by Cleo Coyle
“Like a dating service,” Madame put in.
“An exclusive dating service. The club started small and got bigger. Madame knows—she was a member once.”
I did a double take.
“Don’t look so shocked, dear. I wasn’t searching for a sugar daddy or even a rich husband. Remember, I’d lost Matt’s father far too soon, and that tragic affair with the police detective left me bereft. I was lonely. The continental men at the club were quite accomplished and interesting.”
“Eventually Blanche met Pierre,” Babka added. “I was there that day. It was like lightning. He was instantly smitten.”
I gawked at Madame. “But you told me a friend introduced you to your second husband.”
“A white lie,” Madame confessed. “A friend convinced me to join the club, and that’s how I met Pierre.”
“But the gambling,” I pressed. “Surely that’s criminal.”
Babka shrugged. “I brought in overseas investors. You know how it goes. They sold me on the ‘casino school’ idea. There’s nothing technically illegal about it, and we have a certain amount of protection, given our clientele and connections.”
“I guessed as much when I saw the deputy police commissioner down there.”
“Really, Clare, it’s just a matchmaking club, and I keep things on the up-and-up. I even have a lawyer who works hard to protect my members.”
“Harrison Van Loon?”
“Oh, you are good,” Babka replied. “Yeah, that’s my guy.”
I got the picture real fast. Like Hansel and Gretel’s witch, Babka used eye candy to lure men in, but many of them must have gotten burned because she made sure to bring in a legal eagle to pass out guarantees, in the form of flame-retardant prenuptial agreements.
But I still had a problem with Babka’s story.
“If Van Loon is supposed to look out for your girls, how did Anya get stuck paying off Russian mobsters in Brighton Beach?”
I waited for an outraged reaction, but Babka didn’t appear upset in the least by this line of questioning.
“They’re not mobsters,” she calmly told me. “Not technically anyway. These men are more like facilitators. They live in America, but they have ties to the government in Russia. Anya was paying them to get her mother out of jail.”
“Jail?”
“Anya’s mother is an artist and political dissident. She spoke up for human rights, a little too loudly as it turned out. She was imprisoned under the same crackdown that snared other artists.”
I remembered my talk with Boris. “Like the rock group Pussy Riot?”
Babka nodded. “The facilitators in Brighton Beach have done this before. It’s a lengthy process, getting individuals freed from custody over there, and it’s costly. Anya needed money fast. Her friend Rozalina sponsored Anya, and she quickly attracted a big catch sugar daddy—”
“Dwayne Galloway, the former New York Giant.”
“I thought Anya was doing well, but then she was assaulted on a modeling job by some pig who was not a member of our club.” Now Babka’s eyes flashed with fury. “I don’t tolerate that sort of behavior and the men downstairs know it. The ones who don’t get a reminder from my staff.”
I thought about the helpful waiter who intervened between me and that masher in the Silver Room and realized he’d stepped in to help me for a very good reason. As part of Barbara’s staff, he’d been taught to police bad behavior.
“If you want to know the details, you’ll have to speak with Anya’s lawyer. Lucky for you, Harrison Van Loon is having lunch right here in the restaurant.”
“Point the way,” I said, rising.
EIGHTY-FOUR
HARRISON Van Loon was in preppie mode today. His staid wool suit was accompanied by a sprightly vest of red plaid, his salt-and-pepper hair and beard were nicely styled. But what really gave the lawyer his Ivy League patina were the bifocals perched on the end of his nose.
“Are we dining alone today?” I asked.
Not waiting for an answer, or an invitation, I plopped down across from Anya’s lawyer. This time Van Loon recognized me. He closed the blue-covered legal document he’d been scanning and clasped his hands over it.
“Ms. Cosi, what can I do for you?” he replied with patient irritation.
“You can tell me about the lawsuit filed by Anya Krevchenko.”
Now Van Loon looked as if he’d swallowed a rock. He reached for his wineglass and took a lengthy gulp before replying.
“I’m not at liberty to discuss an ongoing suit.”
“You can discuss it with me, or you can speak to Detective Emmanuel Franco of the NYPD. I’m sure he’d be interested in what you have to say, because it is surely pertinent to Anya’s case.”
“How did you find out about the suit?”
“Barbara Baum told me. But don’t fault the woman, I forced it out of her.”
Van Loon stared over his bifocals. “So you forced the truth out of Babka.” The disdain in his eyes changed to respect. He dipped his head. “I’m impressed. What do you want to know?”
“Who is Anya suing?”
“Two days ago I never would have told you. But I’ve heard from the man’s lawyers. He plans to go to trial so it will all be public soon anyway.”
“His name, please?”
“Stuart Packer of Price and Packer, LLC. He’s one of the top hedge fund managers out there, I’m told. In some circles he’s known as the Wall Street Wolf. The reference is valid to his business and personal life.”
“He’s a lothario?”
“I plan to use his reputation against him in a civil court. That, and the evidence we have, will surely win the day.”
“What kind of evidence? An eyewitness?”
“Physical evidence, Ms. Cosi. Let’s leave it at that.”
“So where is this Wolf’s lair?”
“Packer has business interests all over the world, but most of his time is spent commuting between New York and Moscow.”
Van Loon removed his bifocals. “The man is in town now. He’s invited to tonight’s opening of that Brothers Grimm exhibit.”
“At MoMA? How did you know?”
“As a member of the Fairy Tale Fall Committee, I had a hand in moderating the guest list. Mr. Packer is a very generous donor to the Museum of Modern Art.”
In the tensions of the past few days, I’d completely forgotten about the black-tie grand opening. I’d received an invitation but decided not to go. Now I changed my mind.
Here was my chance to confront this “Wolf” man who’d assaulted Anya and had the gall to challenge her in civil court.
I’d be going in unarmed and without backup. Even worse, I had no leverage and no angle. No way to intimidate the man.
How would Wilson do it? I wondered. A kidnapping? A seduction? Some sort of Mission Impossible–style ruse?
Then it hit me.
How about all three?
EIGHTY-FIVE
IN a Midtown Manhattan building not much different than the office skyscrapers around it, the Museum of Modern Art housed the most comprehensive collection of modern and contemporary art in the world.
Architecture and design, painting and sculpture, photography and film, even prints and illustrated books were represented. Tonight The Brothers Grimm: Art of the Fairy Tale exhibition was celebrating its grand opening.
For “Madame Tesla” and her motley entourage, performance art was the order of the day. Our little group planned a private theatrical presentation meant for an audience of only one.
The stakes were incredibly high. What happened here tonight could decide Matt’s fate, and my own future as well.
Arriving by limo, a gypsy-robed Madame (with me clad in somber black) met up with the other members of our “infiltration team”—a trio of costumed characters out of Red
Riding Hood who’d spent the past hour entertaining partygoers waiting for admission.
“The Woodsman” (Eldar, the Bosnian car service driver) sported a fake beard and lumberjack gear. He was tasked with carving tiny animals out of perfumed soap and handing them out to the ladies.
“Red Riding Hood” (Nancy, my youngest barista) tossed gourmet cookies and other treats from her picnic basket.
And “The Wolf” (Boris, the Russian baker) delivered fairy-tale-inspired raps at a rapid-fire pace through an elaborate fur mask with snapping jaws and animated eyes.
Among the invited guests were patrons of the arts, critics, celebrities, and the press. When the museum doors finally opened, Red, her Woodsman, and the Wolf joined the high-toned crowd filing into the gleaming lobby.
The loan of the Basquiat work, Dreadlocks and the Three Bears, from our coffeehouse collection, got me an official invitation to tonight’s bash.
Madame had scored one, too, as a member of the Fairy Tale Fall Committee. In her guise tonight as “Madame Tesla, Mistress of Palmistry,” my employer was ready to fast-talk the guards into believing the costumed trio out front was her entourage.
Luckily, she didn’t have to.
Years ago, Gus, that poor Greek immigrant who became the Papaya King, had placed hula girls in front of his tropical juice stand to hand out samples. The ploy had saved his business—and it appeared to save ours.
The guards assumed Red, Wolf, and the Woodsman were part of the entertainment and waved them right through.
“We’re in,” I said, expelling a breath—and silently thanking those two immigrant restaurateurs, Gus and his frankfurter-loving Birdie.
Now we need a base of operations.
Fortunately, I’d catered at this venue many times, and was familiar with the back halls and hidden rooms. We were now headed to a small storeroom a few doors down from the party area. There was a combination lock under the doorknob, but I remembered the code from my last visit.
As we raced through the museum, Madame’s eyes were bright with excitement. “I haven’t had this much fun since I smuggled coffee into Matteo’s seventh grade summer camp!”
Nancy was aghast. “You allowed Matt . . . I mean, Mr. Boss, to drink coffee in the seventh grade?”
“Of course,” Madame replied. “What could I do? The poor boy needed some respite from the camp’s constant diet of orange juice and chocolate milk.”
“Please,” Boris groaned, voice muffled by the Wolf mask. “I must escape fur suit before I perish!”
“It’s around the next corner,” I said, praying the staff hadn’t changed the code. “Then you can shed your old costumes and put on your new ones.”
“But I really like this cape,” Nancy whined.
“Sorry,” I said, “but the hood’s got to go. The Wolf we’re hunting needs another kind of bait.”
I addressed my other coconspirator. “How are you holding up, Eldar?”
“I feel silly.” He tugged the suspenders on his neo-pioneer denim overalls.
“You shouldn’t,” Nancy said, patting his shoulder. “You’re a lumberjack, but you’re okay.”
“I know that joke!” Eldar exclaimed. “Montgomery Python, right?”
We hurried past a marquee listing the fairy-tale movie screenings.
Madame pointed. “Look, they’re playing Jean Cocteau’s Beauty and the Beast.” She sighed. “I’ve loved that film since I was a girl.”
“You can love it later. Now come on!”
I located the door and punched in the code. The lock clicked and we were in. The space was crammed with stacked boxes and supplies. Elbow room was limited, but there was a mirror and a sink.
And it’s probably more space than poor Matt has in his jail cell.
“Let’s get to work.”
With a relieved grunt, Boris tugged the gigantic mask off his head.
“Careful with that prop,” I cautioned. “Tuck needs it back for a Saturday matinee.”
Boris fished around inside the mask until he found Franco’s transmitter. While he stripped off his fur suit and washed the sweat from his brow, I fitted Madame with the Spy Shop earrings.
“They’re positively ghastly,” she complained.
“With those gypsy robes and veil, who’s going to notice? Here, I’ll show you how they work.”
Meanwhile Nancy dumped a leather jacket, two black phone cords, and a collection of high-priced war paint from Grandma’s basket of goodies. Cosmetics in hand, she went to the mirror and began to unravel her blond braids.
Eldar lost the overalls and flannel shirt, to reveal a form-fitting (and hopefully intimidating) black tee and matching chinos. He slipped the black leather jacket over his shoulders, finally remembering to tug off his fake lumberjack beard.
“Now we trap this wolf,” he said.
Clad in black, sans the comical bowler, Eldar looked fairly intimidating. And his determination to catch Red’s killer only added to his credibility.
“Ready, boss lady,” Boris declared, looking equally scary in a black commando sweater with leather patches and tight black denims.
I sized them both up. “One more thing.”
I stuck a phone cord in Eldar’s ear, tucking the other end into his jacket. I did the same for Boris, running the wire down the back of his sweater.
“Now you both look like you’re wired.”
“Okay, I think I’m ready,” Nancy said in a trembling voice.
The girl’s makeup had been applied perfectly. Tasteful, obviously expensive, and just on the edge of tarty. Tucker had schooled her well.
“Take off the hood,” I insisted.
A blushing Nancy let the long cloak slip to the floor, to reveal my Fen gown, now tailored to fit curves I never knew the girl possessed.
“Hubba, hubba,” Eldar said with a wink.
“Little Nancy is all grown up,” Boris declared.
“Oh, to be so young again,” Madame said wistfully.
Satisfied the cast was ready, I pulled the smartphone from my purse and called up my intelligence on our prey, beginning with a recent photograph.
“Remember this face,” I said. “Our target is the CEO of hedge fund Parker and Price, LLC. His name is Stuart Packer, but he’s known in the trade as the big, bad Wall Street Wolf.”
EIGHTY-SIX
THE Brothers Grimm gala was an hour old and I was starting to panic. I’d circled the exhibition space twice, hovered around the splendid buffet, and even scouted the screening room. But I could not find hide nor hair of the Wolf.
Had he chosen to remain in his lair tonight? Bad news if he did . . .
The uncertainty was galling, but it gave Madame Tesla time to move through the crowd, establish her cover by reading the palms of manicured ladies, well-heeled celebrities, high-toned literati—even a grinning Mayor Stanton.
I ended my second circuit at a section devoted to Tashchen’s illustrated volume of The Brothers Grimm. Many original works reproduced in the book were displayed, including nineteenth-century German illustrations by Gustav Sus, and Arthur Rackham’s The Brave Little Tailor Meets the Giant.
I was proud to see the Village Blend’s mixed media Basquiat given a place of honor among illustrations by Haitian artists Edouard Duval-Carrié and Frankétienne.
Finally, I went back to the buffet table. For tonight’s showcase event, dishes were contributed by a few notable chefs from around the city, and they all had fun with the fairy-tale theme.
Del Posto provided splendid little squares of their famous hundred-layer lasagna—originally inspired by the bedding in The Princess and the Pea.
Fat Witch Bakery contributed delicious brownies with your choice of Snow Witch (white chocolate) or Red Witch (cherry). And my pastry chef friend Janelle had baked up trays of her special Fairy Bread Cookies, inspired by
the classic “fairy bread,” a staple of Australian children’s parties.
Nancy took pity on Eldar and Boris stuck in the storeroom, and sweet-talked an entire “Poisoned-Apple” Sharlotka from a server.
Ever the good egg, she delivered it on a tray with silver, dishes, a big carving knife, cups, and a pot of tea.
As a baker, Boris skeptically sampled this so-called “poisoned” version of a classic Russian apple cake. With one bite, he determined the “poison” was cinnamon schnapps, and he suspected apple vodka was used in the crumb, as well.
“Not traditional,” he said, “but I approve!”
Back at the party, I enjoyed a second helping of Three Little Pigs (I could have huffed and puffed and inhaled a whole tray of those prosciutto-wrapped mini franks in bourbon-bacon-laced pastry), when Nancy appeared.
“The Wolf is here,” she whispered.
I turned and there he was.
Taller than his photo suggested, Stuart Packer wore evening clothes worth more than I earned per annum. With a square jaw and blond business pompadour, the Wolf was conventionally handsome. But the hungry green eyes from his photos were now unfocused, probably due to the pair of cocktails he’d inhaled while chatting with another businessman.
There was a third man in the mix. A tall, dark-haired bodyguard silently hovered behind Packer’s shoulder. He seemed familiar somehow, but I could not place him.
“It’s show time. Tell Madame to activate her earrings.”
“Roger,” Nancy replied.
I took another glance at the Wolf. He snagged a third cocktail from a passing waiter, ignoring a lovely woman who stood close, clearly interested.
I panicked. Is this going to work?
“Look, Nancy. I feel like a hypocrite after the things I thought about the ‘agents of sexpionage,’ but I’m relying on your beauty and charm to get Madame close to the Wolf.”
Nancy glanced nervously over her shoulder then nodded. “I can do it.”