Espresso Shot cm-7

by Клео Коул

  “. . . and Terri told me that you called. So, of course, I picked them up from Petra and grabbed a cab to bring them over to you myself, as you can see.”

  Club Girl had been carrying a leather portfolio under her arm. Now she forcefully unzipped it and held it out for Breanne to take.

  Breanne frowned down at the portfolio. Instead of reaching for it, she moved slowly to her handbag. Taking her time, she removed a pair of rimless reading glasses from their case and perched them on the end of her long, thin nose.

  “Privacy please,” she announced to the room.

  I filed out with Adele. Before the door was shut, I glimpsed Breanne first settling herself into a chair and then waving Club Girl over to present whatever she’d just carted across town.

  “I expected to review these pages an hour ago at lunch, Monica,” Breanne sharply began. “What happened?”

  “It was Petra. The woman’s way behind in her work. She wasn’t finished with them...”

  I wanted to remain by the fitting room and eavesdrop some more, but Adele was right there, watching. Figuring the boutique manager would object to my pressing an ear against the closed door, I threw in the towel and returned to the boutique’s showroom.

  Roman was there, still on his couch. His dark eyes danced approvingly when he saw the new outfit.

  “Well, well... didn’t you go all Judy Garland on me.”

  Ack. “I remind you of Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz?”

  “No, sweetie, Esther Blodgett in A Star Is Born.”

  “Oh.” Not bad. “Thanks.”

  “You need a much bolder lipstick, though.”

  “I’m not wearing any lipstick, Roman.”

  “My point exactly.”

  I sat down next to the food writer. “Listen, did you, by any chance, notice a young woman in cranberry bog boots tramping through here?”

  “One can’t help but notice that girl. It’s her main goal in life.”

  “Who is she?”

  “Monica Purcell aka Breanne 2.0.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “That’s what they call her at the office. She’s a lot like Breanne—intelligent, audacious, driven—only she’s a newer version of the old model.”

  “So you’d call her ambitious?”

  “I’d call Vladimir Putin ambitious, sweetie. Monica I’d call something less flattering.”

  “You don’t like her.”

  “It’s a sticky situation for Breanne. Monica was a golden girl for years, but several months ago her work started slipping—too much partying, that sort of thing. Monica’s already a full editor now, climbed right over her colleagues to make it up the masthead, but she’s been bucking for senior editor lately, and Breanne won’t promote her again until she gets back on the ball.”

  “How bad are things between them? I mean... could she have been the one who sabotaged Breanne’s fitting with that counterfeit e-mail?”

  Roman shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

  “Do you know what exactly she brought to Breanne?”

  “Pages from the magazine. Royally mucked-up pages.”

  “I need more.”

  Roman sighed. “Trend ’s doing this huge piece on Nunzio in the magazine’s next issue—”

  “I know about that. It’s going to include a photo of his Lover’s Spring sculpture. Janelle and I are turning it into a Prosecco Bellini fountain for the wedding.”

  “Believe me, honey, I know all about that already. Bree consulted with me on every detail. Especially the food. Who do you think gave the thumbs-up to your friend Janelle Babcock in the first place?”

  “Janelle’s not exactly a slouch. She was the pâtissier under Tommy Keitel.”

  Roman hung his head, giving a moment of silence to the death of one of his favorite American chefs. “I do miss the king. And I well remember Janelle’s desserts under his reign at Solange. Ambrosia. I can’t wait to taste her confections on Saturday.”

  “So, anyway, about Monica Purcell?”

  “Oh, yes, well... Monica’s in charge of the pages on Nunzio. And there have been all sorts of problems getting them composed. Bree’s in a state because Nunzio has final approval of the profile Trend is publishing on him. He’s dropping by this evening to review it.”

  “Why wouldn’t he approve it?”

  “Nunzio’s known for his artistic temperament. In a fit of pique, if he doesn’t like the pages, he just might put the kibosh on the entire piece. And, from what Bree told me at lunch, there are all sorts of reasons the pages might give him heartburn: bad typefaces, clashing colors, blurred photos, and typos galore. Last week, Breanne gave Monica all of her notes for corrections, but none of the changes were made. Monica claims she handed the notes over, and it’s the art department’s fault.”

  “Is that a common thing? For the art department to ignore the chief editor’s notes for changes?”

  Roman pursed his lips. “Let’s say it’s rare. If you want to keep your job under Breanne Summour, you do your job and do it right.”

  “So what really happened? Did Monica not give them Breanne’s changes?”

  “She claims she did. And Petra, the art director, claims she didn’t. So Breanne isn’t blaming anyone. But she is making Monica jump through hoops to get the pages in shape before Nunzio sees them this evening.”

  I might have let all of this go as typical office politics—if it hadn’t been for that nasty e-mail sent from Breanne’s own box. Someone obviously had an ax to grind inside her office.

  Leaving Roman again, I slipped back to the fitting room area. By now, Adele was busy with another customer, and I was able to casually move back to Breanne’s fitting room door.

  “. . . and I still see typos, Monica, even in the pull quotes, for God’s sake. Get every last one of them fixed, do you hear me? Nunzio’s mother’s name is Rose not Pose.”

  “Yes, Ms. Summour. What about the TK areas?”

  “Nunzio knows there’ll be photos to come. He’s more concerned with checking over his biographical information and approving the cropping and layout of the photos taken at his workshop in Florence. Love’s Spring will be shot on Saturday at the wedding reception along with my rings.”

  “Your wedding rings!” Monica exclaimed. “They still haven’t been photographed yet? But I thought they were already sent to you? Terri told me a package came a few days ago from Florence.”

  “Nunzio’s bringing the rings from Italy personally. He should have them for me today.”

  “Ooooh,” Monica gushed, “I’d die to see them!”

  “I’m sure everyone will see them once they’re photographed.”

  “I meant I’d die to see the actual rings.”

  “I know what you meant. Just get those pages fixed and on my desk no later than four this afternoon. Got that?”

  “Yes, Ms. Summour.”

  I heard scuffling inside and quickly stood back. The fitting room door flew open again, and Monica’s thigh-high boots were off and running. I quietly followed her down the corridor, across the showroom, and through the boutique entrance. I intended to announce myself once we were outside, far enough away from Breanne that Monica wouldn’t have to worry about the woman overhearing. Then I’d ask her a few questions and gauge her reactions.

  But the moment Monica hit the sidewalk, she pulled out her cell phone and made a call. I hustled along behind her through the crowds as she walked and talked, nearly colliding into her when she stopped on the edge of the curb and raised her hand to hail a cab.

  The traffic was a snarl of buses, delivery vans, and SUVs. I bided my time, waiting for her to finish her call, when I realized the call itself was actually worth listening to: “. . . yes, Her Royal Bitchiness finally gave it up,” Monica told the person on the other end of the phone line. “Nunzio’s bringing the rings in to Breanne at six o’clock this evening... No. I don’t know yet... You were?... I’m sorry I missed you then. I would have arrived earlier, but I’m running behind t
oday... Yes, she’s still at Fen’s, and they have tons of security there. I told you that already. But she’s going back to the office for her afternoon meetings... I already told you! I have no idea! I said I’ll get back to you about the damn rings!”

  As a cab pulled up and Monica climbed in, I quickly backed off, checking my wristwatch to note the exact time. Given what I’d just heard, I decided to postpone my direct questioning of Monica Purcell. Since Breanne was taking me back to her offices anyway, I figured a bit of subtle snooping would be a whole lot smarter.

  Less than an hour later, Breanne, Roman, and I piled into a cab and drove across town to Columbus Circle, an uptown traffic loop at the southwest corner of Central Park. In the center of this famous hub was a seventy-foot granite column holding a marble statue of Christopher Columbus.

  A century ago, the monument had been erected to honor the intrepid Italian mariner, but these days Christopher was an afterthought. Columbus Circle was all about the Time Warner Center, a two billion dollar complex of twin eighty-story towers soaring above a seven-story base with an ingenious design that curved halfway around Christopher’s circle.

  On a sunny spring day like this one, the reflection of Central Park’s budding trees off the glass-wrapped skyscrapers made the whole complex glimmer like Emerald City. And when you got right down to it, the Time Warner Center was its own little city, with 198 condominiums, the largest food market in Manhattan, rental offices, a luxury hotel, restaurants, and a concert hall.

  The complex also housed the offices of Breanne’s baby, Trend magazine.

  We exited the cab, walked through the Center’s main entrance, and took the escalator up through the arcade of upscale shops. Hanging a right, we moved through a pair of transparent doors tucked between the Samsung Experience and the Aveda hair care boutique. Inside this small, secluded lobby was a special bank of elevators that went directly up to the floors in the towers above.

  We ascended over twenty levels and entered Trend’s offices, which were as sleek and sun-drenched as the arcade below: all glass and chrome and lacquered cherry wood.

  Roman and I trailed Breanne’s statuesque form as she approached the receptionist. “Any messages for me while Terri was at lunch?”

  “Yes, Ms. Summour.”

  The pretty young blond in the retro fluffy cashmere sweater handed over two slips of paper. “The first one’s from the Sinamon Urban Design people,” she said. “They confirmed their meeting with you at three. The second one’s Nunzio. He said his plane was delayed. It got into JFK at noon today instead of last night, so he’s totally jet-lagged, and he wants to meet with you at two o’clock instead of six so he can get some sleep before an important dinner meeting he has tonight. I tried to talk him out of the time change, but he was really snappish with me. Anyway, he said he’s coming at two, whether you like it or not.”

  I glanced at my watch. The time was ten minutes to two. “What?!” Breanne cried.

  The receptionist blinked. “I said that Nunzio—”

  “Oh, shut up!”

  Instantly Her Haughtiness was on the move again. The clock in her head obviously had started ticking: Countdown to Nunzio.

  Fourteen

  For the second time in two hours, the unflappable Breanne Summour was well and truly flapped. Like a gazelle on the veldt, she sprinted out of the magazine’s reception area, her treadmill-toned legs eating up the carpeted hallway. My short limbs struggled to keep up while Roman huffed behind us like an overweight rhino trailing a Serengeti stampede.

  Bree made a right turn, then a left, and poked her head into one of the many offices lining the corridor.

  “Have those final fixes been made yet?” Bree demanded.

  “Which fixes?”

  “Wake up, Monica! The ones I gave you at Fen’s less than an hour ago!”

  “Petra’s staff is working on the Sinamon fixes first, since her people are arriving at three.”

  “Well, Nunzio is now arriving at two instead of six!” Bree cried. “Tell Petra I’m giving her fifteen minutes to make the final changes on his pages.”

  “Only fifteen? Do you really think that’s enough—”

  “I can stall the man for a little while, but he’ll want to see those pages. You stay with the art department, do you hear me? Make sure every single correction is made. I’m holding you personally responsible this time!”

  “Yes, Ms. Summour.”

  Monica Purcell’s thigh-high boots raced out the door like her pirate ship was on fire. She zipped down the hall, nearly knocking over an older editor, and disappeared around a corner.

  Breanne let out a moan, shook her head, and began massaging her temples.

  I stepped up to her. “Is there anything I can do?”

  The chief editor shuddered, obviously startled to be reminded of my existence. “I don’t know, Clare, what can you do?” She looked down her long nose at me. “Are you a whiz at Photoshop?”

  “Not lately.”

  “Then why don’t you just...” Her voice trailed off, and she squeezed her eyes shut. A moment later, she sighed. “Why don’t you just go make us some coffee. Okay?”

  “Coffee? You’re kidding.”

  “There’s a coffeemaker in the break room—that way.” She pointed, then waved her hand, shooing me away.

  “But—”

  She turned to Roman. “Come on. Let’s go to my office.”

  Office, I thought, watching Bree and Roman disappear down the hall. Now there’s a better idea...

  Monica’s office was right in front of me. And Monica would be out of it for at least the next fifteen minutes. What if I take a look around? I checked the hallway. No one was paying attention to me, so I slipped inside and shut the door.

  At over twenty stories up, the view was breathtaking, all cerulean sky and shimmering cityscape. But I wasn’t in here for the heavenly vision. Regrettably, my business was somewhat lower. Turning my gaze downward, I scanned Monica’s desktop and immediately spotted her cell phone. It sat next to a stack of mail and an overflowing in-box on the glossy, fine-grained wood.

  I dropped my new Fen bag on the edge of her desk, sank into her ergonomically designed chair, and opened the sleek device. I didn’t like invading her privacy, but this was about one woman’s life—and another’s death. I took a breath and figured out how to read the call logs.

  Using a pen and a piece of memo pad paper from Monica’s desktop, I wrote down the last five numbers I found—outgoing and incoming—along with any names listed. I put an asterisk beside the call she’d made on the sidewalk outside of Fen’s. It was easy enough to figure out, since I’d already made a mental note of the exact time she’d placed it. Unfortunately for me, there was no name listed next to the number.

  This is going to take a bit of research. I could use the reverse directory on the Internet, but if the number was unlisted, I’d have to ask Mike for help.

  I closed the phone, folded the paper, and slipped it into a handy interior pocket of my new little Fen jacket. Then I tried the desk drawers. Nothing looked out of the ordinary, until I carefully lifted up a plastic tray of paper clips, pencils, and erasers. Hidden beneath was a lacquered black box.

  Hello...

  I lifted the box’s lid and spied a collection of amber-colored prescription bottles. There was a business card there, too, facedown. I was about to reach for it when I heard, “Has anyone seen a woman named Clare Cosi? I can’t find her!”

  Damn.

  I closed the black box, dropped the tray of paper clips and pencils back on top, closed the drawer, and hurried to open the door.

  A fairylike waif of a girl was hurrying down the hall. She had long, super-straight auburn hair, delicate features, clearly glossed lips, and in her small hand she held a Who Loves Kitty? mug with a tea bag string hanging over the side.

  “I’m Clare,” I said, walking up to her. “And you are?”

  “Terri.”

  “Breanne’s assistant?”

/>   She nodded. “Ms. Summour sent me to find you. She wants to know if you need any help making your coffee.”

  “My God, Breanne was actually serious about that?”

  “She says if Nunzio’s jet-lagged, then he’s probably going to need a few cups when he gets here, and she could use some, too. Sorry, but I don’t know the first thing about making coffee.” She lifted her mug. “I only drink green tea.”

  “Right...” What now? I couldn’t very well bug out on this girl with an excuse of needing to invade her coworker’s privacy. So I shrugged and said: “You better show me where your break room is.”

  As Breanne’s assistant took me through an open area of cubicles, I decided to make the most of this detour.

  “Terri, what can you tell me about Monica Purcell?”

  “Monica?” She laughed—a little nervously, I thought. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, has Monica been very angry with Breanne lately?”

  “Not that I know of. They’ve always been pretty tight. Before Monica was promoted, she used to be Ms. Summour’s assistant.”

  “You mean like you are now?”

  Terri nodded.

  “So you trust Monica?”

  The young woman laughed nervously again. “I didn’t say that—and why do you care, anyway?”

  We arrived in a room with a fridge, cupboards, and some vending machines. The space was empty. I closed the door and lowered my voice.

  “I’m trying to help your boss right now, Terri. You can trust me on this: my questions are important. So tell me the truth. Why wouldn’t you trust Monica?”

  “It’s just that...” Terri shrugged. “Monica can be slippery sometimes.”

  “What do you mean by slippery?”

  Terri looked away. “She’ll say one thing to someone’s face—like she thinks an idea for an article is really good, you know?—and then she’ll turn around and deny it in a big meeting.” She shook her head a little, like she was getting agitated. “I heard that when Monica was Breanne’s assistant, she undermined some older editors with that sort of thing, going to Ms. Summour before a meeting, telling her about this or that idea she’d overheard and spinning it badly, totally dissing the thing before the editor got the chance to present things her way. One editor felt so demoralized with the pattern, she just quit. That’s when Ms. Summour promoted Monica over other junior people into the woman’s job.”