Murder by Mocha (29 page)

“You’re my backup.”

“How can I back you up if you’re supposed to come alone and the security guard at the gate won’t let me in?”

“Now comes the genius part of my plan.” I dug into my handbag and pulled out Joy’s old baby monitor. “My supersecret weapon.”

I handed Matt the device’s receiver while I kept the actual monitor.

“This thing is battery operated and voice activated, too. And it’s got a great range. You’ll be able to hear me, so I can narrate what’s happening. You can’t talk to me because the monitor only works one way. But if you hear trouble on my end, you go right to the gate and alert the guard.”

“Clare, this thing is an antique! You probably haven’t given it a real workout since Joy was an infant.”

“Wrong. I used it through most of our daughter’s adolescence.”

“This I’ve got to hear.”

“When Joy was fifteen, I caught her trying to sneak out of our Jersey house past midnight. So while she was at school the next day, I dug this out of my closet and hid the transmitter in her bedroom. After that, I could hear everything she said when she was on the phone with her friends. When Joy made plans to go out and party without permission, I was always there to thwart them. She never managed to sneak out, not once, all the way through graduation. So believe me, this works.” I held it up, smiling wider than an infomercial babe. “Guaranteed.”

“Clare, you’re diabolical.”

“I’m a mother.”

“Well, I’m glad you weren’t
my
mother. I never would have had any fun.”

THIRTY-FOUR

T
EN minutes later I stood a few yards from the park entrance, baby monitor and digital recorder tucked inside my bag. Before approaching the gate, I glanced over my shoulder at my ex. He gave me a thumbs-up.

Matt had already repositioned the Hummer under the fire escape of a crumbling warehouse across the street. Now he stood beneath a rusted sign, pink baby monitor to his ear.

“Okay, one more test,” I said. “If you’re receiving me, raise your right hand and wave.”

Matt flashed the proper signal.

“Now get back inside the Hummer. I don’t want the guard to see you lurking around.”

When Matt was out of sight, I pulled out Alicia’s letter to present to security and crossed a gravelly stretch. Aphrodite’s people had erected a chain-link fence that completely blocked the park entrance. A Parks Department notice warned the public that the area was closed all week for “a private event.” A sign over the gate had been draped with a scarlet banner.
Live Like a Greek Goddess!
it exhorted the city’s women.

I found a buzzer for deliveries and pressed it. Waiting for a response, I peered through the chain links. Unfortunately, the view was blocked by eight-foot partitions painted to resemble Doric columns.

Since the exhibition was just days away, I assumed I’d find more activity. But there was no sign of people going in or out, and after a full minute passed, still no guard arrived to admit me.

Meanwhile, a roiling mass of clouds crossed paths with the spring sun, and the formerly luminous afternoon turned unsettlingly gloomy.

Impatient, I finally rattled the gate and discovered it wasn’t locked. I waited for a guard to show, but all I heard was the sound of canvas flapping in the wind and the cry of more seagulls.

“There’s no guard,” I told Matt. “But someone left the gate unlocked, so I’m going in...”

I stepped between a gap in two of the partitions and into an enclosed, grassy area wide enough to accommodate our Hummer and then some. The path was bordered by high plywood walls painted with reproductions of art found on Greco-Roman urns and mosaics. I’d been instructed to meet Alicia in the big tent, and like a culturally enlightening cattle chute, the walkway led right up to a white party tent two stories high.

“This has to be the place,” I told Matt. “I can’t imagine anything bigger would fit inside this little park.”

The interior was cast in shadows, and I paused before entering, troubled by the lack of activity.

“There should be someone here,” I said. “A security guard to watch the stuff at the very least. And where are Alicia and Maya? It’s time for their summit meeting, but so far the place looks deserted . . .”

Suddenly, I heard the hum of electric generators. One by one, floodlights high in the tent’s steel-framed rafters sprang to life. A broad red carpet, running down the center of the enclosure, was now illuminated with intermittent pools of light.

The tent’s interior had been partitioned off into smaller spaces with banners dangling over each entrance. All these spaces were dark, save one at the farthest end of the carpeted corridor. There the light was so bright it spilled into the makeshift hall, infusing the carpet with an almost neon red glow.

“I think I’m being played here and I don’t like it,” I told Matt. “But if Alicia thinks spooky lighting is going to intimidate me, she’s mistaken.”

Secretly, though, I found the whole thing creepy, and I could imagine Matt’s reaction. Right now he was probably pounding his head against the Hummer’s steering wheel, shouting things we both knew I couldn’t hear like,
Get the hell out of there, Clare!

“Sorry, Matt. I want to find out what’s going on . . .”

I walked down the aisle, following the pools of light as if they were stepping stones across a shallow creek. I reached the first exhibition space, where a banner touted
The Minotaur Collection
, with the tagline
Furnishing His Man Cave.
Inside I spied pool tables, wet bars, display cases, even gun racks.

I continued forward, passing myriad displays: the Athena Collection: Bed and Bath for the Discerning Woman, and Gaia’s Garden: Outdoor Furnishings to Complement Mother Nature
.
The Spartan Collection was touted as “an edgy minimalist style experience,” which apparently meant IKEA-style stick furniture and uniquely innovative designs for uncomfortable-looking chairs.

At last I arrived at the brilliantly lit exhibit for the Perseus and Andromeda Collection;
Boudoir Beauty for Classic Couples
, its banner promised
.

“This has to be the place, but I still don’t see anyone . . .”

Instead of going in, I paused at the entrance, waiting for the invisible hand that led me here to reveal itself once more. I didn’t have long to wait. Behind me the pools of light went out, one after the other, until the only illumination inside this night-black tent was directly in front of me.

I crossed the threshold. Three steps in, I found myself surrounded by an array of bedroom furnishings. The most impressive piece was a massive bed with four Doric columns supporting a sea-blue silk canopy. The bed itself was raised high off the floor and framed by twin nightstands with matching lamps. A tall Japanese-style screen completed the decor.

The imposing bed was backed by a tall mirror, its silvered glass framed by a bone-white ceramic frieze depicting Perseus battling Medusa, the female demon with the serpent hair who turned men to stone with her deadly gaze.

According to myth Perseus outsmarted Medusa by using the reflection on his polished shield to avoid her lethal stare. Guided by that trusty mirror, he used his sword to cut off the she-devil’s head without being turned to stone.

True to the story, the sculpted frieze portrayed the warrior hero with shield raised, his eyes averted from the menacing gorgon. I was so intrigued by the frame’s artwork that at first I didn’t notice a word scrawled in red letters across the mirror itself
.

SEVERA.

Was it the designer’s name? Curious, I climbed up two of the three platform steps, toward the foot of the massive bed then cried out. Someone was on the mattress—Maya Lansing sprawled facedown, three bloody holes stitched across her back. Her head was turned, and when I saw her wide, sightless eyes, I knew the fitness queen had gone through her final cooldown.

She was shot in the back, I realized, probably while she was reading the word scrawled on the mirror . . .

Now I was the one looking into that mirror—just in time to spot the reflection of a figure stepping out from behind the Japanese screen!

Clad neck to toe in black, the figure’s face was hidden behind a virgin-white Kabuki mask. The stranger clutched something in a gloved hand. I realized what it was a split second before I threw myself onto the floor.

The gunshots that followed shattered the mirror instead of my skull, and a shower of shards cascaded over Maya’s corpse.

“Gun!” I cried to Matt. “Someone’s shooting at me!”

With the killer behind me, I rolled sideways across the floor until I slammed into the love seat. Bullets chewed the carpet, and when I hopped over the couch, the last shot punched a hole through the back of it, filling the air with an explosion of stuffing.

Hearing an empty click, I prayed the shooter was out of ammo. I peered through the hole in the shattered love seat and spied the black silhouette near the broken mirror. The shooter was fumbling to reload.

This is my chance!
I raced for the exit. Within seconds, I heard more pops. Bullets came so close I felt the shock waves. A vase exploded and then a sink, another mirror and a ceramic swan!

Suddenly, I heard a loud crash, followed by the chugging roar of a vehicle engine and the sound of breaking glass. Finally came the earsplitting blast of a familiar horn.

Matt!

Seeing the headlights rushing toward me across the red carpet, I ran toward the Hummer, waving my arms. The vehicle came to a skidding stop right beside me. I reached for the handle, but the passenger’s door was already open.

“Get in!” Matt yelled.

I entered with a single leap. “Alicia’s trying to kill me!”

“That’s Alicia?” Matt said, eyes forward.

I peered through the windshield and saw the white Kabuki mask glowing in the tent’s eerie gloom. Then I glanced away in time to avoid being blinded by the stab of a brilliant scarlet light.

“She’s using a laser sight!” Matt cried, pushing me onto the floor. Glass rained down on me when the passenger window exploded.

I screamed. “I thought Hummers had bulletproof glass!”

“This is a prop Hummer! Not a real—oh, never mind!”

Matt slammed the vehicle into reverse and punched the gas. The wheels spun, shredding the red carpet for a moment before gaining traction. Then the big car lurched, and we were on our way.

Matt’s head turned, so he could drive backward, which meant he couldn’t see the red laser dot coming to rest on the side of his skull. Lucky for him, I did.

“Get down!” I yelled. Grabbing a handful of Matt’s long hair, I pulled as hard as I could.

Matt howled, but his big head moved just in time—the window blew out a second later. He didn’t slow down. We exited the tent and kept going, through the cattle chute and back toward the street. The fence and the gate were already in ruins, shattered when Matt drove in.

As we hit the street, he slammed the brakes—too late, unfortunately. A limousine had rolled into the intersection behind us, and the Hummer smashed into its front grill, a rear-end collision in reverse.

“God, Matt! I hope no one was hurt.” I pushed open the door.

“Stay down, Clare! Help is on the way. I already called 911!”

Heedless of the danger, I jumped out of the Hummer and raced to the car we’d struck. The hood was crumpled, the hissing radiator belching steam. I could hear approaching sirens, too. Lots of them.

The other driver, a Sikh with a full beard and turban, emerged from his smashed Town Car, shaking his head with exasperation. Then the man opened the passenger doors, and two women climbed out. Both were shaken but unhurt.

One of them was Madame. The other was Alicia Bower.

THIRTY-FIVE

D
AMN her! Damn her straight to hell!

Face sweaty behind the mask, she bolted from the dazzling light. Safe in the shadows of the tent, she ripped away her white face, peeled off her midnight togs. Beneath, more clothes clung damply to her skin, yet another self.

She pulled out the
Go Green!
shopping tote, stuffed everything inside—the gun, the mask, the laser site. The black disguise came last, topped with a decoy box to bury all the evidence.

In the distance, sirens wailed. Hugging the tote, she dropped and rolled. The tent bottom gave as she moved against it, birthing her into the fresh-cut grass.

Out on the street, a car horn blared, voices shouted, traffic screeched, but she remained invisible. Hidden by the canvas mountain, she ran for the edge of Socrates Sculpture Park.

At the shoreline, the river shimmered, tempting her with a watery escape. If only she could swim across! But the current was too treacherous, the very act suicidal. Given her performance on the Bay Creek bridge, the irony nearly made her cackle.

Another bridge beckoned now, down river—the Queensboro. She had to reach it, as fast as possible. Slipping down the damp rocks, she moved to the river’s edge, hurried for the property line. Now trees and shrubs would be her shield as she climbed back up the embankment. Finally, on a steadying breath, she stepped into the open.

The Costco lot was vast and crowded—exactly what she needed. Slinging the tote bag over her shoulder, she wandered out as stupid and glassy-eyed as the shoppers before her: mommies struggling with toddlers, families fumbling with carts, couples bickering over needs and receipts. Invisibly, she slithered among them. None bothered the lone woman snaking by their minivans, economy cars, and SUVs; and if they glanced into her tote, all they’d see was a box of Pampers.

When she reached the store’s busy exit, she flowed with the crowd and began her search. In almost no time, she saw it—a dark sedan moving slowly, like a shark. The livery driver had disgorged his fare, appeared hungry for a new one. She waved him over. He pulled up and she ducked in back.

“Manhattan,” she said, hearing the pathetic quiver in her voice. She swallowed hard, tried again: “No hurry. Take your time . . .”