Stupid me. Not Uncle Dom’s. Because he wouldn’t have had the remote to open the garage But Robert Martin’s men? Yeah, especially since one of them was Dean Benson.
***
They frog marched us to the service elevator, which, conveniently, was big enough hold three hostages, three goons, Martin, and Benson. Martin pressed the button to the production kitchen. Even as we stood huddled together in that elevator, I still had this utter sense of what the fuck? because they didn’t know about Thom breaking into the computer, but the sense this was a scene from a TV movie titled Dead Chefs Walking was overwhelming. There was a part to this puzzle that was missing.
Marc wasn’t stupid, and once Coolie had made her stand, he raced over to her side and grabbed her hand. We obeyed Martin’s demand, “All three of you, in the elevator,” and when the doors opened into the production kitchen, we instinctively headed toward the far right wall, as far away from the elevator as possible. We moved as a tight-knit group, carrying along the person who stumbled, never letting go of each other’s hands. I didn’t look up, terrified of making eye contact with the goons. All I saw of them was their shoes; even their laces looked menacing.
Coolie was our only salvation. Martin might rough her up, but I doubted he’d seriously hurt her, and I suppose her rationale was that he wouldn’t hurt us if he had to hurt her to do it. Which seemed a pretty damn accurate rationale up to this point. We weren’t dead yet. If we could stick to her for just a few more minutes, then hopefully Thom would call the police in time before Marc and I ended up in the bay riddled with bullet holes.
Perhaps I was over-dramatizing these events. Benson and Martin stood huddled in the opposite corner of the kitchen whispering to each other. Maybe this would be another heated verbal exchange between Martin and me, with Benson reprising his role as a total coward and Martin making threats and then I’d would pull the Uncle Dom card again and then…Maybe not. Because at some hidden signal from Martin, I heard the rustle of fabric and raised my eyes enough to see that the three goons pulled out three guns. I knew guns (you couldn’t be married to a cop and not know far more about guns that you ever wanted to know), and those Glocks with modified barrels could blow a hole in your shoulder the size of a large apple. One artery blasted away at a minimum.
Why wait until now? Of course. The cameras in the garage. I suppose there were several plausible stories that Benson could have told to explain the events down in the garage. He’d caught us stealing food or wine. That would work. Training guns on members of your staff and a student, whose father happened to be on the board? It would be much harder to come up with a plausible lie.
Martin and Benson kept talking, although now I got the sense that they were now arguing. Martin’s voice remained low. I still couldn’t hear what he was saying, but I didn’t imagine it boded well for either Marc or me, because Benson kept repeating in agitated voice to Martin’s quiet murmurs, “No, not here!” Which I interpreted as, “Yes, somewhere else.”
At the sight of the guns, I couldn’t help it. I began shaking from sheer terror. Coolie squeezed my hand in comfort, her hand cool and dry. I heard the tiniest of whimpers as Marc began to lose it. Come on, Thom. There was no way to interpret that scene in the garage with Martin and his thugs hustling us into the elevator as anything but threatening. Would he have the smarts to demand to speak to O’Connor or even call Jim? But that wouldn’t do us any good. For the first time in my life I cursed not changing my name when I got married because Thom wouldn’t know that our last names were different and how in the hell were we going to get out of this alive?
Martin broke away from Benson’s grip on his forearm.
“I heard you, Bob,” he growled and made his across the kitchen over to where we stood clutching each other.
“Lapin, that wasn’t very smart of you.”
Marc didn’t answer, the whimpering got louder.
“Shaking Benson down. Stupid.”
“What?” The words were out of my mouth before I could stop myself.
“Yes. It seems Bob is quite the lady’s man,” Martin sneered. Benson blushed. “Courting both the pastry chef and the office manager. And it seems that Lapin figured this out and demanded that Benson fire his father or Benson’s peccadilloes would become public.” At that Marc gasped. “Yes, we know. Your father. When you began making threats against Benson, we bugged your apartment.” He paused and then sneered at me. “And your car. Quite the little sex kitten, aren’t you, Ms. Ryan?”
They’d heard us rolling around having sex on Marc’s clean laundry. I wasn’t going to give Martin any satisfaction. I refused to blush and just stared back at him.
“That other chef. She really didn’t know what you were up to, did she? And then we lost sight of you, but you were at Mary Ryan’s house.” He turned to me. “You interfering bitch.” He raised his hand, just slightly, and for a moment I thought he was going to hit me. Turning back to Marc he ordered, “Now tell us the full story and what you’ve told the police, so that we can let you go home.”
I stifled a snort because you don’t pull guns on people and then let them go home. Did he think we were fools?
The missing part of the puzzle. This wasn’t about me. It was about Marc. He’d lied to me. He had found out about Benson and Allison, Benson and Marilyn. He’d already put his blackmail plans in motion. I turned to glare at him. Tears were streaming down his face. Shelley. She hadn’t known anything and they must have gone overboard in trying to find out what Marc knew.
At some point, I might appreciate the irony. Like maybe in sixty years. Because it wasn’t Benson’s love life that had brought us all here. They were afraid that Marc had uncovered the money laundering scheme. They could beat him to death and he wouldn’t have a clue what they wanted. It would be a repeat of Shelley. It was cold comfort to think that once they’d do the post-mortem on me, they’d find the goods with which to convict Martin et al. Unless Martin stripped me.
I needed time. By now, Thom should have gotten through to someone, or O’Connor should be here to see what in the hell I was up to. O’Connor loved nothing more that reading me the riot act. If he had to drive in from the Sunset, he’d probably be double-parking right now and making his way up the stairs. Benson was the weak link. The son who couldn’t make it on his own, whose father had had to bail him out. Whose father owned a baseball team and the school and used Bob’s dream to launder his mob money. Just a couple of minutes should do it.
Turning away from Martin, I said in a slow voice, “She loved you, Bob. Do you know I went to the jewelry store where she bought her wedding ring? I saw it. It was a beautiful ring. Allison must have adored it. I put it on my own finger,” I lied. Benson paled and he began to twist his signet ring around and around. “I’ve been to her apartment. I saw her checkbook. She’d paid for your honeymoon. I saw all those cookbooks you’d given her over the years, inscribed to her.” His face crumpled in on itself. I was getting to him, gaining us a few more seconds. O’Connor, dammit, where are you? “Her bedroom—”
“Shut up,” Martin ordered. “Melissa, let go of their hands. You need to go home. Your mother is quite ill and needs you. She’s asking for you. You know how only you can soothe her when she’s like this.”
That part was probably a lie, but when he’d turned to her and spoken, he’d said it in a pleading voice, as any other father might. She didn’t let go of my hand, but her body language stiffened for the first time. Coolie’s weak link? Her mother.
“When?” she whispered.
“Last week. I have a plane waiting at the airport. Come, darling.”
She shook her head.
“Please, sweetie,” he said quietly and calmly.
“You won’t hurt them.” I could barely hear her, but Martin didn’t strain forward to catch her mumble.
“No, of course not. In fact, Benson is considering filing charges against Lapin, but perhaps we can come to some understanding once we t
alk to him. If you like, they can go with us to the airport, so you can see that they are alright, and then we’ll continue this discussion in the car.”
Yeah, right. Discussion first, torture second, pushing us in the path of an incoming 747 third. Or something that made it look like a murder-suicide pact so that Marc and I were both taken care of. The garage’s video camera of Marc and me the other night would play right into their hands. Then tonight’s video of me sneaking someone down the stairs. Whatever was going to happen, Marc and I would be going there together.
It all happened so fast.
Marc must have put two and two together, realizing that he had nothing more to tell them, but that they had a hidden agenda that he knew nothing about. Those terrified whimpering noises he’d been making non-stop for the last ten minutes exploded into complete panic. He began screaming, “NO! NO!”
I watched in horror as the thug closest to me pistol-whipped Marc across the jaw. Coolie’s grip on my hand broke, and the two of them went tumbling to the ground. As Marc and Coolie fell, everyone’s attention shifted to them. The thug turned to me. I instinctively raised a hand to shield my face, when he pushed his sunglasses up onto his head. It was Brad the blacksmith. We locked eyes. He looked behind me at the wall next to my head. Where the fire alarm was mounted. He mouthed, “Now.” I reached and pulled the red lever.
Gallons of fire-retardant foam began spewing from pipes in the ceiling, blinding all of us. Over the whoosh of foam, I heard the roar of guns and Martin shouting, “Melissa!” and Coolie shouting, “Daddy!” and someone screaming my name. I dragged an arm over my eyes to wipe my eyes free from foam. O’Connor came barreling across the room from the open elevator. I moved toward him, slipping on the foam. I remember falling. I remember pain. Then nothing.
Chapter Thirty-one
Brad the blacksmith was undercover as well. In our last conversation O’Connor kept saying “we.” I’d assumed that was an all-purpose we, as in S.F.P.D. No, it meant him and Brad, who seemed to be doing double duty as undercover cop and cooking student by day, undercover cop and mobbed up enforcer by night.
Brad disappeared after that night, so a lot of what went down that night remains speculation. I can only assume that somehow Brad tipped off people that some sort of showdown was in the works. The roar of guns was caused by Swat team guys. Stakeout cops alerted headquarters that Coolie and Marc had left the house. Martin and goons knew that Marc’s van was in the garage because of the homing device. Martin must have been pretty nonplussed to see Coolie there with Marc. Me? Along for the ride. Swat team then broke into the school and were waiting for the opportune moment. I suspected someone was miked to Brad, but I’ll never know.
Bullets flew everywhere. Benson didn’t make it. Neither did the two goons. Martin caught a bullet in the thigh throwing himself in front of Coolie. Coolie stayed with him in the hospital until they could load him on a plane. Then they went home for a while. The last time I heard from her, Martin was marshalling legal power for the case against him, and Coolie was leaving for France to join Marc.
I wish I could say that Étienne and Marc had reached some sort of understanding, but the news from Coolie was that Marc’s recent brush with near death had done nothing to awaken any latent paternal feeling on Étienne’s part. Étienne had never wanted anything to do with Marc, and that Marc was nearly a victim of a mob hit did nothing to change that.
That pain was my head hitting the tile with such force that I ended up with a severe concussion. They kept me in the hospital for a few days until the swelling subsided. O’Connor would visit me very late at night and hold my hand for an hour or two. I’d pretend to be asleep. He’d pretend I was asleep. The ER techs who’d undressed me had probably seen it all and didn’t question why I had a CD hidden in the hood of my sweatshirt, they just included it in the plastic bag with the rest of my clothes. It wasn’t until the third night in the hospital that I remembered the CD. I had it in my hand when O’Connor arrived. He removed it and then whispered in my ear, “Macushla,” and left. Robert Martin’s legal problems were just about to get a whole hell of a lot worse.
The severity of my concussion had forestalled most of the lectures from various family members. My mother stocked my freezer with soup, lasagna, and stew. Uncle Dom offered to pay my mortgage for the next few months until I got on my feet. I politely declined. I was on disability for a minimum of three months, the payments of which would cover my mortgage and nothing else. It didn’t matter. I was done here. I didn’t belong with all the young parents and the tricycles and the slides and the minivans. As soon as I could, I was going to put the house on the market. I wanted to get out while I could still break even. Every week, bold headlines in the real estate section of the Chron announced the reversal of the real estate market in the Bay Area. Houses in Albany were still at a premium because of the school district, but it was only a matter of time before the general slump affected that market as well.
A week after the showdown with Martin, although still shaky and headachey, I donned my darkest sunglasses, tanked up on eight hundred milligrams of Motrin, and crossed the bridge. The school was now closed (and the students shunted off to other cooking schools); its future uncertain. My gate card was still good in the garage. Hurdle one accomplished. I stopped at my locker, poured everything into a large plastic bag. If anyone questioned me, I was there to clean out my locker.
I took the elevator to the third floor, got out, and tried the door to the office. When it didn’t open, I took a quick look around to see if anyone was around. At the all clear, I took a hammer from my purse (which had been wrapped a towel), and smashed the glass. I waited. No one came running.
Making my way to Marilyn’s desk, I opened the top right-hand desk drawer and there it was. I took out the pair of tongs I had in my purse and put the bottle in a plastic bag.
My head was beginning to pound. I had about another two hours before I’d be whimpering and completely debilitated. I had to move fast.
I drove to North Beach and double parked. With the headache came the nausea, and I couldn’t manage more than a brief walk; it was worth risking a ticket.
At the sound of the door jingle, Mr. Garibaldi came into the front, wiping the tiniest bit of cookie from the side of his mouth. I imagined him and his wife sharing this daily ritual: a mid-morning cup of coffee and a couple of biscotti. I envied him.
“Mr. Garibaldi, I’d like to buy Allison Warner’s ring.”
“I thought you’d be back,” he said. “Some day, Ms. Ryan, you will wear this ring.” He opened the box and put it on the counter.
It was very Allison, extremely feminine and delicate. Three rubies set in a row, nestled in a bed of intertwining gold filigree. Not the sort of ring you could wear while cooking. Which meant that I’d never wear it if I was going to continue cooking. If ever there was a life-changing moment, putting that ring on my finger was it.
Allison’s fingers were bigger than mine, and the ring wobbled on my ring finger, but fit my third finger quite nicely. “I can’t wait any more. I’m going to wear it out of door,” I replied and handed him my credit card.
The headache and nausea only increased as I made my way back over the bridge. Every time I hit even a minor bump in the road, I winced, but I had one more stop to make.
I rang Bridie’s doorbell. She opened the door immediately. There was one ancient suitcase just to the left of the door. She didn’t look surprised to see me.
“I’d offer you some tea, but I’m off to visit my grandchildren in Arizona. The taxi should be here any moment.”
A wave of nausea overwhelmed me, and I grabbed the frame of the door. “Bridie, could you let me in Allison’s apartment?”
Her face got that same scrunch of concern that my mother’s face got when I was ill or depressed.
“You don’t look so hot, sweetheart. Why don’t you come in—”
“No, I just need to return something I borrowed from
Allison. Her parents will want me to. Then I’m going to go home and go to bed. I promise.”
She let me in only after I had agreed to come over for tea in three weeks when she’d returned to town.
Allison’s apartment was exactly as O’Connor and I had left it. Her parents obviously couldn’t bring themselves to empty it out just yet. I removed Allison’s bottle of diet pills from her purse and replaced it with Marilyn’s bottle of diet pills that I’d stolen from her desk. Her stash of pills that had her fingerprints all over it.
After they’d discharged me from the hospital, I’d gone to my mother’s for a couple of days at her insistence. I was sitting at the kitchen table having a cup of tea, debating whether or not to go back to bed, when my mother came home from a trip to the drug store, laden down with Dove ice cream bars, microwave popcorn, and bottles of root beer. Comfort food. I went to help her put the groceries away when my hand wrapped around a bottle of what I thought was pills. It wasn’t. It was a bottle of VitaLife.
“Mom?” I squeaked and held it up for her to see.
“Oh, the clerk at the store told me she dropped fifteen pounds on it. I thought I’d try it.”
I looked at the back of the bottle and, yep, there on the warning label was the admonition to not take this supplement if you were allergic to shellfish.
Pouring the contents down the sink, I flicked the switch to garbage disposal. It didn’t take an Einstein to figure out what had happened.
It had nothing to do with the money laundering and everything to do with jealousy. Given Allison’s stupid obsession with her weight, Marilyn Cantucci only had to smooth a slim hand over a slender hip, leave the diet supplement in plain sight on her desk, and Allison would tumble. Given that Marilyn smoked at least two packs a day, I had serious doubts that Marilyn’s slender frame has anything to do with those stupid diet supplements and everything to do with smoking two of her meals.
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