by Coyle, Cleo
A young woman in a red jacket moved toward the elevator bank with a new group of departing guests. Despite her hood being up, I recognized my daughter immediately.
Now where is Little Red Riding Hood going? I wondered. If I were a suspicious parent, I might conclude she was up to something.
The moment I confronted Joy, she turned doe-eyed. “Oh, hi, Mom!” she chirped, way too energetically. “I was looking all over for you!”
“Well, you found me. Where are you sneaking off to?”
“I’m not sneaking. How funny!” Joy laughed (in a pitch too high) and gave me a one-armed hug. When the elevator car binged, she pecked my cheek and ducked inside. Only then did I spot the glossy black box tucked under her jacket—the one marked in white grease pencil with the letters REF.
“I’m just meeting a friend!” she sang while jamming the lobby button over and over. “Going to catch up while I’m in town . . .”
“What friend?” I asked.
“I’ll tell you in the morning. I have the key to the duplex. Don’t wait up—”
The sliding doors cut off any further discussion.
Okay, so my daughter was an adult and she had plenty of close friends in the city. But the stealthy way she was attempting to depart, along with that box of Raspberry-Espresso Flowers, set off alarms in my head.
I hurried back to the party to question Matt.
By now, the Loft space was half empty. The final, lingering guests had clustered themselves into two tight knots on opposite ends of the room. The larger group was exclusively male—all of them buyers, circling Maya Lansing.
I didn’t see Matt, but it did dawn on me that Maya was still here. Clearly, no showdown had taken place between her and Alicia. Almost immediately, I saw why. The elusive Captain Herbie was now glued to Maya’s side.
Given the fitness queen’s oh-so-perfect butt, I was more than a little surprised to find her husband a stout, middle-aged regular guy. He was cute enough—a teddy bear with a yachtsman’s cap, but he was obviously no bodybuilder, which meant the identity of “Dennis St. Julian” and the purpose of his fake murder this morning remained a mystery.
The second group in the half-empty room was mostly female. Among them were Madame and Alicia Bower, along with those two twenty-something acolytes I’d met—Susan Chu and Daphne Krupa. I also recognized Sherri Sellars, the Love and Relationship Sister. They’d gathered so thickly around a central figure I suspected it must be the one and only Aphrodite.
Putting off my desire to meet the World Wide Web’s goddess of love, I focused instead on the pursuit of motherly truth. I found Esther Best at the samples table, merging what was left of the pastries into tidy new displays.
“Where’s Matt?” I demanded.
“Gone,” she said. “He left shortly after you disappeared.”
“I see.” Folding my arms, I considered the bait. “So tell me, Esther, are we completely out of Voss chocolates?”
“Nearly,” she replied, clearing away an empty tray. “We still have some Hearts of Darkness and Petit Nibs, but everything else is nom-ed.”
I pretended to weigh her assessment. “You know what? Let’s put out that box of Raspberry-Espresso Flowers, after all. They may have sugar bloom, but I’m sure they’re delicious and the remaining guests might enjoy them.”
“Uhm . . .” Esther froze. “Sorry, boss, I think most of those are gone.”
“Gone? How can that possibly be?” I stared. Hard.
She threw up her hands. “I put half the box aside to share with Boris, okay? Joy saw me and asked for the rest. She wanted some cupid helper, too. Where’s the harm? They were just sitting there, going to waste!”
Cupid helper? I closed my eyes. “Esther, who is Joy meeting tonight?”
“I’m not supposed to say.”
Hands on hips, I tapped one foot in a managerial countdown. “Unless you want nothing but opening shifts for the next five months, you better—”
“Okay, okay! If you’re going to use Gestapo tactics!”
“Who?”
“I’ll tell you. Just don’t let Mr. Boss find out. Joy already knows how her dad feels about this dude, and if he—”
Oh no. “Not Franco!”
“Oh yes. The General, aka Sergeant Rambo, aka Mr. Magic Hands, aka—”
“Stop. Please!” Could this day get any worse? “She told me their little fling was over!”
“Naw,” Esther replied. “The whole ‘moving on’ thing was just something she said to humor you and Matt.”
“There’ll be no ‘humoring’ Matt if he gets wind of this.”
“Well, I’m not about to tell him.”
“Good,” I said, and quickly collared Tucker.
“What now?” he asked.
“Don’t try to play me,” I said. “You heard every word.”
“I hate to be the bearer of obvious news,” Tuck said, “but Joy’s really into Franco. The guy’s funny, streetwise, has washboard abs, and kept in touch with her all these months. Plus he carries a badge and a gun—useful little perks in all five of our boroughs. Face it, Matt’s going to find out.”
“But he doesn’t have to find out this trip.” Or this year, I silently added. “Matt’s already in a state over the Mocha Magic powder. If he hears his own daughter took a box of cupid helper to Emmanuel Franco, he’ll blow an artery. And the last thing I need this week is a trip to the ER!”
“Don’t sweat it,” Tuck replied. “I wouldn’t want to drop the news about Franco on any daughter’s daddy—especially not Matteo Allegro.”
“Thank you,” I said, glancing around. “Now let’s get Nancy on board. Where is she?”
“Gone,” Tuck said.
“Gone where?”
Tuck arched an eyebrow. “Before you disappeared with Mr. Blue Suit, Nancy declared she was feeling faint.”
“Woozy was the word she used,” Esther said.
“Is she okay now?” I asked, worried.
“She spent a little time in the bathroom,” Esther said. “When she came out, I sent her home in a cab. We don’t need a barista keeling over in the middle of service. Not good for public relations.”
I frowned. “Did she have a fever? Chills?”
“Nope.” Esther smirked. “In fact, now that I think about it, the whole thing might have been a ‘dizzy act.’ ”
“What does that mean?”
“Well, she sampled quite a few of our aphrodisiac-laced goodies. Maybe she faked being ill so she could go back to the Blend to try hooking up with Dante. She’s pretty excited about some special tattoo he’s supposedly creating for her.”
The fact that Dante was designing a “special tattoo” for Nancy was news to me. Either Dante was humoring her, or Nancy had finally figured out a way to get the artistic attention of her boy-crush.
Before I could speculate which it was, Alicia tapped my shoulder.
“Excuse me, Clare, I have a question . . .”
“Alicia? What is it?”
“Have you seen Patrice Stone? I ran out of business cards. I have more in my coat pocket, but I can’t find my Burberry—the trench I lent her? Patrice needs to tell me where she tossed it . . .”
“It’s not in the cloakroom?”
“No.”
Susan Chu drifted over. “Daphne and I were looking for Patrice a little while ago, but we couldn’t find her. I mean, this isn’t that big a place so where did she go, right?”
My daughter, my ex-husband, and my newbie barista were gone, and now Patrice was missing . . . Great.
“Let’s pan out,” I said. “Susan and Daphne, check the ladies’ room—all the stalls . . .”
With a nod, they dashed off.
“I’ll go speak with Aphrodite,” Alicia said. “Perhaps she sent Patrice on some errand and didn’t tell anyone . . .”
After they were gone I thought back to the last time I saw Patrice Stone, it was right before she slipped into Alicia’s hooded raincoat and dashed outside to
retrieve her missing smartphone.
“Keep an eye on things,” I told Esther.
“Sure, boss. Where are—”
I hurried across the half-empty party room, down the corridor, past the elevator bank, and pushed through the doors that led to the rooftop Garden. The air felt chillier, but the storm was letting up fast, the steady rain dissolving into drizzle. Rippling puddles still covered the Garden’s stone floor, acting as mirrors for the illuminated columns above them. The most brilliant light, however, radiated from St. Patrick’s white spires, gleaming across Fifth Avenue. The bells inside those twin steeples began to chime the hour. The sad, haunting sound rang across the concrete chasm and echoed through my bones.
Ignoring the few droplets of rain that pelted my skin, I dodged the puddles at my feet and headed for the podium. The little canopy over the raised stage had failed to protect a thing. Every surface was completely rain swept. I carefully climbed the few slippery steps and looked around the podium, searching for any sign of Patrice or her missing smart-phone. Finally, I turned to face the rear of the stage and the reflecting pool behind it.
That’s when I saw her. Sprawled facedown in the blue water was a human figure. The brightly lit pool framed the woman’s silhouette. Around her battered head, a blood-flecked cloud mingled with locks of golden hair to form a scarlet halo.
I stumbled back down the stairs, nearly slipping off. When I reached the pavement, I hurried to the pool’s edge, dropped to my knees, and seized Patrice with both hands.
As I heaved her toward me, Alicia’s pearl-gray trench billowed on the surface like angels’ wings. The pool sloshed over, soaking my skirt and legs. The body was heavy and limp. It took all of my strength just to drag her out of the water and roll her onto her back.
Her flesh appeared gray-white. The terrible wound on her forehead had drained to a pinkish hue. Her prairie-sky eyes were half-open and unfocused, her limbs already stiffening in the icy air.
I didn’t check for respiration or a pulse. With the dying chimes of the cathedral’s bells, the horrific truth was plainly evident. Poor Patrice Stone was stone-cold dead.
EIGHTEEN
DRIPPING wet from the reflecting pool and fighting back tears, I returned to the hallway and the elevators. The party continued, the remaining revelers oblivious. I was numb during the ride downstairs, and by the time I reached the security station I was shivering uncontrollably, my wet ponytail plastered to my back.
I found “Matterhorn,” the security director with the muffin top neck, and stammered that I’d discovered a dead woman in the Garden. He mobilized his force, ordering them to seal off the area and lock down the elevator bank.
Despite the flurry of activity, Kevin (his real name) sat me down in a folding chair, took off his own giant blue sport coat and wrapped it around me, insisting I wait right there with him for the NYPD to arrive.
Within minutes, the night air was filled with sirens, the streets with flashing lights. Uniformed officers swarmed the art deco lobby, followed soon after by plain-clothed detectives, enough to number an entire squad. Many of them looked familiar to me since I’d seen them that morning at the One Seven.
Among the sea of suits were two of my favorite customers: Detectives Lori Soles and Sue Ellen Bass. Both were still wearing their chocolate blazers and beige slacks. Sue Ellen’s dark hair was down now, but she was still keyed up. The pair noticed me but didn’t approach. Instead, they fell into a huddle with Kevin and a man in a trench with prematurely gray hair who was most likely the squad’s senior officer. They glanced at me several times, but then the huddle broke and the Fish Squad flanked me.
Lori Soles crouched down. “How are you doing, Cosi?” she asked. Her short blond curls were frizzy from the rain; her blue eyes big and unblinking. “You okay?”
“I’m okay.”
She asked me to recount how I found the body. I did. Finally, Sue Ellen broke in with a question.
“Do you feel up to returning to the crime scene?”
“Of course.” I nodded. “I want to help.”
I tried to give the sport coat back to Kevin, but he insisted I keep it around me to stay warm and ward off any shock. I thanked him again and followed Soles and Bass to the elevator.
In the Garden the rain had stopped completely, even the mist had cleared, yet there was still silent lightning—multiple flashes from police cameras photographing every angle of the crime scene. We circled the stage and halted a dozen yards away from the reflecting pool, now surrounded by so many officers wearing CSU jackets I could hardly see the doctor who knelt at Patrice’s side. The occasional blast of wind or blare of car horns echoed up from the street below, but I clearly heard the grim words from one of the city’s thirty-two medical examiners pronouncing her dead.
Sue Ellen tied back her hair, and Lori stood quietly watching while members of the Crime Scene Unit knelt on the cold, wet stones and methodically stripped away Patrice’s clothing. They carefully searched each piece before placing it in its own plastic evidence bag. Meanwhile, the medical examiner handled the corpse with latex gloves, checking for hidden wounds, defensive marks, any evidence of foul play.
During this grisly search, I caught a glimpse of Patrice’s unfocused eyes and looked away. Gazing instead at the gleaming spires of St. Patrick’s Cathedral, I recalled the dying bells and recited a silent prayer.
One member of the CSU stepped out of the crowd and called for the lead detectives. He was clutching an evidence bag in his hand, but I couldn’t see what was in it.
“Wait here,” Lori said as she and Sue Ellen consulted with the man. Then Sue Ellen placed a quick call. After a few minutes, the detectives flanked me again.
“Her name is Patrice Stone,” I told them.
Lori must have thought I was rattled. She put a hand on my shoulder. “We know the woman’s name,” she said very slowly and carefully. “You told us already.”
“I know I did. I just wanted to make sure you didn’t get confused. I saw them going through her pockets, and I know there are business cards in there belonging to another woman, Alicia Bower. Patrice borrowed Alicia’s trench. Did I mention that?”
“No.” Lori paused. “Alicia Bower? Isn’t that the same woman who was involved in that fake murder scene this morning at the Topaz?”
I nodded. The detectives exchanged glances.
“Listen up, Cosi,” Sue Ellen said. “Crime Scene didn’t find any business cards. All the pockets were empty, except for the breast pocket of the raincoat.”
She displayed the evidence bag. Inside was a sheet of paper with a single word printed on it.
“LAETA,” I read.
“Does it mean anything to you?” Lori asked.
I shook my head. “Looks Latin to me . . .”
“We think it’s Latin, too. We’ve got detectives backing us up at the One Seven. They’ll compile a list of possible meanings.”
“Laeta might be a last name,” Sue Ellen said. “You know anyone with that name?”
“No, I don’t. Alicia might. It’s her coat.”
Lips pinched, Sue Ellen nodded and returned the evidence bag to the CSU officer.
“Don’t sweat it,” Lori said. “We’ll follow up with the usual twenty-thousand questions. Something will turn up . . .”
“What do you two think happened here?” I asked.
Lori faced the scene, gestured as she spoke: “Ms. Stone could have climbed the podium in a hurry, slipped on the sopping wet surface, hit her head on the edge of the stage, tumbled unconscious into the pool, and drowned. CSU is on that stage right now, looking for blood splatters—tough after all the rain, but we have Luminol.”
“Luminol?”
“A chemical cocktail that adheres to the iron in hemoglobin. The blood will show up even if most of it has been washed away.”
“Of course, Ms. Stone might not have fallen by accident.” Sue Ellen noted. “Someone could have struck her in the head and dumped her in the pool—”
>
“We’ll know better when we get the results of the autopsy,” Lori cut in.
“Aren’t there hidden security cameras up here somewhere?” (I realized the possibility almost the moment I said it.)
“There are.” Lori turned me around and pointed to a small box on the building’s dark wall. “As you can see, one of them is aimed directly at the Garden entrance.”
I couldn’t believe how easy this was going to be. “Won’t the camera reveal who came out those doors after Patrice? And if she was murdered, won’t that be your evidence of the killer’s identity?”
“Pretty easy, huh?” Lori nodded with a little smile. “We’re waiting for a judge to grant a warrant to review the digital files. In the meantime, why don’t you give us more background on Ms. Stone and this party . . .”
I filled them in on everything: the product launch, the guests, Patrice’s job, the cutthroat company she worked for. Then Lori’s cell phone beeped and she answered. “Hello, Judge Harman, thank you for returning my call . . .” The conversation was a short one and ended with Lori smiling. “We have our warrant.”
“Now what?” I asked, pulling Kevin’s giant sport coat closer around me.
“First we meet up with the lawyer for the property management company. Then we’ll review those images—”
“Take me with you.”
Lori nodded. “We plan to. You were at the party, so we’re hoping you can ID any guest or staff member who came through those doors.”
WE followed Kevin deep into a subbasement beneath Rockefeller Center. At an unmarked door, he pressed a buzzer. The door opened, and a man greeted us.
“I’m Ruben Salter.”
The private attorney was a balding man, not much taller than my own five-foot-two frame. He wore a three-piece suit and glasses with frames as thin as piano wire. His mouth appeared locked in a permanent grimace, but his apparent professional indifference evaporated when Lori Soles shook his hand.
The attorney could not stop staring at the Amazonian detective with a cherub’s blond curls, and it seemed to me his touch lingered longer than necessary. Even his rigid frown flatlined into what I assumed was his version of a corporate-lawyer smile.