by Cleo Coyle
I groaned, forecasting the need for another doppio espresso. Rapidamente. “Tell me.”
“When we got him down to the Sixth, he started talking without a lawyer—ranting, mostly. But he wouldn’t admit to anything. After a few hours of questioning, he finally lawyered up and clammed up.”
“Where does that leave us?”
“I can tell you where it leaves him. Free as a bird. He’s on his way to being arraigned right now. He should be out on bail very soon.”
“Oh no, Mike. Isn’t there any way to hold him? Charge him with attempted murder?”
“We searched his apartment, but that single bottle of OxyContin that he handed you was the only narcotic we found.”
“What about the other pills he had? I saw them!”
“Other than a little more OxyContin, we found zip. We raided his closet, but the only items in there were the kinds of supplements and herbal products you’d find in any health food store. He must have his dirty stash somewhere else, most likely under another name. We couldn’t find it in his residence, and he wouldn’t talk. So the only charge that stuck to him was one count of intent to distribute an illegal substance.”
“No murder weapon, either? No gun.”
“No weapons of any kind in his apartment.”
“What about all the other things he’s guilty of?”
“The DA’s office can’t charge Winslow for the robbery in Queens, or Monica Purcell’s overdose, or attempted murder of his ex-wife, because he wouldn’t admit to any of those things, and there’s no evidence that directly connects him.”
“And the Rxglobal Web site?”
“That’s an angle we’re working with the DEA, but that will take time. No judge will hold him without bail based on the evidence against him right now. And your testimony against him is just about the only thing we’ve got to even make the first charge stick. The prosecutor’s office wasn’t even comfortable charging him with conspiracy to commit robbery.”
“But he agreed on the wire! We have it on tape!”
“The rings were never actually stolen, and he never accepted them from you, just agreed to let you steal them. The defense will cry entrapment. It’s not enough for the prosecutor to go forward, Clare.”
I rubbed my forehead, tried to figure out a next step. “Winslow couldn’t have been the mugger at the restaurant,” I reasoned aloud, “because he was still in custody then. But if he’s going to be free soon, he might try to hurt Breanne himself.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“I’ll try to reach Breanne and warn her. I’ll try Matt again, too, but he’s been unreachable for hours.”
“Why?”
I sighed. “It’s too long a story to explain now.”
“Fine, but you better suggest to Breanne that she hire a bodyguard.”
“I will.”
We signed off, and I rang Breanne. By now, she was out of the ER and back in her Sutton Place apartment—no hairline fracture, no damage to her vocal chords. She was just bruised, sore, and shaken. Before I could ask her about Randall Knox, she asked me about Matt.
“Have you heard from him yet, Clare?”
Bree’s typical cool, clipped tone was gone. Her voice sounded vulnerable and human. For the first time since Matt had announced their engagement, Breanne Summour sounded like a woman in love.
“I’m sorry,” I said gently, “he hasn’t come back yet. I can’t reach him on his cell, either.”
“Neither can I. You’ll let me know when he shows, won’t you?”
“Of course.”
I told Breanne about my visit to Knox’s office, including the Miriam Perry appearance. I also warned her about gossip boy’s declaration that he’d be publishing a scandalous story on Monday, something that included an angle on the stripper Hazel Boggs.
“Whatever this story is, he promises it’s going to upset you a great deal. So brace yourself.”
Breanne had little to say after that, just thanked me for informing her. Finally, I told her about her ex-husband being released on bail.
“. . . and since Matt isn’t there with you, Mike Quinn strongly suggests you hire a bodyguard.”
“I already have,” she said. “He’s outside my apartment door right now.”
It’s about time. “Okay, Breanne, just make sure you show him a photo of your ex-husband, so he can stop the man the moment he comes near you. Would you do that?”
“Good idea, Clare. I’ll do that right now.”
I hung up, went back to the bar for another double shot, and sat back down near the fireplace to continue thinking things through. When the bell jangled over the door a few minutes later, I glance up and noticed an African American woman walking in.
“Janelle!” I waved her over.
Janelle Babcock waved back and crossed the wood plank floor, her ample hips smoothly negotiating the crowded café tables.
“Espresso?” I asked as she sat down across from me. “Latte?”
“No, thanks, Clare.” She smiled.
Like the city she hailed from, Janelle had a smile that was warm and easy. Her flawless skin was the shade of a lightly creamed cup of Sumatra, and her features were Creole, not surprising since she’d grown up in New Orleans. She’d learned French there, too, along with the building blocks of French cooking, which is what led her to her first professional bakery job and eventually to a plane ticket to Paris, where she’d studied at the Cordon Bleu.
“I’ve got to get back to my kitchen,” she said. “I just came to drop off some more samples . . .”
Beaming with pride, she pulled three white bakery boxes out of her large tote bag and set them on the marble-topped café table between us. We glanced at each other in silence, then I peeked into the first box with nearly infantile excitement.
“The anginetti! Oh my God, Janelle, they look spectacular! What did you do with them since the last batch?”
“I adjusted the ingredients slightly, and instead of making the ring with a small rope of dough, I used a pastry bag. Now each cookie ring is made out of eight little mounds that touch. See . . .” She pointed to the delicate cookie. “During the baking, the small mounds create a single ring that looks just like a miniature coffee cake.”
“The white glaze and nonpareils really complete the effect.” I picked up one of the tiny cookies and examined it. “Amazing. It’s like a miniature work of art, but then all of your samples have been.”
“Thanks, Clare. You always say the sweetest things. You know, for fun, I pulled out my food coloring and made a few anginetti with purple, green, and gold glaze. See . . .”
She handed me one of the alternate samples.
“Oh my God! It looks just like a tiny king cake! You could sell these for Mardis Gras parties next year!”
“That’s what I was thinking. If I can figure out a few more novelty cookies, I could even set up a mail-order business online. But I really need more catering clients in New York first.” She squeezed my arm. “I can’t thank you enough for getting me this job on your ex-husband’s wedding. My whole family’s waiting for Trend to come out so they can see my name in the caption under our tablescape.” She sighed and smiled. “Imagine, my little pastries showcased around Nunzio’s Lover’s Spring, in the Metropolitan Museum of Art!”
My phone rang again. “Excuse me, Janelle. This shouldn’t take long.” I pulled out the cell, hoping it was Matt. (I’d left him five messages by now.) But I didn’t recognize the number.
“Hello?”
“Clare? Clare Cosi?”
The voice was deep and male, betrayed an Italian accent, and was (regrettably) recognizable.
“Yes. This is Nunzio, right?”
Janelle’s big brown eyes widened. “Nunzio!” she whispered. “He’s on the phone with you now?”
I nodded.
“Omigawd!” Janelle bounced up and down. “Nunzio! Omigawd!”
“Si, bella . . .” The Italian sculptor’s voice was low and silky, like my cat Ja
va’s purr. Unfortunately, a few hits of Pounce treats weren’t going to satisfy this smooth-coated predator. “Breanne, she tells me you are coming to see me this evening? She says you are willing to discuss my concerns about my Lover’s Spring. You do still wish for me to lend you my beautiful fountain, si, Clare?”
“Yes.” I cleared my throat. “Breanne told me about your, uh . . . situation.” (I’d almost said proposition—only it wouldn’t have been much of a slip.)
Glancing at Janelle, I tried to decide what to do. She was grinning at me, but that was only because she hadn’t heard that Nunzio was balking on his deal to lend us his fountain, and unless I could find “some way” to change the man’s mind (in his hotel room, no less), Breanne was dumping our tablescape out of Trend.
“I was wondering, bella, what you are drinking when you come to see me. Is champagne to your liking?”
“I, uh—”
God, it was so humiliating being put in this position, but if I hung up on the guy now, without even trying to persuade him, I’d feel far worse. The Village Blend didn’t need a Trend splash page, but Janelle did. I had to do this, I had to try to persuade the man to change his mind, or I couldn’t live with myself.
“Yes,” I told Nunzio through gritted teeth, “I like champagne.”
“Bene. My room number is 5301. See you soon, bella, eh?”
I checked my watch. “Right. Soon.”
“Ciao.”
He hung up, and I hung my head.
“Hey, girlfriend, you look upset? Anything wrong?”
I massaged my eyes. “Let’s just say this has been a very long day—and it’s about to get a whole lot longer.”
THIRTY
THE five-star Mandarin Oriental Hotel occupied 248 rooms on nearly twenty floors of the Time Warner Center’s north tower. Nunzio’s two-room suite featured Italian-made bed linens, a fully stocked private bar, a marble bath with a flat-panel TV, and a soaking tub with a picture-window view.
If I hadn’t been in a relationship, I might have considered spending the night with the sculpted Italian sculptor (if only to have the transcendent experience of soaking in a tub with a bird’s-eye view of Central Park). But I was in a relationship—with a man I cared very much about—so sleeping with Nunzio was out of the question, which meant I had to outwit this guy or I was screwed (a vulgar term, I grant you, but all too apropos, considering Nunzio’s implied agenda).
The moment I stepped out of my cab, the skies opened up. Everything the storm clouds had been carrying for the last few hours sloshed out like an overfilled fountain—and came down all over me.
Perfect.
I hurried the few steps from the curb to the entrance of the glass-wrapped tower’s West Sixtieth Street entrance, but I got plenty wet anyway. I headed directly to the elevators, ascended to the fifty-third floor, took a resolute breath, and knocked on the door of Nunzio’s hotel suite.
“Ciao, bella.”
His broad features were as forceful as I remembered, his dark eyes as bedroomy, too, like twin bottomless pools of spiked cocoa. His wavy hair was still caught in its rakish black ponytail, but he’d exchanged his Armani suit for brown slacks and a form-fitting sweater the subdued yellow shade of Italian polenta.
“Hello,” I said after an unfortunate moment in which my tongue failed to work. “I’m here . . . as you can see.”
Nunzio must have taken the “see” part as some kind of invitation, because he leaned against the doorjamb and studied me, his artist’s gaze sweeping my body a lot less subtly than it had in Breanne’s office. I wasn’t dripping wet, but my pearl-pink wrap dress wasn’t exactly dry, either. His gaze appeared to smolder as it lingered on certain areas. I felt my cheeks warming, but I refused to look down at the state of my thin, silk, embarrassingly damp garment.
“Come,” he finally said, waving me in.
The suite was tastefully appointed: an odd blend of 1940s Hong Kong and sleek, efficient, generic modern hotel. The sitting room held delicate fine-grained tables of Asian cherry wood, original Chinese artwork, plush sofas in forest green, and a state-of-the-art entertainment system. The rug and walls were a neutral cream, but the decor wasn’t really the point. Nothing in the room could hold a candle to the expansive floor-to-ceiling views of Central Park and the Manhattan skyline, its million golden windows shining through the urban night like earth-anchored stars.
Through an open door, I glimpsed the suite’s bedroom. The view was just as spectacular in there. With the table lamps turned low, the drapes fully opened, and the Fili D’oro linens crisply waiting, I knew sleeping with a man in a place like this would feel like making love on a cloud in heaven. But then I thought of all those mortal girls pursued by Greek deities and shivered; few of them came to good ends.
Nunzio closed the front door and locked it, then crossed to a bucket of icing champagne. “Go into my bedroom, bella, and take off your clothes.”
Every muscle in my body froze. I’d expected to have at least a little wiggle room to talk this man out of his feudal bargain. But if he was going to take that attitude, I had no choice. With a sigh, I turned around and headed for the front door.
“Where are you going?!”
“I’m not here to take demands, Nunzio.”
He threw up his hands. “Your clothes and shoes are wet. There is a robe in the bath. Hang your dress over the towel warmer, and it will dry.” Nunzio popped the champagne and began to pour. “I will not touch you, Clare, unless you wish it.” He met my eyes. “Cross my heart.”
I gritted my teeth, my hand on the doorknob, and glanced down at my wet dress. It wasn’t obscene or anything, but the clinging silk wasn’t exactly modest, either.
“Fine.”
I moved into the bathroom, ignored the damn marble tub with its damn Central Park view, and removed my damn damp dress. The towel warmer was on, and I hung the silk garment over the dry towel already on it. I took off my platform sandals, too, and wrapped the long, fluffy terry robe around me. My hair was wet, so I used the blow dryer on the counter to fluff it up. With another fortifying breath, I moved back out into the sitting room.
Nunzio was waiting with the poured champagne. He handed me a flute. “To Breanne and her groom,” he said, raising his glass to mine.
I drank to that (hoping the groom had at least called his bride by now) and tried not to enjoy the dry tickle of costly bubbles on my palate. Then I started my rehearsed speech.
“Nunzio, listen to me, okay? Despite what this looks like—” I gesture to my robe and bare feet. “I’m not here to trade my body for your fountain.”
He laughed. “Lover’s Spring is not on the auction block, bella. I was going to lend it to Breanne for her wedding, not give it away.”
“Well, I’m not on the auction block, either. If you have legitimate concerns, I’m willing to discuss them, allay any worries about the way it will be displayed—”
“It’s not that,” he said, moving to sit on one of the overstuffed sofas. “I have never shown the piece here in America.” He shook his head, gesturing to the muted flat-panel TV, where an Italian channel was playing highlights of a soccer match. “I don’t know if Americans will be able to appreciate my art.”
“Why? Because we play baseball instead of soccer?”
“Your culture is . . .” He shook his head. “Loud. Violent. Scusa, but I find it . . . how you say? Volgare.”
“Vulgar? Americans are vulgar? Oh, really? The country that gave birth to Ben Franklin, Mark Twain, Billie Holiday, Ira Gershwin, the Wright brothers, Frank Lloyd Wright, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Jackson Pollock, and Jacqueline Onassis is vulgar? I see. Then I suppose you’re not expecting to distribute your new jewelry line here—one of the most lucrative markets on the planet? If we’re too vulgar to appreciate your genius sculpture, then I guess we’re too vulgar to pay for your amazing rings and necklaces, too, is that right?”
He frowned. “How do you know about my new jewelry line?”
“I was in
Breanne’s office during most of your meeting. I overheard her mention it.”
Nunzio nodded, stretched his free arm across the back of the sofa. “I remember that meeting, too, bella. I remember the look on your face when I touched your hand. Come sit beside me.”
Nope, not gonna work. “I’m only here to persuade you to go through with your promise.”
“Si. That is why you are here. I agree.” He sipped his champagne and smiled. “To persuade me.”
“Good!” I crossed to where I’d dropped my tote bag. “Then try these . . .”
I pulled Janelle’s three bakery boxes out of the damp bag. Luckily, the thick tote had shielded the boxes from getting the least bit wet. “You heard about Hurricane Katrina’s damage to New Orleans, right?”
“Katrina?” His dark eyebrows came together in confusion. “Si. I heard of this tragedy. But why—”
“The woman who made these amazing confections came to New York after she lost her job in a restaurant that was destroyed by Katrina. For a few years, she worked as the pastry chef at Solange, a highly acclaimed New York restaurant. But the place closed last fall after the owner died, so she took a job with a specialty cake baker. She worked two shifts a day to earn the money to quit after a few months and start her own company. These pastries, for Breanne’s wedding, were baked by her new little company. Here, try an anginetti . . .”
“This is an anginetti?” He examined the tiny work of art.
“Amazing isn’t it?”
Typically, Italian desserts were delicious to eat but presented in unassuming forms, unlike the polished precision of French cuisine. Italian bakers favored simple presentations, using things like candied fruit and nuts, powdered sugar, or a light glaze to finish a cake or tart. “The perfect is the enemy of the good.” That’s how my grandmother used to put it. (And she probably would have pointed out: “What good is Monica’s perfect body doing her in the morgue?”)
I did understand wanting to be perfect. I used to strive for perfection in everything—my coffee, my marriage, myself. But life was naturally messy, and perfection required far too much ruthlessness. Being human was better. Humans made mistakes and moved on. Like Nana tried to tell me years ago: being good was better than being perfect.