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
Espresso Shot (19 page)
Roman was still at Terri’s desk.
“Okay,” I told him, “tonight’s more important than ever.”
“You mean the underground restaurant?”
“I’m going with you to Flushing, and I’m going to interview Neville Perry, try to press a few of his buttons. You can be a witness to any threats he makes or confessions of violent intentions toward Breanne. Whatever we hear, we’ll both convey to her. Then maybe she’ll finally press charges, and we can get a police interrogation, maybe even a warrant to search his residence. What do you think?”
“Sounds like a plan, Shirley Holmes.” Roman’s impish eyes danced. “It seems I really am going to be your Dr. Watson—your big, gay, epicurean Watson.”
“Right.”
“But, listen, honey, before you start solving crimes again . . .” Roman tapped his watch. “You’d better get that coffee made.”
Damn. The coffee . . .
I took off down the hall. On the way to the break room, I rang Matt and gave him the update on the cleaver, quietly warning him to keep Breanne out of public places.
“Talk her into eating takeout at her place tonight, okay? And for heaven’s sake, use a private car service. Don’t
walk
anywhere. Between that SUV last Friday and the look-alike shooting last night, the last place that woman should be is on a New York sidewalk.”
walk
anywhere. Between that SUV last Friday and the look-alike shooting last night, the last place that woman should be is on a New York sidewalk.”
“You believe me now, Clare, don’t you?” Matt asked.
“I believe Breanne has at least one serious enemy. Whether or not they’re serious enough to commit murder, the jury’s still out.”
SIXTEEN
I met Roman at precisely seven thirty on the Times Square platform of the Number 7 line. We grabbed the last two seats aboard the first car, and the train took off, rumbling toward the East River and the borough of Queens.
On subway lines that ran through the touristy parts of Manhattan, laughter and conversation were common. On this line, at this hour, the quiet weariness was palpable, like an oppressive fog. The riders around us were recent immigrants, their tired eyes scanning foreign-language newspapers, staring into space, or closed altogether, grabbing a few minutes’ peace before tackling a second job or the next chore on life’s endless list.
Roman Brio failed to notice. His demeanor was giddy, anticipating a magical night in gastronomy land. “These underground restaurants provide quite a thrill. A few have been disappointing, but most are full of delights.”
I nodded silently. At the moment, I felt more simpatico with the other passengers. Matt’s wedding was four days away. I’d already worked hard on the advance prep, but there was still more to be done. I certainly didn’t want to be schlepping out to Flushing to talk to a disgruntled chef who could very well have the bride-to-be in his crosshairs.
Our train made two more stops under Manhattan’s avenues, then it rolled beneath the East River, emerging minutes later out of its subterranean tunnel like a giant steel snake. We ascended four stories to a wide-ranging system of elevated track and sped farther into the low-rise borough, leaving Manhattan’s glittering skyscrapers far behind.
Roman leaned close. “We’ve slipped the bonds of civilization and plunged into the untamed frontier of the metropolis. The culinary adventure begins!”
“We’re on our way to Flushing, Roman. Not Calcutta. Or are you testing the opening line of your next column?”
“I’m simply making an observation. To most residents of Manhattan, Queens is an undiscovered country. Sure, they come here to use the airports, but that’s it.”
“Not so true anymore.” (Having employed part-time workers who didn’t have Roman’s bank account, I knew Astoria and Long Island City were getting hotter by the year.) “Even young white-collar professionals are having trouble affording Manhattan rents. Queens is a close alternative.”
“I suppose you’re right.”
“No supposing about it.” I checked my watch. “Listen, we have a good forty-minute ride in front of us. Why don’t you fill me in on this Chef Perry feud with Breanne. How personal is it, anyway? Do they have any kind of history?”
“No history. Those two only met in passing—parties, openings, that sort of thing.”
“Then the
Trend
exposé on Perry’s restaurant started it?”
Trend
exposé on Perry’s restaurant started it?”
“I told Breanne not to bother, that Perry would sink under his own substandard practices. But Bree has a mind of her own on such things.” Roman shrugged. “You know the story, right?”
“Only broad strokes; I need details.”
As I gazed through the scuffed Plexiglas windows at passing shops, churches, and row houses, Roman explained how Breanne sent a bright, young Latino writer to work undercover in Chef Perry’s popular new eatery in Tribeca (the chic
tri
angular shaped area
be
low
Ca
nal Street, hence the name). Apparently, the writer took extensive notes and hundreds of secret photos of what really went on in Perry’s kitchen, including the use of expired meat and dairy products as well as frozen pre-prepared seafood (not unusual for some restaurants but blasphemy for a chef who loudly professed his brilliance on his short-lived reality television show and later in the press).
tri
angular shaped area
be
low
Ca
nal Street, hence the name). Apparently, the writer took extensive notes and hundreds of secret photos of what really went on in Perry’s kitchen, including the use of expired meat and dairy products as well as frozen pre-prepared seafood (not unusual for some restaurants but blasphemy for a chef who loudly professed his brilliance on his short-lived reality television show and later in the press).
“And let’s not forget the frantic preplanned hiding of expired foodstuffs on days the health inspector came calling.” Roman sighed. “It’s an ugly thing, what Chef Perry did. Sophisticated diners expect the freshest and finest when they hand over Benjamins for what’s supposed to be gourmet cuisine, not garbage that’s past its prime. It’s a violation of trust. And it gets worse.”
“What could be worse than serving expired product?”
“Tip pooling.”
“No.”
Tip pooling was frowned upon in the restaurant biz. Typically a waiter kept all of his or her own tips. In a restaurant that pooled, the waitstaff was forced to place all gratuities into a common kitty to be divided at the end of the day.
“It stinks,” I said, “but technically it’s not illegal.”
“You’re correct. It’s not, as long as the owner doesn’t take a cut. But Chef Perry did take a cut. A big one.”
“Wow. The man really is an idiot.”
“The whole matter ended up before a Department of Labor arbitration board.” Roman shook his head. “It was a moot point by then. The New York City Health Department had already shut down his restaurant for a slew of violations, all stemming from Breanne’s exposé, which embarrassed the heck out of them. The place never reopened.”
“Chef Perry was the owner, wasn’t he? Between the start-up costs and the annual lease, he must have lost a fortune.”
“Actually, it was his
mother
who lost the fortune. But Mrs. Perry is the queen of downtown real estate, so she can afford it. Anyway, she’s the one who got him the prime location for his restaurant, and her networking is what got her son
on
a network in the first place.”
mother
who lost the fortune. But Mrs. Perry is the queen of downtown real estate, so she can afford it. Anyway, she’s the one who got him the prime location for his restaurant, and her networking is what got her son
on
a network in the first place.”
“Real estate and reality television? I don’t get the connection.”
“You would if you were an up-and-coming producer for one of the big four, and you wanted a particular loft in a particularly hot building in Soho, along with some prime space to tape your shows. Mrs. Perry delivered on both, bartering the reality TV deal for her son in the process.”
“I see. So Perry’s mother was the key to his success?”
“Oh, yes.” Roman’s head bobbed like a bird at a fountain. “Mommy’s lawyers helped him squirm out of trouble with the arbitration board, too, when those poor, unemployed waiters tried to recoup their losses. All the spoiled brat got for his questionable business practices and culinary transgressions was a bruised ego.”
“What a creep.” I was beginning to see Breanne in a whole new light—as a crusading journalist. It didn’t make me like the woman any more, but it did help me dislike her a little less. “So the young chef is blaming Breanne for his restaurant’s collapse, even though he was the architect of it?”
“Those blogs of his are adolescent. That should give you your first clue to the man himself.”
I sat back in my plastic orange seat, thinking that over, and smiled. Now I had more than enough info to ambush the little twerp. It gave me a thrill, I had to admit. Not that this was fun and games—I hadn’t forgotten about that poor girl from West Virginia, lying in a cold morgue drawer—but at least my weariness was cured. Now I could hardly wait to confront Chef Perry.
I peered through the Plexiglas windows, trying to make out landmarks, to determine how close we were to our stop. At the moment we were passing over the huge expanse of Flushing Meadows Park. Against the purple twilight sky, the dark sprawl of budding trees was interrupted by the brilliant illumination of the Mets baseball stadium. I pointed it out to Roman.
“Looks like there’s a night game.”
Across from the enormous baseball stadium was a cluster of much smaller stadiums. None of their lights were burning. The train shuddered to a stop just then, and the conductor garbled something over the speaker about delays ahead. I shuddered myself, finally realizing what those little, dark stadiums were.
Roman must have seen the expression on my face, because he asked if anything was wrong.
“Just a bad memory.”
“Do tell?”
“Not much to tell, really.”
“Oh, come on. We’re stuck here anyway.”
I pointed out the window again. “You see that shadowy complex over there?”
Roman nodded.
“That’s the Billy Jean King Tennis Center. Back when I was still married to Matt, he took Joy and me to the U.S. Open. I think she was seven or eight at that time.”
“Sounds like a happy memory so far.”
“It gets unhappy fast. After we settled into our seats, Matt went off to buy a cold drink, and he never came back.”
“What?”
“There was a British couple with us, friends of his mother’s that he’d invited along. They wondered aloud if we should look for him, but I told them not to bother. An hour turned into two, and Matt never returned.”
“My God, did you contact the police?”
“That’s what the Brits suggested, but I explained that my husband had done this a few times before, and I knew from experience that I had to wait forty-eight hours to file a missing persons report. I went home with Joy alone. Thirty-six hours later, Matt showed up at the Blend.”
Roman blinked. “Why didn’t you call him?”
I almost laughed. “This was long before cell phones.”
“So where was he?”
“He’d run into ‘a friend’ at the concession stand, and the two of them took off on a cocaine-fueled bender.” I met Roman’s eyes. “I suspected the ‘friend’ was female, but he never admitted it.”
Roman shook his head. “So what did you do?”
“I divorced him—eventually. It took a few more years.”
“Good heavens, why?”
“Because even though Matt acted like a grade-A jerk during our marriage, most of the time he’d been supportive and caring, a passionate lover, and a besotted father; he loved Joy more than anything. But finally, I got tired of forgiving the eternal boy crap and found the strength to leave.” I gestured to the lighted baseball stadium. “ ‘The great beginning had seen a final inning,’ you know?”
Roman smiled. “Who can argue with an Ira Gershwin lyric? ‘The Man That Got Away,’ right?”
I laughed. “You’re the one who said I reminded you of Garland in
A Star Is Born
.”
A Star Is Born
.”
“It’s the outfit, sweetie. Retro-adorable. So what happened to you and Matt after that?”
“I moved to Jersey, and he hit bottom. He went into rehab, straightened out, relapsed, straightened out again.” I touched Roman’s arm. “Don’t get the wrong idea, okay? Matt’s worked hard since then to turn his life around, and I honestly think he’s going to be fine. He has no interest in becoming an addict again.”
“I understand.” Roman folded his hands over his belly. “But, you know, Clare, there’s something else on my mind, now that you’ve brought up your marriage to Matt.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s clear that you and he are still close—two snow peas in a tenderly steamed pod, if you will. When I see you two together, it’s as if your marriage never ended.”
“It ended, Roman, trust me on that.”
“So the last inning’s played then? The game’s over? There’s nothing between you?”
Roman’s phrasing made me shift on my plastic seat.
Nothing
between me and Matt? That wasn’t true. There was a living, breathing daughter between us; a vital coffee business; an important family relationship with his mother; a long-standing friendship; and the residual affection that didn’t just evaporate after years of sharing a life. But that answer was far too nuanced for what Roman wanted to hear. So I adjusted the $300 skirt that Breanne was nice enough to buy me and cleared my throat.
Nothing
between me and Matt? That wasn’t true. There was a living, breathing daughter between us; a vital coffee business; an important family relationship with his mother; a long-standing friendship; and the residual affection that didn’t just evaporate after years of sharing a life. But that answer was far too nuanced for what Roman wanted to hear. So I adjusted the $300 skirt that Breanne was nice enough to buy me and cleared my throat.
“There’s
no
chance of our marrying again,” I said firmly. “And Matt wants to move on with his life, you understand?”
no
chance of our marrying again,” I said firmly. “And Matt wants to move on with his life, you understand?”
“Yes. But, sweetie, here’s the million dollar question: Do you?”
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