Espresso Shot (16 page)
Authors: Cleo Coyle
Tags: #General, #Fiction, #Detective, #Mystery, #Mystery & Detective - Women Sleuths, #Mystery & Detective, #Fiction - Mystery, #Coffeehouses, #Suspense, #Women Sleuths, #Cosi; Clare (Fictitious character), #Mystery fiction, #Divorced people, #Brides, #Weddings, #New York (N.Y.), #Brides - Crimes against, #Cookery (Coffee), #Attempted murder
“Your wedding rings!” Monica exclaimed. “They still haven’t been photographed yet? But I thought they were already sent to you? Terri told me a package came a few days ago from Florence.”
“Nunzio’s bringing the rings from Italy personally. He should have them for me today.”
“Ooooh,” Monica gushed, “I’d die to see them!”
“I’m sure everyone will see them once they’re photographed.”
“I meant I’d die to see the
actual
rings.”
actual
rings.”
“I know what you meant. Just get those pages fixed and on my desk no later than four this afternoon. Got that?”
“Yes, Ms. Summour.”
I heard scuffling inside and quickly stood back. The fitting room door flew open again, and Monica’s thigh-high boots were off and running. I quietly followed her down the corridor, across the showroom, and through the boutique entrance. I intended to announce myself once we were outside, far enough away from Breanne that Monica wouldn’t have to worry about the woman overhearing. Then I’d ask her a few questions and gauge her reactions.
But the moment Monica hit the sidewalk, she pulled out her cell phone and made a call. I hustled along behind her through the crowds as she walked and talked, nearly colliding into her when she stopped on the edge of the curb and raised her hand to hail a cab.
The traffic was a snarl of buses, delivery vans, and SUVs. I bided my time, waiting for her to finish her call, when I realized the call itself was actually worth listening to: “. . . yes, Her Royal Bitchiness finally gave it up,” Monica told the person on the other end of the phone line. “Nunzio’s bringing the rings in to Breanne at six o’clock this evening . . . No. I don’t know yet . . . You were? . . . I’m sorry I missed you then. I would have arrived earlier, but I’m running behind today . . . Yes, she’s still at Fen’s, and they have
tons
of security there. I told you that already. But she’s going back to the office for her afternoon meetings . . . I already told you! I have no idea! I
said
I’ll get
back
to you about the damn rings!”
tons
of security there. I told you that already. But she’s going back to the office for her afternoon meetings . . . I already told you! I have no idea! I
said
I’ll get
back
to you about the damn rings!”
As a cab pulled up and Monica climbed in, I quickly backed off, checking my wristwatch to note the exact time. Given what I’d just heard, I decided to postpone my direct questioning of Monica Purcell. Since Breanne was taking me back to her offices anyway, I figured a bit of subtle snooping would be a whole lot smarter.
LESS than an hour later, Breanne, Roman, and I piled into a cab and drove across town to Columbus Circle, an uptown traffic loop at the southwest corner of Central Park. In the center of this famous hub was a seventy-foot granite column holding a marble statue of Christopher Columbus.
A century ago, the monument had been erected to honor the intrepid Italian mariner, but these days Christopher was an afterthought. Columbus Circle was all about the Time Warner Center, a two billion dollar complex of twin eighty-story towers soaring above a seven-story base with an ingenious design that curved halfway around Christopher’s circle.
On a sunny spring day like this one, the reflection of Central Park’s budding trees off the glass-wrapped skyscrapers made the whole complex glimmer like Emerald City. And when you got right down to it, the Time Warner Center was its own little city, with 198 condominiums, the largest food market in Manhattan, rental offices, a luxury hotel, restaurants, and a concert hall.
The complex also housed the offices of Breanne’s baby,
Trend
magazine.
Trend
magazine.
We exited the cab, walked through the Center’s main entrance, and took the escalator up through the arcade of upscale shops. Hanging a right, we moved through a pair of transparent doors tucked between the Samsung Experience and the Aveda hair care boutique. Inside this small, secluded lobby was a special bank of elevators that went directly up to the floors in the towers above.
We ascended over twenty levels and entered
Trend
’s offices, which were as sleek and sun-drenched as the arcade below: all glass and chrome and lacquered cherry wood.
Trend
’s offices, which were as sleek and sun-drenched as the arcade below: all glass and chrome and lacquered cherry wood.
Roman and I trailed Breanne’s statuesque form as she approached the receptionist. “Any messages for me while Terri was at lunch?”
“Yes, Ms. Summour.”
The pretty young blond in the retro fluffy cashmere sweater handed over two slips of paper. “The first one’s from the Sinamon Urban Design people,” she said. “They confirmed their meeting with you at three. The second one’s Nunzio. He said his plane was delayed. It got into JFK at noon today instead of last night, so he’s totally jet-lagged, and he wants to meet with you at two o’clock instead of six so he can get some sleep before an important dinner meeting he has tonight. I tried to talk him out of the time change, but he was really snappish with me. Anyway, he said he’s coming at two, whether you like it or not.”
I glanced at my watch. The time was ten minutes to two. “What?!” Breanne cried.
The receptionist blinked. “I
said
that Nunzio—”
said
that Nunzio—”
“Oh, shut up!”
Instantly Her Haughtiness was on the move again. The clock in her head obviously had started ticking:
Countdown to Nunzio.
Countdown to Nunzio.
FOURTEEN
FOR the second time in two hours, the unflappable Breanne Summour was well and truly flapped. Like a gazelle on the veldt, she sprinted out of the magazine’s reception area, her treadmill-toned legs eating up the carpeted hallway. My short limbs struggled to keep up while Roman huffed behind us like an overweight rhino trailing a Serengeti stampede.
Bree made a right turn, then a left, and poked her head into one of the many offices lining the corridor.
“Have those final fixes been made yet?” Bree demanded.
“Which fixes?”
“Wake up, Monica! The ones I gave you at Fen’s less than an hour ago!”
“Petra’s staff is working on the Sinamon fixes
first
, since her people are arriving at
three
.”
first
, since her people are arriving at
three
.”
“Well,
Nunzio
is
now
arriving at
two
instead of six!” Bree cried. “Tell Petra I’m giving her fifteen minutes to make the final changes on his pages.”
Nunzio
is
now
arriving at
two
instead of six!” Bree cried. “Tell Petra I’m giving her fifteen minutes to make the final changes on his pages.”
“Only fifteen? Do you really think that’s enough—”
“I can stall the man for a little while, but he’ll want to see those pages. You
stay
with the art department, do you hear me?
Make sure
every single correction is made. I’m holding
you
personally responsible this time!”
stay
with the art department, do you hear me?
Make sure
every single correction is made. I’m holding
you
personally responsible this time!”
“Yes, Ms. Summour.”
Monica Purcell’s thigh-high boots raced out the door like her pirate ship was on fire. She zipped down the hall, nearly knocking over an older editor, and disappeared around a corner.
Breanne let out a moan, shook her head, and began massaging her temples.
I stepped up to her. “Is there anything I can do?”
The chief editor shuddered, obviously startled to be reminded of my existence. “I don’t know, Clare, what
can
you do?” She looked down her long nose at me. “Are you a whiz at Photoshop?”
can
you do?” She looked down her long nose at me. “Are you a whiz at Photoshop?”
“Not lately.”
“Then why don’t you just . . .” Her voice trailed off, and she squeezed her eyes shut. A moment later, she sighed. “Why don’t you just go make us some coffee. Okay?”
“Coffee? You’re kidding.”
“There’s a coffeemaker in the break room—
that
way.” She pointed, then waved her hand, shooing me away.
that
way.” She pointed, then waved her hand, shooing me away.
“But—”
She turned to Roman. “Come on. Let’s go to my office.”
Office
, I thought, watching Bree and Roman disappear down the hall.
Now there’s a better idea . . .
, I thought, watching Bree and Roman disappear down the hall.
Now there’s a better idea . . .
Monica’s office was right in front of me. And Monica would be out of it for at least the next fifteen minutes.
What if I take a look around?
I checked the hallway. No one was paying attention to me, so I slipped inside and shut the door.
What if I take a look around?
I checked the hallway. No one was paying attention to me, so I slipped inside and shut the door.
At over twenty stories up, the view was breathtaking, all cerulean sky and shimmering cityscape. But I wasn’t in here for the heavenly vision. Regrettably, my business was somewhat lower. Turning my gaze downward, I scanned Monica’s desktop and immediately spotted her cell phone. It sat next to a stack of mail and an overflowing in-box on the glossy, fine-grained wood.
I dropped my new Fen bag on the edge of her desk, sank into her ergonomically designed chair, and opened the sleek device. I didn’t like invading her privacy, but this was about one woman’s life—and another’s death. I took a breath and figured out how to read the call logs.
Using a pen and a piece of memo pad paper from Monica’s desktop, I wrote down the last five numbers I found—outgoing and incoming—along with any names listed. I put an asterisk beside the call she’d made on the sidewalk outside of Fen’s. It was easy enough to figure out, since I’d already made a mental note of the exact time she’d placed it. Unfortunately for me, there was no name listed next to the number.
This is going to take a bit of research.
I could use the reverse directory on the Internet, but if the number was unlisted, I’d have to ask Mike for help.
I could use the reverse directory on the Internet, but if the number was unlisted, I’d have to ask Mike for help.
I closed the phone, folded the paper, and slipped it into a handy interior pocket of my new little Fen jacket. Then I tried the desk drawers. Nothing looked out of the ordinary, until I carefully lifted up a plastic tray of paper clips, pencils, and erasers. Hidden beneath was a lacquered black box.
Hello . . .
I lifted the box’s lid and spied a collection of amber-colored prescription bottles. There was a business card there, too, facedown. I was about to reach for it when I heard, “Has anyone seen a woman named Clare Cosi? I can’t find her!”
Damn.
I closed the black box, dropped the tray of paper clips and pencils back on top, closed the drawer, and hurried to open the door.
A fairylike waif of a girl was hurrying down the hall. She had long, super-straight auburn hair, delicate features, clearly glossed lips, and in her small hand she held a Who Loves Kitty? mug with a tea bag string hanging over the side.
“I’m Clare,” I said, walking up to her. “And you are?”
“Terri.”
“Breanne’s assistant?”
She nodded. “Ms. Summour sent me to find you. She wants to know if you need any help making your coffee.”
“My God, Breanne was actually serious about that?”
“She says if Nunzio’s jet-lagged, then he’s probably going to need a few cups when he gets here, and she could use some, too. Sorry, but I don’t know the first thing about making coffee.” She lifted her mug. “I only drink green tea.”
“Right . . .”
What now?
I couldn’t very well bug out on this girl with an excuse of needing to invade her coworker’s privacy. So I shrugged and said: “You better show me where your break room is.”
What now?
I couldn’t very well bug out on this girl with an excuse of needing to invade her coworker’s privacy. So I shrugged and said: “You better show me where your break room is.”
As Breanne’s assistant took me through an open area of cubicles, I decided to make the most of this detour.
“Terri, what can you tell me about Monica Purcell?”
“Monica?” She laughed—a little nervously, I thought. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, has Monica been very angry with Breanne lately?”
“Not that I know of. They’ve always been pretty tight. Before Monica was promoted, she used to be Ms. Summour’s assistant.”
“You mean like you are now?”
Terri nodded.
“So you trust Monica?”
The young woman laughed nervously again. “I didn’t say that—and why do you care, anyway?”
We arrived in a room with a fridge, cupboards, and some vending machines. The space was empty. I closed the door and lowered my voice.
“I’m trying to help your boss right now, Terri. You can trust me on this: my questions are important. So tell me the truth. Why wouldn’t you trust Monica?”
“It’s just that . . .” Terri shrugged. “Monica can be slippery sometimes.”
“What do you mean by slippery?”
Terri looked away. “She’ll say one thing to someone’s face—like she thinks an idea for an article is really good, you know?—and then she’ll turn around and deny it in a big meeting.” She shook her head a little, like she was getting agitated. “I heard that when Monica was Breanne’s assistant, she undermined some older editors with that sort of thing, going to Ms. Summour before a meeting, telling her about this or that idea she’d overheard and spinning it badly, totally dissing the thing before the editor got the chance to present things her way. One editor felt so demoralized with the pattern, she just quit. That’s when Ms. Summour promoted Monica over other junior people into the woman’s job.”
“How long ago was that?”
“Before I started here. About four years.”
“Has that older editor been in touch lately? Maybe threatened your boss?”
Terri shook her head. “The woman got married and moved to Australia with her new husband. I hear she’s doing really well, started her own e-book publishing company.” She checked her watch. “Listen, we better get that coffee started. Ms. Summour’s going to be pissed.”
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