced down at me. “What?”
“You introduced us as Matt and Clare Allegro—”
“I did?”
The desk sergeant was no longer paying attention. He was already calling upstairs to the detectives’ squad room. A smiling Lori Soles appeared a few minutes later. She led us up the same staircase she’d just descended, then down the hall, through the detective squad room, and into an interview room—a small space with a metal table and chairs. On the wall was a mirror that I assumed was one-way glass with closed blinds dropped most of the way down over it.
We weren’t suspects being interrogated, and Lori didn’t close the door after we entered. Thank goodness, I thought, because with no windows, the bare, airless room felt positively claustrophobic. If two detectives started questioning me in here, I’d probably confess just to get out again.
As we sat down, I was about to exchange a few pleasantries with Lori, soften her up a little, maybe find out how their investigation was going. But Matt opened his big mouth first.
“I have some information about last night’s shooting. Important information.”
Lori nodded with great interest and stood. “Let me get my partner.”
“Oh, crap,” Matt whispered.
“Too late,” I said. “You’re in it now.”
“This Soles person is okay. But that other one...”
“Listen, Sue Ellen’s obviously crushin’ on you. Just use it to your advantage. You usually do.”
“Are you mental? That woman’s six feet tall and packing. I don’t flirt with armed females.”
“Too bad, Matt, because she’s certainly flirting with you. Do you know what she called you after you left the crime scene last night?”
“I don’t want to know.”
“Mr. Tight End.”
Matt groaned. “Do me a favor. Don’t encourage her again.”
Again? “When the heck did I encourage her?”
Before Matt could answer, we heard the quick, determined footsteps of Lori Soles and her partner approaching. More brief pleasantries were exchanged, then the two Amazons sat down across from us at the metal table.
Both women looked pretty much the same as they had the night before. Sue Ellen had her slicked-back ponytail and Lori her tight, blond cherub curls. Both were dressed similarly again, too. They each wore dark slacks and had exchanged their identical blue turtlenecks for white blouses, their nylon jackets for pressed blazers. At least their blazers were different colors, I thought. (Well, sort of... ) Lori’s was Kelly green; Sue Ellen’s was hunter.
“So, Mr. Allegro,” Sue Ellen Bass began, the flirtation clearly dialed way down now that we were inside the precinct. “My partner tells me you have something important to share?”
Matt immediately conveyed his suspicion that Hazel Boggs had been killed by mistake, and the single shot that ended her days had been meant for his fiancée Breanne Summour.
Sue Ellen exchanged an unhappy glance with Lori. This was obviously not the kind of “important information” they’d been expecting to hear.
Lori spoke up. “What exactly makes you think that your fiancée’s life is in danger?”
Matt proceeded to lay everything out, just like he had for me the night before. He told them about the near miss with the SUV, the Prodigal Chef Web site, and even Randall Knox’s possible vendetta.
In the light of day (or at least the harsh fluorescence of Interview Room B), Matt’s Breanne-in-peril theory sounded even weaker to me than it had in the shadows of last night’s firelight.
“This Prodigal Chef person,” Sue Ellen said. “What’s his name?”
“Neville Perry.” Matt leaned forward.
“I see. Well, has this Neville Perry made any specific threats to your fiancée?”
“What do you mean specific?” Matt asked.
“I mean the Web site you describe sounds like a joke,” Sue Ellen replied. “Your fiancée is a public figure. If this chef sent her a threatening letter or e-mail, we should speak with her, see if she wants to lodge a formal charge. Then we can pursue it.”
“There hasn’t been anything specific,” Matt admitted. “Not yet anyway.”
Sue Ellen glanced at Lori then shook her head. “If the Web site is just poking fun, which it sure sounds like it is, that’s a first amendment freedom. We can’t arrest a guy for posting what amounts to a bad taste editorial cartoon. You get what I’m saying?”
“Yeah, I get what you’re saying.” Matt’s body was tensing up. He laced his fingers tightly in front of him on the metal table. “Then what about the SUV? Last time I checked, running someone down in the street wasn’t protected by the Constitution .”
“Check that tone,” Sue Ellen snapped.
“We can run the vehicle description through traffic’s records,” Lori quickly added, her voice obviously straining to sound helpful. “We might get a hit for reckless driving the day and time of the incident.”
“But that’s just it!” Matt threw up his hands. “If the driver was trying to run down Breanne, then that would have been the only incident. I already reported it. And the cops uptown came up with zip!”
“Take it easy,” Lori said. She glanced meaningfully at me—Can’t you control this guy?—then back to Matt. “We’ve got your statement, Mr. Allegro. Why don’t you speak with your fiancée? Ask her if she wants to pursue a harassment charge against this man Perry, okay?”
Matt was about to speak again, but I put my hand on his arm, leaned forward, and spoke first. “I think what both of you have said is totally reasonable and logical. Matt here is still pretty upset about Ms. Boggs being shot last night, and you can understand how his worries would extend to the woman in his life.”
“Oh, sure,” Lori said, nodding.
Sue Ellen shrugged. “No problem.”
I could feel Matt’s muscles tensing under my hand. I wrapped my fingers around his arm and squeezed. Just shut up and let me talk.
“Anyway, the thing is, when he laid out his concerns to me, I thought you two should know about them, as well. As the detectives on the case, you want to be aware of all possible leads, right?”
Sue Ellen stared. Lori gave a weak nod.
“Now, if I were in your shoes, I’d be looking at that guy from the White Horse, the one who almost assaulted Ms. Boggs right before she was shot.”
“We are,” Lori said. “The bartender remembered him departing right after you, Mr. Allegro, and the victim left. He ID’d the customer from a mug shot. We have prints off a glass, too. When we get the guy in here, we’ll want you two to attend a lineup and pick him out.”
“Have you arrested him?” I asked.
Sue Ellen frowned. “We haven’t caught up with him yet.”
“His girlfriend kicked him out of their West Side apartment two weeks ago,” Lori said. “She’s got a restraining order against him, so he’s been crashing with friends, and there’s no permanent residence or place of employment. But we’ll get him.”
“You can bet on it,” Sue Ellen added. “It won’t be long.”
“If he’s your guy,” I said meaningfully. “See, there are a few things that keep bothering me about this man.” I paused and waited.
Lori and Sue Ellen both leaned forward.
“What things?” Sue Ellen asked.
“The shooting was at night,” I said. “And the shooter fired from at least a block away. The witness called you to confirm it, right? His name’s Barry?”
Sue Ellen frowned. “How do you know about Barry?”
“I talked to him last night at the Blend. I’m the one who told him to call you. He said he heard the sound of the single shot right below his window, two and a half blocks from the Blend, which would put him a block and a half from where the victim was hit. Then he heard footsteps walking away right after the sound.”
“That’s right.” Lori nodded. “We have his statement.”
“Well, even if that tequila-soaked loser wasn’t too drunk to pull a trigger and hit a target in one shot, at night, from over a block away, then why did he walk clear of the scene?” I wrinkled my brow as if completely perplexed. “Wouldn’t a guy like that—angry and frustrated and half-drunk—wouldn’t he have run away after a crime of passion like that?”
Lori shared a glance with Sue Ellen.
“And another thing,” I said. “Hazel Boggs was done up to look exactly like Breanne Summour. Walking beside Matt with her arm wrapped around his, she could easily have fooled someone gunning for the famous editor.”
Sue Ellen shifted in her chair. “Okay, Cosi. We get your point. The suspect from the tavern may not be our perp; although, you have to admit, he looks real good for it. But your conclusion that the intended victim might be some other woman...” She shook her head. “It’s a long shot.”