“May-September?” I murmured, scratching my head. “They only operate in the summer?”
Mike laughed. “No. Good guess though. Care to try again?”
“Sure…”
This was our usual routine. Long before we’d started dating, Mike would come into the coffeehouse as a customer, belly up to my espresso bar, and we would get to talking about his cases, from his theories and interrogations to his methods of trapping an array of criminals. I’d learned a lot about detective work, just listening to Mike as he downed his lattes.
The first week we’d started dating, he’d confided to me how happy it made him that I genuinely cared about his work. Apparently, his wife had changed on him early in their marriage, asking him not to bring his job home.
I’d never met Mrs. Quinn, but I couldn’t understand how she could shut down her husband like that. I thought Mike’s work was admirable and inspiring, not to mention thrilling. The man routinely risked his life to keep the never-ending New York crime wave from touching me and mine. How could I not want to hear about it?
“May-September, May-September,” I repeated, drumming my fingers on the table. “Is the name some kind of a play on the phrase
“You’re getting warmer.”
Mike glanced away from Java and moved his attention fully over to me. I gulped a few more hits of caffeine just to stay focused under his intense blue gaze.
“Okay…” I said. “If the gang is May-September, then it must mean a younger person and a middle-aged person are involved somehow. Are younger perps setting up middle-aged victims for robberies?”
“You got it.” He put the lid on the Pounce treats. Java got the hint. She licked her brown paws, stretched, then trotted off toward the living room. “Looks like I lost my new furry girlfriend.”
“Pop the lid on those treats, and she’ll be all yours again.”
“I see. It’s a superficial thing.”
“So…how are they doing it exactly? The gang?”
“The MO’s been the same a half dozen times now. A twentysomething perpetrator picks up a middle-aged target at a nightclub, brings the target to another location, where accomplices initiate the robbery. Sometimes there’s violence, other times just some gun pointing. They always leave the victim tied up. CompStat confirmed the pattern, and my captain asked me to form a task force.”
“Does that mean this gang’s operating beyond the Sixth Precinct?”
Mike nodded. “Lower East Side, Soho, and here in the Village.”
“I guess that makes sense…I mean, those are the hot spots for nightlife.”
“Three clubs seem to be favorite locations for this gang,” Mike said. “We’ve got personnel undercover, posing as nightclub customers.”
“You have them well-dressed, I assume. Flashing cash and jewelry? Looking clumsy and drunk, like easy marks?”
“You got it, Cosi.” Mike smiled. “Didn’t I tell you to sign up for the Police Academy?”
“You know I’m
“Women and men. Both have been targets.”
“But you haven’t had any bites yet?”
The smile left Mike’s eyes; he glanced into his cup. “Nothing.”
“That’s not unusual, is it? I mean, you just started your operation…”
“The robberies are getting more violent: pistol whipping, choking to unconsciousness.” He frowned, looked away, sipped more coffee. “If we don’t tag a lead quickly, I’m concerned we’ll be looking at homicides.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Maybe you should use me as a decoy.”
“I have a lot of plans for using you, Cosi.
“Okay, fine…as long as one of your plans involves those handcuffs of yours.” I put my wrists together in front of me, hoping to lighten his mood again. “Did I mention the bed upstairs is a four-poster?”
My little joke seemed to perk up Mike faster than another hit of Sunshine. He smiled, rubbing his chin, but he wasn’t taking the bait where the handcuffs were concerned.
“So tell me how
“My investigation?” I knocked back more coffee, refilled my mug.
“Come on, Clare. You mentioned going to Joy’s restaurant tonight, and I know you didn’t choose it for the ambiance. You went to check up on your daughter, right?”
“Right. I admit it. Wasn’t that easy? And you didn’t even have to beat it out of me.”
“Well? How did it go?”
“Not very well, I’m sorry to tell you.”
“Why not?”
Mike’s brow knitted as I recounted my evening, from the schizoid dinner of perfect food and lousy coffee to my daughter being threatened by a knife-wielding, probably drug-addled sous-chef. When I finally finished, he leaned forward, his mouth tight.
“And
“He was missing in action. Joy says he’s been disappearing a lot lately, and tonight I saw it for myself. This executive chef came in after dinner service was over—and with this creepy guy named Nick in tow.”
“Creepy how?”
“His demeanor, I guess. I mean, I’ve seen all types in the Village, believe me, but this guy was hard-core intense. His skin was extremely pale, and his brown hair was longish, but not in a trendy way. It just hung there, you know? And he was dressed all in black—which, again, isn’t exactly atypical for New York. But these clothes weren’t in the least fashionable. He didn’t utter a word to me, even after we were introduced, and he wore these pointy boots and a black leather blazer, the kind the outer-boroughs guys wear.”
I suddenly thought of Esther’s boyfriend. BB Gun had been wearing a black leather blazer that was a lot like Nick’s.
“Anything else you remember?” Mike asked.
“Yeah. When Tommy introduced me to Nick, he said the man was from Brighton Beach.”
“Brighton Beach, huh? That area of Brooklyn is full of Russians.”
“So?”
“So it’s a long way from Manhattan. Why’s Keitel hanging with a guy like that?”
“I can’t imagine.”
“Yes, you can, Clare. The black leather blazer’s a popular rag with the wiseguys. Do you know if Keitel owns his restaurant?”
“He doesn’t.” I related what I’d overheard during Brigitte’s meltdown. “One of the men on the staff loudly reminded Brigitte that she was under contract just like Tommy Keitel.”
“So.” Mike paused, put down his cup. “Tommy doesn’t own the restaurant. Which means he answers to an owner—or owners. And restaurants like Solange aren’t cheap. Starting a place like that must cost a cool million —”
“Six.”
“No.”
“Yeah. David Mintzer told me it costs around six million to get a-two-hundred seat restaurant off the ground in midtown Manhattan. And to maintain it, the cost is something like five to eight hundred dollars per square foot per month, just for rent.”
Mike whistled. “I guess that’s why a martini in those joints costs eighteen bucks.”
“And a lamb chop is forty-four. Yeah, that’s why.”
“Well, there you go,” Mike said. “The picture seems clear enough to me.”
“What picture?”
“Put the pieces together, Clare. Somebody with big money is backing Tommy’s restaurant. Tommy goes
