Holiday Grind

by Cleo Coyle

  “Then why isn’t he here?”

  “I’m afraid it’s my fault.”

  “Your fault?”

  Dom nodded. “Word came to me a few days ago that Karl has been rather, well—naughty.”

  “Naughty?”

  “It’s not a sin what he did, you understand, just not something I approved of. He was shooting YouTube celebrity sightings while on duty as a Traveling Santa.”

  “Celebrity sightings?”

  Dom shook his head, obviously embarrassed. “The Traveling Santa suit let him blend into the background on the Upper West Side—the area Karl’s been covering for several years now. Because he was roaming the city streets all day, he decided to keep his eyes peeled for celebrities, actors, TV stars entering boutiques and shops or eating at restaurants. He filmed them with a small camera, and then he’d approach those establishments and ask if they wanted to buy the footage. Many of them did, and then they’d release it—usually to the Internet for viral publicity.”

  “Karl took kickbacks for celebrity photography?” I remembered that footage the guys at the Blend were discussing of actor Keith Judd shopping at some Upper West Side boutiques.

  “It’s legal,” Dom pointed out. “He was filming in public places. And whether the store owners paid or didn’t pay was entirely up to them. It was simply a form of advertising. But I didn’t consider it a good reflection on our charity. So I decided to clip his wings. I told him I was taking him off the street and putting him to work in our offices. He didn’t like that. We argued and he quit. Karl’s not the most patient man. I’ve tried ministering to him, but he’s remained hard—a much harder case than Alf ever was.”

  As we returned to the party, more people came up to speak with Brother Dom. I thanked him for his time and the book, and stepped away, considering his words.

  If Karl Kovic was filming video on the Upper West Side for money, was Alf doing the same thing in the Village? The two men were old friends. They shared the same apartment. They were both Traveling Santas . . .

  The economic downturn meant retail businesses needed every advantage to pack shoppers into their stores. Most would pay for that advantage. Alf probably saw that kind of thing as helping the stores anyway—it certainly helped mine.

  It was all legal, too, just like Dom said, but what if Karl and Alf wanted a bigger payday? Ben Tower was a professional photographer who was able to get big payoffs for celebrity photos like the ones Madame had just shown me in Gotham Gossip of James Young and Phyllis Chatsworth.

  Could Karl and Alf have gotten involved in that kind of photography, too?

  That’s when it hit me. The pictures of Young and Phyllis, the timing of that day—it all added up! Suddenly, I knew why Alf was on James Young’s balcony—it wasn’t to burglarize his place! Pulling out my cell phone, I strode swiftly back to that quiet hallway and speed-dialed Madame’s cell.

  She answered immediately. “Yes?”

  “It’s Clare. Are you with Ben Tower, by any chance?”

  “Why, yes. We’re having drinks right now at a bar on—”

  “Tell Tower you’re hearing from a source right now who’s confirming that he’s been buying photos from Alfred Glockner and Karl Kovic.”

  “Yes. Hold please.”

  I heard some low voices in the background. Then Madame’s voice more clearly. “I cannot reveal my source, Ben.”

  Madame came back on the line. “Yes, Ben is confirming what you’ve discovered.”

  Oh, my God. “Put me on with him.”

  “Are you sure, dear? I thought you were trying to remain anonymous?”

  “It doesn’t matter now.”

  “Hello? Who is this?” Ben’s voice was familiar—a little tentative and also a little slurry. Madame wasn’t stupid. Treating a man like Ben to a liquid lunch would loosen his tongue in record time!

  “This is Clare Cosi, Mr. Tower.”

  “Oh, God,” he muttered. “The coffee-slinging snoop.”

  “Charmed, I’m sure.”

  Our exchange wasn’t pleasant or long, but it did yield what I’d suspected. Alf Glockner had been sending digital images to Ben Tower the day he was killed.

  “Alf sent me photos of James Young and Phyllis Chatsworth in the afternoon. He lost the pair for many hours, then caught up with them again going into a bistro across from the White Horse Tavern. That’s the last photo I got from Alfred.”

  And that explained why Alf had been sitting in that tavern and abruptly rose and ran. He hadn’t been following James Young to rob him. He’d been following James Young and Phyllis Chatsworth back to Young’s apartment building to get more photos of them.

  I remembered the night I found Alf’s body. His boot prints in the snow had led into the courtyard, where he appeared to pause and loiter. He probably stood out there in the dark, watching for a light to go on among the building’s windows. Then he climbed the fire escape hoping to get some pictures of the couple together in Young’s living room.

  It all made sense now—Omar Linford had told me Alf was paying him back a little at a time: one thousand here, a few hundred there. Alf was also doing the twelve-step program; and one of those steps was to make amends. He was obviously trying to pay back his neighbor, pay off a loan that Omar had made him in good faith.

  Although I couldn’t condone what Alf had done, I could understand why he’d done it. Making money on those photos wouldn’t just help him make amends to Omar. As long as he was continuing to pay back the man, Alf could feel that he was protecting his wife and daughter from being pressured in any way to sell their house and repay that loan.

  The only question now was, who shot Alf? Did James Young do the deed after all? Phyllis Chatsworth? How the heck was I going to prove that? And who the heck threw me off that ferry? Linford’s amazon of a secretary still seemed the most likely suspect for that.

  “There you are!”

  As I reentered Brother Dom’s crowded basement, I looked up to find Vicki coming toward me with Esther Best in tow.

  “Hey, boss!” Esther greeted me with surprising energy. “I’ve had exams all morning—and, man, am I glad my finals are finally over!”

  “Is that why you missed the service upstairs?”

  “Yes, but I made it for the wake—” She put an arm around Vicki’s shoulder and gave her a squeeze. “Anyway, I should have called you last night, but I was cramming.”

  “Called me about what?” I asked. Esther still didn’t know about the ferry incident, but this wasn’t the time and place for that particular update.

  “I have something weird to show you.”

  “Show her! Show her!” Vicki pointed to Esther’s cell phone.

  I studied the images on the little screen. “What is this?”

  “It’s some guy coming out of the side door of Vicki’s mother’s house. When you went in the front door yesterday, I was still warming up your old car, but I noticed this guy coming out. See . . .”

  Esther reached over and toggled the photos forward. Frame by frame they showed a man who looked a lot like Alf. He was about Alf’s height and weight with longish gray brown hair and a mustache. He wore a long, white terrycloth robe and slippers, and the digital photos showed him moving out the side door of Shelly Glockner’s ranch, then toward the back of the house—where there was a glass-enclosed hot tub and sauna.

  “Who is this guy?” I whispered.

  “Karl!” Vicki blurted out so loudly that a number of heads turned our way. “That’s my father’s roommate, Karl Kovic!”

  Alarms were going off in my head. “Your mother is involved with Karl?”

  “If she is, it’s news to me,” Vicki said looking fairly freaked. “And I can tell you I’m not happy about it. That guy is so mean. I can’t stand him!”

  I stepped closer. “Mean how? Could he have hurt your dad?”

  “Oh, no. I don’t think so. They were good friends. Karl never said much to me when I visited my dad at their place. He mainly kept to
himself. It’s the kitten. That’s why he’s mean.”

  “What kitten?” Esther asked.

  “My dad found a little white kitten a few weeks ago, in an alley—”

  “Oh, the kitten!” Alf had told me about the little thing. He’d been forced to sneak it into Karl’s apartment because the building didn’t allow pets.

  “I asked Karl to keep the kitten for a short while,” Vicki explained. “My mom won’t let me have a pet at home, but I’m planning on moving into the city in a month or so. Then I’d be able to take care of it. Karl’s refusing to keep it for me until then! He says he’s just going to dump it in the city shelter.”

  I scowled. “That is mean.”

  Vicki’s hazel green eyes, still red from crying upstairs, began welling once more. “Can you help me again, Clare?”

  I nodded. “Of course, I’ll stop by this evening and pay a visit to Karl. I have a cat already—I can certainly take care of another for as long as you like. And anyway, it seems to me Karl Kovic and I have quite a few things to talk about.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  “THERE he is. Thanks!”

  The second I saw Matt, I paid the cabbie and climbed out of the idling taxi. It was past six o’clock, already dark, and for a few minutes I was actually worried I’d phoned my ex-husband with the wrong location.

  Vicki supplied the address, but it wasn’t an address that made sense to me. I mean, in the past Alf had mentioned he lived uptown, but I assumed it was way up, some tiny apartment on the fringes of Harlem where rents were in the realm of being reasonable.

  This part of the Upper West Side, just north of midtown and west of Central Park, was dominated by stately historic buildings sandwiched between gleaming new co-op towers and high-rise offices. The whole neighborhood seemed way too pricey for a lowly Traveling Santa to afford.

  All around me, young professionals were hurrying home from office jobs. Backslapping businessmen were ducking into bars, socialites were strutting their stuff in designer ensembles, and couples in evening wear were discreetly debating places to have a light bite before attending Handel’s Messiah at nearby Lincoln Center.

  In my worn jeans, scruffy sneakers, and old parka, I suddenly felt underdressed. My ex-husband, by contrast, fit right in. Six feet tall with broad shoulders, Matteo Allegro cut a dashing figure in his black-tie formalwear and tailored topcoat. More than one strutting socialite turned her salon-perfected head as she passed him on the sidewalk. I flagged him down with a waving arm, my bag (a new one after the ferry incident) slipping off my shoulder.

  “Where were you when I called?” I asked, setting Java’s cat carrier down on the sidewalk to haul my shoulder bag back up my arm. “On your cell it sounded like a party?”

  “It was.”

  “Well . . .” I gave his designer tux the once-over. “Thanks for coming, Double-Oh-Seven.”

  “Very funny.”

  “No kidding, Matt. I’m glad you can help me out here.”

  He waved a gloved hand. “I wasn’t even at the main event—that’s at eight at the public library. Bree and I were at this pre-party happy hour thing that Dickie Celebratorio is throwing.”

  “Celebratorio?” I raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t know you were going to the big Dickie party.”

  “Neither did I. Bree gets the invitations. I escort her—and since this ‘benefit’ thing is really just a PR stunt for some kiddie holiday movie, Bree’s a VIP guest.”

  “Because she’s press?”

  “Yep. She assigned a writer and photographer—I think she wants as many shots of the celeb attendees as the event itself.”

  “Well, Tucker deserves the coverage. He spent hours rehearsing some kind of Santa’s workshop production number for the thing. Make sure you give him a big hand when the show’s over.”

  Matt blew a hot breath into the frosty air. “I doubt we’ll stay long enough to see the show. Bree’s kind of like a shark. She has to keep moving.”

  “Moving where?”

  He shrugged. “She typically gets to a party, orders one drink, circles the room, and by the time I’ve settled in, she’s snapping her fingers telling me it’s time to move on to the next event. I’m beginning to feel like a freaking nomad.”

  “That’s rich, given your globe-trotting gene.”

  “New York used to be my chance to stop moving for a little while.”

  “Well, I appreciate your coming. You know I wouldn’t have called if I didn’t really need your help, and I promise I won’t get you arrested this time.”

  “Actually, Clare, compared to the dulling sameness of Manhattan social gatherings, Dumpster diving with you was kind of fun.” He smiled. “So, what’s up?”

  “No Dumpster diving. All we’re going to do is have a little talk with Alf’s former roommate, Karl Kovic. I’m going to persuade him that it’s in his best interest to hand Alf’s orphaned kitten over to me, rather than ship it off to the city pound.”

  “We’re here to steal a kitten?”

  “Yes.”

  Matt groaned. “And you need me because . . .”

  “You’re the persuasion. I also plan to quiz Kovic about a few things.”

  “Like?”

  “Like the particulars of his naughty extracurricular activities.” I updated Matt on Brother Dom’s revelations. “And as far as I’m concerned, this posh address is just another nail in Karl Kovic’s coffin. Ben Tower confirmed to me that Kovic was selling him celebrity photos.”

  “Alf’s friend Karl is beginning to sound like the grifters I see in every major city on this planet.”

  “Yeah, I know the type: Man of a Thousand Schemes.”

  Matt’s smile was suddenly gone. “Guys like that can be pretty nasty, Clare.” He flexed his gloved fingers. “It’s a good thing you asked me to come along.”

  “Well, Mike read me the riot act on watching my back. I’m trying to listen.”

  “The flatfoot’s right. Anything else I should know about this guy?”

  “He’s in some kind of relationship, probably sexual, with Alf’s wife, Shelly. If he denies it, I have proof.”

  “Photos?”

  I nodded. “Esther provided me with cell phone shots that would make a low-rent PI proud.”

  Matt was smiling again. “I can see being your muscle is going to be a lot more fun than being Breanne’s arm candy.” Arching a dark eyebrow, he slipped into a Sean Connery brogue. “Though perhaps I should have brought my Beretta, Miss Moneypenny.”

  “I’m sure the threat of your left hook will be enough.” I picked up Java’s carrier. “Come on . . .”

  I led Matt up the avenue, then down a side street. A few minutes later I found the address. “This is it. The Wiseman Apartments.”

  Matt tilted back his head to take in the six-story brick building. It appeared newly renovated with big windows, restored pediments, and freshly painted wrought-iron grilles.

  He glanced back down at me. “Pretty nice digs for a Traveling Santa.”

  “My thought exactly.”

  The lobby of Wiseman Apartments had eggshell walls and inset tile floors in a black-and-white checkerboard pattern. Lucky for us, there was no doorman. A young woman leaving the place in an open coat and a holiday party dress sweetly held the door for us (really for Matt), and we slipped inside. There were rows of polished brass mailboxes with buttons under each to ring the tenant.

  “K. Kovic, Five C,” Matt read. “Shall we buzz him?”

  “He might not let us in if we ask, so let’s not give him the option.”

  The solitary elevator seemed stuck on three, so we took the stairs and reached the fifth floor a few minutes later. The climb was a chore for me—but it seemed to invigorate Matt. (No doubt a conditioned effect from trekking all those steep trails on high-altitude coffee farms.)

  “Let’s steal this cat!” he said, cracking his leather-gloved knuckles.

  “Not stealing,” I reminded him as we stepped out of the stairwell. “Persuad
ing.”

  He moved up to the apartment door and knocked once. Instantly, the wood swung inward, giving way under his sharply rapping knuckles. He shot me a confused look.

  “Hello! Mr. Kovic?” I called into the quiet, dimly lit apartment. “Karl Kovic?”

  I thought I heard some scuffling in another room as I stepped over the threshold, found a light switch, and flipped it. Recessed bulbs illuminated the foyer and hallway. Matt followed me inside and closed the door.

  “Hello?” I said again, louder this time.

  I took a step forward—then yelped as a little white fur ball rocketed between my sneakers.

  “Here, kitty, kitty,” Matt cooed.

  The kitten scurried behind an umbrella stand, where it sat on its haunches and studied us, pink nose sniffing the air.

  “I think she’s afraid of me,” Matt said after he tried to approach the skittish animal.

  “You’d be scared, too, if a mountain draped in Armani came at you.”

  I saw Matt tense and realized that he was now sniffing the air. “Smell that?”

  “What?”

  “Cordite.”

  My brows knitted. “Cor—?”

  “Gunpowder.”

  “You mean—”

  Matt shushed me. “Stay here. And don’t touch a thing.”

  Matt crept down the short hall. I moved to catch up with him, entering the apartment’s living room.

  Nothing appeared out of the ordinary. A dirty coffee cup sat beside an easy chair, old newspapers and magazines were piled on the floor, and a Santa costume in a dry-cleaning bag was draped over the end of the couch, next to a man’s overcoat.

  Matt noticed me following him and scowled. Then he stepped around the littered coffee table and moved deeper into the apartment. I noticed that the white kitten had reappeared, following my ex’s polished black shoes like a tiny white shadow.

  Must be female.

  I paused at the coffee table, where I spied a slim canvas wallet, keys, and a pile of change. I slipped on my gloves and gingerly opened the wallet with one finger. Karl Kovic’s New York State driver’s license photo stared back at me through a cellophane window.