by Cleo Coyle
I handed her the small, flat rectangle. She examined it, flipped it over and laughed.
“What?” I asked.
“He asked me your name after you left the room. Then I watched him write something on one of his cards. It’s his hotel room number, Clare.”
“What?”
“At the Mandarin Oriental, about thirty floors up.”
“Good Lord. You keep it then. I have no intention of visiting the man in his hotel room. What does he think I am?”
She laughed again, slumping down in her chair as if the air had been let out of her. “You should be flattered. He obviously liked you as much as your espressos. Why not give him a whirl?”
Give him a whirl? Then and there I decided that Breanne Summour was the perfect mate for my ex-husband. Neither of them viewed sex as anything more meaningful than a carnival ride.
“I’m not going to the man’s hotel room,” I said, “because I’m in a relationship, and I don’t cheat.”
Breanne rolled her eyes. Clearly my morals, like my clothes, were far too bourgeoisie for her taste.
“Ms. Summour?” Terri was at the door, holding a package. “This was just delivered by courier. There’s no return address, but it’s marked ‘Wedding gift, open immediately.’ ”
“Bring it in,” she said. “Terri, would you like to see my rings?”
Terri nodded vigorously. Roman brought them out again.
“Ohmigod, they’re so beautiful!”
Bree and Terri talked for a minute about the rings, then her schedule, then some phone calls that had come in during her meeting with Nunzio.
“Terri, I don’t know what I’d do without you. You’re a gem! I’m just sorry your promotion will have to wait a little longer.”
“Oh, I don’t mind,” she said. “I’m already making lists for article ideas. I’ll be ready to help out any of the section editors who want to work with me . . .”
As the two continued to talk, Roman examined the label on Breanne’s new gift. “Bree, sweetie, this gift says to open immediately. You might want to do that. What if it’s perishable? I mean, for heaven’s sake, it could be edible.”
“You open it then. I don’t want to break a nail.”
As Breanne sent Terri off to run an errand on another floor, Roman cut the tape with a letter opener and opened the cardboard box. Inside he found a long, slim package wrapped in glossy black paper. He pulled the gift card free and handed it to Breanne.
“It’s heavy,” he announced, tearing away the black paper. Roman opened the gift box and stared at the contents with puzzlement. “Odd gift for you,” he said, “seeing as how you seldom set foot in your own kitchen.”
I stepped forward and peered into the gift box. Nestled inside a blizzard of packing peanuts was a brand-new, stainless steel meat cleaver with a great big bow attached to its polished wooden handle. Like the wrapping paper, the bow’s color was not bridal white but funereal black.
The sight of it alone chilled my blood. “Who gave you this?” I asked Breanne sharply.
Her blue eyes squinted at the gift card. “It’s from Neville Perry. ‘A special gift to express my feelings for the bride.’ Signed, Neville. Oh, and he includes his ridiculous Prodigal Chef Web site address.”
Bree rolled her eyes and tossed the card into the garbage.
“Don’t do that!” I fished it out. “The gift is a threat. The card is evidence.”
“It’s a joke,” Breanne said. “And not a very clever one.”
I stepped up to her desk. “Let me use your computer.”
“No, Clare. I’m sorry, but I don’t have time to indulge you with this.” She checked her watch. “I have a call to make and e-mails to return. If you really need a computer, use Terri’s. She’s doing some research for me, so she’ll be away from her desk for a little while.”
“Fine.”
I left Breanne’s office and went straight to Terri’s cherry wood desk, sat down, and examined the computer screen to find an icon that would bring up her link to the Internet. Roman trailed behind me, looking over my shoulder.
“Roman, tell me something. You must have met Neville Perry once or twice, right?”
“I know him quite well, actually.”
“You do? How does he strike you?”
“He’s a fairly eccentric individual, actually.”
“Eccentric? Or crazy? Could he be dangerous?”
A woman laughed. I turned to find Monica Purcell standing there watching us in her thigh-high boots, arms folded. “Neville Perry’s not dangerous, for heaven’s sake. He’s hilarious. I read his blog all the time.”
“Really?” I said. “He’s got a real hate on for your boss. That doesn’t bother you?”
Monica shrugged. “I just read his site for the restaurant and bar reviews.”
I glanced back at Roman. “Does Perry strike you as the kind of person who could do physical harm to someone?”
“That I couldn’t tell you,” Roman said. “But if you’re curious, you can meet him tonight and judge for yourself.”
“Tonight? Really? Where? When?”
“I’ve been invited to dinner at an underground restaurant in Flushing, Queens. Neville is going to be there, too. He’s mentioned it in his blog posts already. You’re welcome to accompany me, Clare.”
“Underground restaurant?” Monica said. “I’ve heard of those but I’ve never been to one.”
“It’s quite clandestine, because it’s also quite illegal,” Roman said. “At eight thirty this evening, I’m to stand in front of the Friends Meeting House on Northern Boulevard. A man will approach me and take me to the secret location. Doesn’t it sound intriguing?”
Monica shuddered. “It sounds weird. Plus it’s in Queens. Ugh.”
“Neville Perry will be there?” I pressed. “You’re sure?”
Roman nodded. “I’ll introduce you. Then you can ask the chef any questions you like.”
“All right, Roman. You’ve got a date.”
“You two have fun,” Monica said, shaking her head. “I’d rather go clubbing.”
“Well, before you go, Monica, I’d like to ask you a few questions.” I stood up to confront her.
“Who are you, anyway? I mean, you work for Fen, right? I saw you at the boutique.”
“My name’s Clare Cosi. I’m a friend of Breanne’s. I’m helping her with the wedding.”
“I see,” Monica said, stifling a yawn.
“And I was wondering if you had an opinion on something that happened at Fen’s.”
“What’s that?”
“Breanne’s fitting was sabotaged.”
Monica folded her arms. “What do you mean sabotaged?”
“I mean someone sent an e-mail from Breanne’s mailbox, telling the boutique manager to have her gown altered a certain way. Do you know about that?”
“Why would I?”
“It’s just that Terri told me you used to be Breanne’s assistant. I thought maybe you’d have an idea who would have access to her passwords.”
Monica glanced around, stepped closer, and lowered her voice. “If you ask me, Terri’s the one who probably did it.”
“Really?”
“She’s slippery, that girl. She’ll tell you one thing to your face then turn around and undermine you in a meeting. She got an editor fired over it, you know, and she’s royally pissed she didn’t get the woman’s job. She’s also angry it’s taken her four long years to get promoted when she knows I did it in two. So I’d be careful believing what that little waif tells you.”
A moment later, the door to Breanne’s office swung open. The editor-in-chief strode out, barely glancing at us as she raced away.
“Where are you going now?” Roman called.
“The art department, darling! The Sinamon feature article’s still got issues, and her people are due here in fifteen! Monica! Tell Belinda to make sure the conference room’s ready. And Clare! We’ll need more of your coffee! Lots more!”<
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As Breanne’s long legs swept her away, I noticed she’d left her door wide open. Terri was still off on her errand. And except for us, the area was deserted.
“See?” Monica whispered, pointing to Breanne’s office. “If you go in there, you’ll probably find Ms. Summour’s e-mail box still wide open. She did that all the time when I was her assistant, just walked away from her computer, sometimes for hours at a time. I warned her about it. What good is password protection if you don’t close your e-mail box?”
With a shake of her blue-black hair, Monica turned and walked away. I watched her disappear down the hall and wondered whether her comments were trustworthy. Was Terri really the slippery one? Or was Monica lying to my face?
Well, one of her claims was easy enough to check out. I got up from Terri’s desk and walked inside Breanne’s spacious corner office.
“What are you doing?” Roman called.
“Checking Monica’s story.”
I moved around the huge glass desk. Breanne’s computer screen was lit up and active; her e-mail box was still open, just as Monica had warned. Anyone could have slipped into her office and sabotaged Breanne. A password wouldn’t have been needed. And who better to know when and how long her boss would be away than her current assistant?
“Clare!” Roman called from Terri’s desk. “Look at this.”
Neville’s Web site was now up on Terri’s computer screen. Today the former chef was blogging about wanting to chop his critics into little pieces. There was even an animation loop showing a meat cleaver swinging at a woman’s neck. Recipes followed for seasonal stews and soups.
“That meat cleaver looks exactly like the one he sent to Breanne,” Roman said, “complete with the death-black bow. My, he really is getting morbid.”
“Oh, God . . .”
Feeling sick to my stomach, I told Roman to give me a minute. Then I stepped back into Breanne’s office, shut the door, pulled out my cell phone, and called Mike Quinn.
I ran down everything: the suspicious man hanging around Fen’s while Breanne was inside; Monica’s phone call to an unknown number concerning her boss’s schedule and the arrival of some one-of-a-kind wedding rings; the counterfeit e-mail that mucked up the bride’s fitting. Finally, I told him about the rivalries that seemed to be bubbling inside Trend’s cauldron of an office.
“You’ve got a lot of observations, Cosi. What’s your conclusion?”
“When you get right down to it, this place is filled with the typical bitchy backbiting of office politics. It’s not pretty, but I don’t see anyone here with a grand vendetta to threaten Breanne’s life . . .” Then I described Neville Perry’s black-wrapped wedding gift.
“The meat cleaver goes beyond prankish, Mike. It feels like a real threat to her life, which is why I’m calling you now.”
“Does Breanne want to pursue charges?” he asked.
“No.” I closed my eyes. “She still thinks it’s a joke.”
“Well, no ADA I know would waste time on a case like that. Unless this guy Perry makes an actual threat to Breanne or attempts to harm her, you’re stuck. You need to get more on him, Clare. Can you find a way to do that without breaking the law?”
“Yeah, Mike. I think so. Otherwise, I’m relying on you to bail me out.”
“Bail you out?” Mike laughed. “With what? Since I lent you my checkbook to furnish my apartment, I’m broke.”
“Sorry, buddy, but a girl can eat only so many ‘picnics’ on a bare living room floor before it gets old—not to mention cold.”
“Honeymoon’s over, huh?”
“Not if you consider cuddling up on a new sofa romantic.”
“I do. What’s more, Cosi, I expect to see you on that very sofa tonight. When are you coming over?”
“I’ll get back to you, Quinn. I’m on the job!”
I closed the phone on Mike’s sputtering (I was still a little pissed at him for getting me into this) and left Bree’s office.
Roman was still at Terri’s desk.
“Okay,” I told him, “tonight’s more important than ever.”
“You mean the underground restaurant?”
“I’m going with you to Flushing, and I’m going to interview Neville Perry, try to press a few of his buttons. You can be a witness to any threats he makes or confessions of violent intentions toward Breanne. Whatever we hear, we’ll both convey to her. Then maybe she’ll finally press charges, and we can get a police interrogation, maybe even a warrant to search his residence. What do you think?”
“Sounds like a plan, Shirley Holmes.” Roman’s impish eyes danced. “It seems I really am going to be your Dr. Watson—your big, gay, epicurean Watson.”
“Right.”
“But, listen, honey, before you start solving crimes again . . .” Roman tapped his watch. “You’d better get that coffee made.”
Damn. The coffee . . .
I took off down the hall. On the way to the break room, I rang Matt and gave him the update on the cleaver, quietly warning him to keep Breanne out of public places.
“Talk her into eating takeout at her place tonight, okay? And for heaven’s sake, use a private car service. Don’t walk anywhere. Between that SUV last Friday and the look-alike shooting last night, the last place that woman should be is on a New York sidewalk.”
“You believe me now, Clare, don’t you?” Matt asked.
“I believe Breanne has at least one serious enemy. Whether or not they’re serious enough to commit murder, the jury’s still out.”
SIXTEEN
I met Roman at precisely seven thirty on the Times Square platform of the Number 7 line. We grabbed the last two seats aboard the first car, and the train took off, rumbling toward the East River and the borough of Queens.
On subway lines that ran through the touristy parts of Manhattan, laughter and conversation were common. On this line, at this hour, the quiet weariness was palpable, like an oppressive fog. The riders around us were recent immigrants, their tired eyes scanning foreign-language newspapers, staring into space, or closed altogether, grabbing a few minutes’ peace before tackling a second job or the next chore on life’s endless list.
Roman Brio failed to notice. His demeanor was giddy, anticipating a magical night in gastronomy land. “These underground restaurants provide quite a thrill. A few have been disappointing, but most are full of delights.”
I nodded silently. At the moment, I felt more simpatico with the other passengers. Matt’s wedding was four days away. I’d already worked hard on the advance prep, but there was still more to be done. I certainly didn’t want to be schlepping out to Flushing to talk to a disgruntled chef who could very well have the bride-to-be in his crosshairs.
Our train made two more stops under Manhattan’s avenues, then it rolled beneath the East River, emerging minutes later out of its subterranean tunnel like a giant steel snake. We ascended four stories to a wide-ranging system of elevated track and sped farther into the low-rise borough, leaving Manhattan’s glittering skyscrapers far behind.
Roman leaned close. “We’ve slipped the bonds of civilization and plunged into the untamed frontier of the metropolis. The culinary adventure begins!”
“We’re on our way to Flushing, Roman. Not Calcutta. Or are you testing the opening line of your next column?”
“I’m simply making an observation. To most residents of Manhattan, Queens is an undiscovered country. Sure, they come here to use the airports, but that’s it.”
“Not so true anymore.” (Having employed part-time workers who didn’t have Roman’s bank account, I knew Astoria and Long Island City were getting hotter by the year.) “Even young white-collar professionals are having trouble affording Manhattan rents. Queens is a close alternative.”
“I suppose you’re right.”
“No supposing about it.” I checked my watch. “Listen, we have a good forty-minute ride in front of us. Why don’t you fill me in on this Chef Perry feud with Breanne. How perso
nal is it, anyway? Do they have any kind of history?”
“No history. Those two only met in passing—parties, openings, that sort of thing.”
“Then the Trend exposé on Perry’s restaurant started it?”
“I told Breanne not to bother, that Perry would sink under his own substandard practices. But Bree has a mind of her own on such things.” Roman shrugged. “You know the story, right?”
“Only broad strokes; I need details.”
As I gazed through the scuffed Plexiglas windows at passing shops, churches, and row houses, Roman explained how Breanne sent a bright, young Latino writer to work undercover in Chef Perry’s popular new eatery in Tribeca (the chic triangular shaped area below Canal Street, hence the name). Apparently, the writer took extensive notes and hundreds of secret photos of what really went on in Perry’s kitchen, including the use of expired meat and dairy products as well as frozen pre-prepared seafood (not unusual for some restaurants but blasphemy for a chef who loudly professed his brilliance on his short-lived reality television show and later in the press).
“And let’s not forget the frantic preplanned hiding of expired foodstuffs on days the health inspector came calling.” Roman sighed. “It’s an ugly thing, what Chef Perry did. Sophisticated diners expect the freshest and finest when they hand over Benjamins for what’s supposed to be gourmet cuisine, not garbage that’s past its prime. It’s a violation of trust. And it gets worse.”
“What could be worse than serving expired product?”
“Tip pooling.”
“No.”
Tip pooling was frowned upon in the restaurant biz. Typically a waiter kept all of his or her own tips. In a restaurant that pooled, the waitstaff was forced to place all gratuities into a common kitty to be divided at the end of the day.
“It stinks,” I said, “but technically it’s not illegal.”
“You’re correct. It’s not, as long as the owner doesn’t take a cut. But Chef Perry did take a cut. A big one.”
“Wow. The man really is an idiot.”
“The whole matter ended up before a Department of Labor arbitration board.” Roman shook his head. “It was a moot point by then. The New York City Health Department had already shut down his restaurant for a slew of violations, all stemming from Breanne’s exposé, which embarrassed the heck out of them. The place never reopened.”