The Morning Show Murders (1) (7 page)

I didn't bother to respond to the question. "Check our receipts here," I said.

"We did. Nothing with his name on it from last night. Nobody remembers seeing him in the restaurant. We've got the hard drives from your security-camera setup. We'll check the footage for people coming in for takeout. Maybe we'll see a familiar face. Have a pleasant evening, Mr. Blessing."

As soon as they left, I went looking for Cassandra. She was in the bar area, being ogled by two uniformed cops who didn't seem to have anything better to do with their time. She was ignoring them while phoning customers who'd made reservations for dinner that night.

I informed her that she'd have to add tomorrow's lunch and dinner reservation holders to the list. She gave me an annoyed look, then turned to the cops and gave them the finger. Misplaced aggression.

Cutting through the main dining room, I saw that the police had finished interviewing about half the staff. The remaining members were seated at tables, waiting to be called.

Juan and Bridget were sitting side by side. He gawked at her lovingly. She seemed either distracted or apprehensive. I watched him reach over and take her hand. She didn't seem to mind. Even gave him a sweet smile. For a reward like that, I guessed he'd be willing to have a police interrogation every day.

When I got back to my desk, the digital clock indicated it was a little after six, but I put in a call to my attorney anyway. Wallace A. Wing picked up on the second ring. His assistant probably left at five. "Yo, Billy," he said, motormouthing as always. "Like I told you, don't worry about the pilot. Way I structured the contracts, even if the son of a bitch decides to try, he can't dump you or Lily without paying some heavy coin."

"The son of a bitch isn't going to be dumping me or anyone, Wally. He's dead. Murdered. And they've locked down my restaurant."

"Murdered? Holy shit. And they locked you down? Why? It can't have anything to do with him kicking you from the pilot?"

It's funny the way people get stuck on a subject, especially when they get ten percent of that subject. "Forget the pilot, Wally. I don't think the detectives know anything about it. At least, they didn't mention it."

"Then ...?"

I told him what little I knew about the situation.

"That's it? You and Gallagher weren't best buds and it was your takeout the killer doctored? Doesn't sound like much of a case."

"They don't have any case that I can see," I told him. "But they've closed me down tonight, and they want to keep me closed all day tomorrow. Is there anything you can do?"

"Call you back," he said.

Half an hour later, Wally returned the call.

"You only gave me half the story, dude. It's not just a couple cops closing the restaurant. DA Philip Rodell is riding herd on this, and he is one angry buckaroo. How'd you piss him off?"

"Short story not worth mentioning," I said. "How much trouble am I in?"

"If they get anything remotely resembling hard evidence, Rodell will move to indict. Billy, I'm out of my depth in a criminal case. Why don't we put Fritz Brocton on standby?" Brocton, Barger, and McAllister was the firm of choice for top-of-the-news murder suspects.

"How much will it cost me?"

"Not much. Unless you have to use him. Then you can dust off your white jacket, dude. Because Fritz does not play for pennies. You could wind up out on the street, or working in my dad's kitchen."

"I've seen your dad's kitchen. The street is cleaner."

"You got that right," he agreed. "I'll alert Fritz. What you do now is sit tight and put your faith in truth, justice, and the American way. And Fritz."

The hell with that
, I thought as I replaced the receiver. I'm not about to let some half-smart killer and a pissed-off DA stick me with the tab for a murder I didn't commit.

I grabbed the phone and dialed a number I knew by heart. When a familiar voice answered, I said, "Hi, Gretchen. How are you holding up?"

"What do you want, Billy?" The words were as cold as gazpacho.

"To offer my condolences."

"Thank you," she said. "Now, if you'll excuse me ..."

"Gretch, you told the police that Rudy and I didn't get along."

"Well, you didn't."

"We had disagreements," I said, "but they weren't the kind of things that lead to murder, for God's sake. I don't have a violent bone in my body. But now the cops are all over me. They closed down the Bistro."

"The police, a boorish detective named Solomon, said that the poisoned coq au vin came from the Bistro," she said. "That seems reason enough for them to close it down."

"They're not even sure it was the food that was poisoned," I said. "And even if it was, anybody could have done that after it left here. Maybe somebody who was with him."

"Rudy dined alone last night."

"How do you know that?"

"I ... I called him earlier in the evening. Maybe six-thirty. He'd just arrived home. He said he was worn out, that he was looking forward to a good night's sleep."

"He didn't say anything about his plans for dinner?"

"No. Just that he was exhausted. He'd been feeling tired ever since he returned from the Middle East. And then there was the pressure from all the damned agents wanting to renegotiate contracts. Which he blamed on you, with good reason."

"Gretch, you can't really believe I murdered Rudy."

There was silence on the line for a few beats. Then: "No. Of course not, Billy. I just don't want to think about it at all. I don't even know what I'm saying anymore. I'm going to stay with Dad at the manor house for a while. It's not good my being here alone."

"I'm really sorry you have to go through this."

"I ... I shouldn't have told that detective about you and Rudy," she said. "It was spiteful."

"Don't worry about it," I said. "Just take care of yourself. I'll be fine."

I cradled the phone and considered what I should do to make that last statement ring true.

Gretch's comment about her fiance feeling tired every night prompted me to drag the
Food School 101
file from the desk drawer. I'd been keeping it handy ever since Rudy said he was going to can me from the pilot. I flipped through it until I found the address I wanted.

I was putting the file away when Cassandra entered the office. "This place is a frigging mess, Billy. And it's like low tide out on the street. Paparazzi and reporters and gawkers."

"Perfect," I said. "Just the kind of publicity we need. How'd things go with the reservation crowd?"

"I caught most of them. A lot of unhappy customers. The ones I couldn't reach are going to be even more unhappy when they arrive. Especially when they find unwashed paparazzi instead of dinner."

"I guess you'll have to stay at the door," I said. "Tell the customers who do make it past the press gauntlet that we're sorry. And try to sound like you mean it."

"Everybody's asking why we're closed. I've been stonewalling them, telling them I don't know."

"Might as well tell them the truth. You can bet it's already on TV and the Web. And the papers will have it by morning. Just say we're cooperating with the NYPD on a criminal investigation. If they ask for specifics, refer them to the cops and your buddy District Attorney Rodell."

"Rodell? Oh, shit. Is it my fault they closed us down?"

"Not unless you poisoned Gallagher," I said. "Rodell is just a self-important little weasel, taking advantage of the situation. I don't suppose you made a copy of that front-door footage with him and the hooker?"

"No copy. But it's on the security disks."

"The detectives took the disks," I said, standing and grabbing my coat. "I want you to do a couple of things. I need an exact count of how many coq au vin dinners were served last night and a list of who
paid for 'em. Meanwhile, keep trying to reach the reservation holders you missed."

"Where are you going?" she asked as I headed for the door.

"You don't expect me to just sit here and let Rodell and his pals build a case against me? I'm going to try and find some other suspects to throw at 'em."

Cassandra frowned. "There are people you hire to do that, Billy. Private investigators. Pros who know what they're doing."

I considered telling her that I was not exactly a novice at reading the signs of guilt. That shortly after my mother's death, my unofficial stepfather, Paul Lamont, the wily confidence man, and I had traveled the country, living off of the gullibility of the greedy and the dishonest. I could have explained that my teens had been filled not merely with the education received at a long list of ever-changing schools but with Paul's lectures and on-the-job training in discovering the evil hidden in some human hearts.

But these were my secrets to keep hidden, so instead I said, "Hiring an investigator costs money. And at the rate things are going, money may be in short supply around here. Anyway, it's all a matter of prying information out of people, which is what I do every morning on
Wake Up
."

"The people you interview aren't potential murderers, Billy."

"You should watch the show more often," I told her.

To avoid the crowd out front, I used the rear exit.

Night had just fallen, and I strolled through it for a block before flagging a cab.

The address I gave the driver belonged to a pale-orange brick apartment building in the West Fifties. The green awning was faded and, judging by the debris gathered in the stairwell to the basement entrance, the smudges on the glass front door left by a hundred fingers, the junk mail and freebie tabloids cluttering the tiny vestibule, and the burnt-out bulbs in its cheap chandelier, the superintendent of the Corey Apartments wasn't very house-proud.

That made me wonder if instead of pressing a lot of buzzers and getting residents all stirred up I shouldn't just check to see if the door separating the apartments from the vestibule might be unlocked.

It was.

I decided to avoid the tiny and undoubtedly dangerous elevator. Instead, I climbed up three flights of carpeted stairwell. I arrived gasping from the exercise and the dust. I swore that as soon as this was over, I'd start working out. No joke.

According to her employment form, Melody Moon lived in apartment 319. The improbably named Ms. Moon was the beautiful black
teenage chef wannabe who'd caught the eye of Rudy Gallagher at our ill-fated
Food School
pilot shoot.

There was a cartoon daisy painted at eye level on the dark wooden door to 319. I pressed the buzzer and almost immediately heard the slap of approaching feet.

"Who's there?" a feminine voice inquired.

"Billy Blessing."

There was a metallic click, and the bright-yellow center of the cartoon daisy was replaced by an eyeball.

"Wow," the voice said. "It
is
you."

Chains rattled. Locks unclicked. Eventually the door opened on an undernourished, milk-pale young woman in her twenties with spiked, dark-blue hair and a tattoo of the Batman logo on her arm. She was wearing a tattered tee featuring the cat and dog from the
Get Fuzzy
comic strip, pink cargo shorts, and matching flip-flops.

Definitely not Melody Moon.

"Wow," she said again. "Chef Billy Blessing. Come on in."

I entered a bright room with royal-blue walls trimmed in butter yellow. Rainbow-hued shag carpets were scattered on a light hardwood floor. Twin pink stuffed chairs flanked a large flat-screen TV/DVD player combo that had been trimmed in press-on zebra-striped paper. On the walls were anime cells and original comic art in frames that picked up the TV's zebra-stripe motif.

It was like walking onto a set at Cartoon Network.

"I guess you're looking for Melody," the young woman told me. "That's so sweet of you. She's out on a grocery run, but she'll be back soon. I'm her roommate, Rita Margolis."

She extended an ink-and-paint-stained hand with nails bitten to the quick. Her grip was firm and no-nonsense.

"Sit down," she suggested, indicating a maroon couch that seemed to have been made from densely packed sheets of cardboard. It was more comfortable than it looked, but then, it would have had to be.

"We don't really need the groceries," Rita said. "I just thought it was a good idea to keep Melody occupied. She's taking her fiance's death really hard."

I let the fiance comment go unquestioned. Instead I asked, "When did she find out?"

"It popped on the news a couple of hours ago. Melody freaked, but in a scary way. No tears. Just sort of froze, staring at the TV, even
after I turned it off. Then she started talking, only, like, to herself, not to me."

"What was she saying?"

'This isn't happening. Rudy and I are in love.' Stuff like that. I feel so bad for her."

"Sounds like she might be in shock," I said.

"No. I know shock. I studied nursing, back before I began my creative phase. Melody's tough. I think she's just working it out.

"Like something to drink, chef? A cosmo? A negroni? Test me. I used to tend bar at Ganglion."

I'd never heard of Ganglion, which I suspected was a good thing. "I'm fine," I said.

In front of me was an antique footlocker standing in for a coffee table. Painted powder blue. Magazines and books and CDs were spread across its surface. I spied Rita's name on the cover of a comic book titled
Funny Girls
. "This yours?" I asked, picking it up.

"Yep," Rita said. "My little baby. I've been selling it on my website. Moved nearly two thousand copies at twelve ninety-five per, not including tax or postage. The girls on the cover, the three girls, have crazy adventures all over the world. They're bisexual, which adds to the fun. Both Eclipse Comics and HBO are very interested."

"Who wouldn't be?" I said. "You have a shot at twice the audience."

"I'm very proud of my work." She sat beside me and took the book from me. "Let me show you a few things." She sobered suddenly and gave me a hopeful look. "Assuming you really are interested."

"Beautiful and bisexual? Sounds like a party."