by Cleo Coyle
Now he crossed the bedroom in three strides, set the coffee mugs on the nightstand and took me in his arms.
“What scared you, Clare? What did you dream?”
“I was chasing Joy through a playground,” I murmured against his bare, hard shoulder. “She transformed right in front of me, into this beautiful falcon. I tried to catch her, but a photographer jumped in front of me, snapped a flash. I couldn’t see, just heard a gunshot. A woman screamed, and then—oh, God, Mike—I was facedown on a white marble floor, and there was blood, so much blood . . .”
“Hold on to me, Clare. Hold on as long you need to.”
For a few minutes, I did. Then my nose twitched. “Mike?”
“Mmmm?”
“Do I smell fresh coffee?”
He reached over to the nightstand, pushed a warm mug into my hands. I lay back on the bed pillows, took a test sip, and sighed. The man had come a long way from when I’d first met him. Back then, he’d been swilling stale robusta bean crap by the gallon. The hot, fresh java he’d made for me this morning was my own Breakfast Blend roast, brewed nearly to perfection (which, for me, was better than perfect).
“You know, Mike, you’re getting pretty good at this. You should seriously consider barista work.”
“Thanks. I’ll get back to you if the whole law enforcement thing doesn’t pan out.”
I finished my cup and placed it next to his on the faux-mahogany nightstand—part of a set from the Crate and Barrel catalog that I’d helped him pick out. I thought the dark, sober finish suited his rugged personality. Mike thought the faux part made it easy on his public servant-size wallet.
“Anyway, sweetheart, as far as your future nightmares, I think I can ease your worries. I had called the precinct to arrange for a plainclothes officer to watch your back—”
“That’s not necessary—”
“You’re right. But not for the reason you think. The Jersey state police arrested Stuart Winslow at three fifty-five this morning.”
I closed my eyes. “Thank God.”
“And guess what? He had rental papers on him, and keys to a storage space in Wayne, New Jersey. They opened it up as soon as a judge issued the warrant, found the man’s stash of illegally imported narcotics.” Mike smiled like an alley cat who’d just snagged his rat. “Winslow won’t be getting out of jail for a long time. Congratulations, sweetheart, you did it.”
“We did it.” I hugged Mike again, and then we were doing more than hugging. I was wearing the matching top to his navy-blue pajama bottoms, and I seriously considered removing both.
“Damn,” he murmured against my lips. “Some of us have to report to work.”
I sighed. “I have work, too. Matt’s wedding’s tomorrow, and I have so much to do, including a final batch of beans to roast—the trickiest ones yet, and the most expensive. Kopi Luwak sells for three to five hundred a pound—”
“Dollars? You’re kidding?”
“Drop by early this evening, say eight o’clock? I’m brewing samples for my baristas on the Clover.”
“Free coffee? I’m there.”
He rose up off the bed and crossed to his new faux-mahogany bureau. As my eyes watched him dress, my mind strayed back to the Breanne-in-peril case.
“Mike?”
“Yeah?”
“With Winslow in custody, do you think Breanne’s safe now?”
Mike glanced up from buttoning his shirt. “She hired a bodyguard. You know that, right?”
“Right. I spoke with her yesterday.”
“And I spoke with your ex-husband while I was making our coffee, filled him in on everything.”
“Thanks. I appreciate it.”
He shrugged. “Well, like him or not, I guess we’re all in this together.”
“Yeah, that’s basically what I told Breanne on the bathroom floor of Machu Picchu. So you think it was Winslow who hired the hit man? Arranged for that bathroom attack?”
Mike pulled on his pants, tucked in his dress shirt. “It’s the angle that makes the most sense, doesn’t it? Winslow’s scum. He paid off Monica Purcell in drugs to commit a crime. He probably did the same with the man who attacked Breanne in the bathroom. Whether or not Winslow was in custody is beside the point if he already paid the guy to take her out.”
“I’d have to come to the same conclusion—at least based on what we know. I’ve been thinking about Randall Knox, and I can’t make him as a murderer.”
“The gossip guy?” Mike grabbed his wallet, cell phone, and gold shield off the dresser. “You think he’s innocent?”
“I wouldn’t call him innocent, but after sleeping on it, I’m willing to bet his hits are limited to the pen, not the sword.”
“Good bet. After I spoke to you, I ran a background check. No felonies. No outstanding warrants or restraining orders. Just a lot of unpaid parking tickets. Whereas you can see what kind of nut job Winslow is.”
“Exactly. If I had to guess, I’d say Knox and Miriam Perry were toasting something other than Breanne’s demise. Probably whatever smut story Knox is planning to publish on Monday.”
“The one on Breanne?”
I nodded. “He claims Breanne and the dead stripper shared more than a physical resemblance.”
“And what does that mean?”
“It might mean they shared Matt, in which case the gossip column will be about a particularly embarrassing episode in my ex-husband’s playboy past.”
Mike tightened the knot on his tie. “Will something like that hurt his new marriage?”
“I don’t know. Breanne’s one tough fashionista. Something tells me she’ll be able to handle whatever Knox throws at her. As for Matt, I think he may actually care for the woman he’s about to make his new wife.”
“Then maybe they’ll just get their first lesson in making a marriage work.”
I met Mike’s eyes. “Forgiveness?”
He winked. “Got it in one.”
I smiled. “The thing is . . . I found something else out last night, something that makes me think the story has nothing to do with Matt.”
He slipped on his shoulder holster. “I’m listening.”
I climbed out of bed, crossed to the new computer desk, and opened his old laptop.
“What are you doing?”
“You’ll see.”
I logged onto my Internet account and called up Breanne’s official biography on the Trend Web site. “It says here that Breanne Summour is a pen name she legally uses to shield her aristocratic family from publicity. They reside in Europe, and Breanne grew up all over the world, studying at the Sorbonne with sons and daughters of royalty. She has an impeccable sense of fashion that she acquired at the knee of an older family friend, a stunning beauty who once modeled for world-renowned Parisian designer Coco Chanel.”
“So?” Mike said.
“So it doesn’t add up. Breanne was well educated and well connected. It doesn’t exactly fit with what Winslow implied. Or what Nunzio told me last night.”
“Wait. Who’s Nunzio?”
“An Italian sculptor—he’s not important, but what he said is. Breanne’s been wheeling and dealing behind the scenes, making bargains to get herself freebies. It doesn’t sound like the woman in her bio.”
Mike leaned over my shoulder to read the computer screen. “Yeah. There’s a lot of spongy language here.” He pointed. “ ‘Studied at the Sorbonne.’ When? Doesn’t say she actually graduated. And who’s this ‘family friend’? No hard dates, names, facts. She admits in the bio that she’s legally changed her name, which would discourage any cursory background checks; someone would have to spend money and a whole lot of time to dig up a story, if there even is one, on her past. You’re right. Sounds like a scam job. Why don’t you ask Breanne about it?”
“If it’s just résumé enhancement, it’s no big deal, right?”
Mike laughed. “If that were a crime, I’d have to arrest half the city—and all the politicians.”
“
Maybe it’s nothing,” I said. “But with Knox threatening an exposé, and my own investigation turning up facts about Breanne that don’t add up, I’d really like to know what Matt is marrying into.”
Mike began to massage my shoulders. “Joy’s about to get a stepmother. Is that it?”
“I’d just like to know what Breanne is hiding, what’s behind the cashmere curtain.”
“Will she tell you if you ask?”
“Doubtful. She’s got the brick wall thing down pretty well.”
“You know, Cosi, whenever I hit a brick wall, I go the other direction.”
“What do you mean?”
“You said Randall Knox implied there was some kind of link between Breanne and the stripper Hazel Boggs. They shared more than a physical resemblance, right?”
“Right.”
“So look at Hazel to find out what they shared. Call the Fish Squad. Ask them what they dug up on the girl. Maybe you’ll find a connection to Breanne.”
A horn honked outside, and Mike glanced at his watch. “Sorry, sweetheart. I’ve got to go. Sully’s picking me up down on the—”
The horn honked again. Mike poked his head out the window. “Knock if off, Sully!”
“You’re late!”
“I’m coming! Stop disturbing the peace!”
He brought his head back in. “Don’t forget, you have a change of clothes here in the top drawer. Your sneakers are in my closet. Now kiss me good-bye.”
I did (and for a lot longer than was probably prudent, given Sully’s third horn blast). Mike slipped out the door, and I sighed. It was hard to see my man go. I hung out the window, waited for him to hit the street—one last look.
“Bye, honey!” I shouted.
“See you tonight!” he shouted back.
He threw me a kiss and climbed into Sully’s car. I drew my head inside the window, went to the kitchen, and poured another cup of Mike’s coffee. Then I called the Sixth Precinct.
“Detective Lori Soles.”
“This is Clare Cosi, Detective. I’d like to talk to you one more time about Hazel Boggs . . .”
I didn’t dress for Trend’s offices. The sneakers, jeans, and sweater that I’d stashed at Mike’s apartment would have to do.
“Breanne, I need to speak with you.”
“What?” Breanne glanced up from her massive glass desk, her delicate eyewear perched on the end of her nose. “Clare? What are you doing here?”
I walked into her office, shut the door, and threw the lock. “I’m here to get your side of the story.”
“What story? I don’t understand?”
“I just spoke with Hazel Boggs’s mother. She’s downtown, collecting Hazel’s remains and personal items. Like her daughter, Rhonda Boggs looks just like you.”
Breanne blanched for a moment. Then the mask was back. “I don’t know what you think you’ve uncovered, Clare, but—”
“There’s no thinking about it.” I strode up to her desk and showed her my cell phone photos of Hazel, Rhonda, and a snapshot among Hazel’s possessions that linked both women to Breanne. “I blew up the image of the snapshot on my computer and printed it out.”
I reached into the back pocket of my jeans and unfolded the paper. The enlarged photo showed a young Breanne, standing in front of a run-down trailer, arm in arm with a young Rhonda Boggs, who was pointing proudly to an issue of Vogue.
“I couldn’t read the smaller type on the magazine cover, so I looked up this issue on the library’s database. And guess what the cover story was titled: ‘Architect of Fashion,’ by Breanne Summour.”
Breanne sat back in her chair. “Okay, so you are a decent sleuth. Why are you here?”
“Randall Knox claims he knows what you and Hazel Boggs shared besides a physical resemblance. He obviously knows what I know, and on Monday he’s going to publish it.”
Breanne shook her head, took off her glasses. “I doubt that little twerp knows the whole story. No one knows the whole story. Not even my ex-husband knew the truth. No one knows but me.”
“Well, I certainly know a lot of it based on my interview with your younger sister. You were born Rita Boggs in a trailer park outside of Wheeling, West Virginia, the oldest of four children. After high school, you attended community college, but you were forced to drop out of school after only one year when your father, an ex-con who did time for armed robbery and attempted murder, got on his hog and rode away. Am I warm?”
“Okay, Clare. What do you want?”
“What do you mean, what do I want?”
“Everyone who comes to me with that story wants something. What do you want?”
“Breanne, I don’t understand you. Hazel Boggs was your niece, for God’s sake. You never even admitted to Matt that it was your niece who was murdered!”
“I never met the girl, Clare. It’s been twenty years since I’ve even seen my sister. Now, what do you want to keep this quiet?”
“I don’t want anything! Clearly, you’ve cut all ties to your past. That’s the way you want it—and I can see now that’s why you expected Matt to cut his ties, too.”
“I don’t expect it anymore.”
“I’m glad to hear it. But, look, even though your background is your own private business, Matt should know the truth before you marry him.”
“No.”
“Why? You have nothing to be ashamed of. Your sister told me that you send her and your younger brothers money on a regular basis—”
“And I only ever asked them for one thing in return: to never speak of my background. Rhonda obviously forgot that bargain.”
“Don’t blame her for opening up to me. She believed I was working with the detectives who were investigating her daughter’s death—which I was, frankly. She had no idea I had a connection back to you.”
“She shouldn’t have talked to you, Clare. And she should have told me that Hazel was living in New York.” Breanne glanced away; her clipped tone softened. “I never met my niece, but I would have helped her if I’d known she was here.”
“Hazel didn’t want you to know. She knew you wanted your privacy. And she had her own pride, too. That’s how Rhonda put it. She said her daughter came to New York to make it on her own like her aunt did. Maybe Hazel never met you, Breanne, but she greatly admired you.”
“Is that so? And is that why she dressed like me to strip?”
“She only did it twice. The look-alike agency regularly booked her out as other celebrities. It was Randall Knox who saw the resemblance and paid her to imitate you. Your sister had no idea Hazel was hiring herself out as an exotic dancer to make ends meet.”
Breanne paused, the steel in her eyes softening. “How is she? My sister. Is she holding up okay?”
“She was very sad, of course. But she seemed okay, a survivor. Her husband came with her. She said she has two younger daughters and a son back home.” I stepped up to Bree’s desk and put down a piece of paper. “This is her hotel and phone number. She’ll be in New York until tomorrow morning if you want to see her before she leaves.”
Breanne bit her lip. “Rhonda’s daughter was shot instead of me.” She closed her eye, shook her head. “It’s my fault the girl’s dead . . .”
“That’s ridiculous. You didn’t gun her down. And your life was in just as much danger.”
“But if I had known that Hazel needed money, she wouldn’t have had to do the exotic dancing. I could have helped her—”
“Like I said, according to your sister, Hazel didn’t want your help. She was proud of her looks, her talent. She wanted to make it on her own.” I raised an eyebrow. “Sounds a lot like you, from what Rhonda told me.”
Breanne met my eyes. “And what else did Rhonda tell you?”
“That you were barely out of your teens, yet you quit college to take care of your younger sister and brothers on nothing but food stamps and welfare checks. What you did was admirable, Breanne. I don’t understand why you’re trying so hard to hide it.”
“My father was a criminal, and my mother was an alcoholic who ended up in a mental hospital. Not a very pretty past, Clare. I also did things, illegal things, for extra money. Did Rhonda mention that?”
“No.”
“Well, what’s the difference? In for a penny in for a pound, right? I didn’t have to do it for long. A family friend helped me get a legitimate job at a local department store.”
“Rhonda said you were very smart, you made friends with the store buyers.”
Breanne nodded. “I wrote articles for local publications about new products. But there was one story that broke me out.”
“The one on the Vogue cover? How did you manage that from a trailer park in West Virginia?”
Breanne’s hard blue gaze softened again. “There was a clothing buyer at the department store, a very nice man. He told me about a famous architect who was collaborating with a fashion designer to create a new line of women’s clothes. So I took a bus to Pittsburgh, where the architect lived, interviewed him extensively, and put a slick piece together with the help of one of my old community college teachers. Before she retired, she’d worked in New York as a reporter. She was the one who made a few calls, found out which editor at Vogue would be receptive to the piece.”
“And Vogue bought it? Just like that?”
“Fortune favors the foolish, I guess. The circumstances were unusual.”
“What do you mean?”
“The architect was no spring chicken. The man suffered a heart attack and died right before fall fashion week. The clothing line he helped create was a huge hit, and I had the only interview.”
“So your article ran as a Vogue cover story under a pen name you invented: Breanne Summour.”
She nodded. “By then Rhonda was old enough to take care of my brothers. So I moved to New York and, with a completely fabricated résumé, landed a job at New York Trends.”
“But I still don’t understand. Why did you have to hide your past?”
Breanne’s laugh was sharp and cynical. “I didn’t have an Ivy League degree—or any degree. I talked my way into the job with the single Vogue piece.”