“In a second,” I replied.
A knife kit was open on another prep table next to Tommy’s corpse. The knives were stored in a fiery red canvas bag with a luggage ID tag and plastic cat charm dangling from the zipper. All the knives were in their sheaths except one.
I faced Joy, who had her back against the swinging double doors.
“Your knife kit is here, Joy,” I said, trying to remain steady. “Were you packing up when this happened?”
I couldn’t believe it, but I was actually asking my daughter if she had just killed her lover.
Joy shook her head, used the long sleeve of her pink jersey to swipe at the unceasing flow from her eyes. “I just got here five minutes ago…” she said between gasping sobs. “The doors were unlocked…so I knew Tommy was…probably back here…in the kitchen…I came back here and found him…like that…”
“Call 911,” I said.
Joy took a step toward the phone on the wall.
“No!” I cried. “Don’t touch that phone! Don’t touch anything! Use your cell.”
“I can’t. Lieutenant Salinas took it last night.”
“That’s right. Okay…” I put my arm around my daughter.
“Come with me, honey. I have my cell. We’ll call the police from the dining room.”
Then, with a final glance at the late Tommy Keitel, I led Joy out of his kitchen.
Within minutes of my 911 call, two uniformed officers arrived. One man waited with us—although I suspected he was really guarding us. The second man went into the kitchen, and almost immediately came out again. These two were followed by more men in uniforms, and a pair of plainclothes detectives who sat us down at a table.
Someone turned on the lights, and the dining room was bathed in a golden glow. The walls were sunny yellow again, the room warm and welcoming. But the laughing gargoyles hadn’t changed for me. From their balcony seats, they appeared to be grinning at the officious activities of police personnel as if Chef Keitel’s grim, brutal murder had been staged entirely for their amusement.
I closed my eyes, said a prayer for Tommy’s soul. Yet the prickly feeling of dread was still chilling my skin. Beneath the buzz of conversations, I could almost hear a quiet, demonic cackling. Something terrible was still to come. Even the gargoyles knew it.
I took a breath, blocked these dark thoughts, and tried to avoid looking up.
In a burst of sound and movement, new arrivals entered the premises, a horde of men and women in overalls, clutching rolls of yellow crime-scene tape. The forensics team streamed in through the dining room and into the kitchen.
A short time after that, the two detectives on the case introduced themselves. Eugene Lippert and Ray Tatum were part of the Nineteenth Precinct’s detective squad. Lippert was probably fifty, his beige suit slightly rumpled. He had thick ankles and wore Hush Puppies on his large feet.
His partner, Tatum, was a decade younger, African American, and much more stylishly dressed in black slacks, a black turtleneck, and a tailored gray jacket. Lippert was the senior man, but he was the quiet, reserved one. Tatum was the one who radiated outgoing authority, shooting reminders or instructions to the uniformed officers and asking questions of the forensics people.
The two men worked well together. When they got around to us, they were both very cordial. They were also very professional, gently separating Joy and me before I even realized what was happening. I was speaking to Lippert, looked up, and Detective Tatum was already guiding my daughter to a table on the other side of the dining room.
“Where are you taking Joy—”
“Relax, Ms. Cosi. It’s Clare, right?” Lippert asked.
“Yes,” I nodded, my gaze fixed on my daughter.
“My partner just wants to ask the young lady a few questions in private,” Lippert explained. He sat down across from me, his florid face and rust-colored comb-over blocking my view of the other table.
“I’d like to ask you a few questions, too,” Lippert continued. His voice was warm, and through his sagging hazel eyes, he regarded me with a sympathetic expression. “We really need to find the person who committed this crime, and you might be able to help us do that.”
His tone was urgent and earnest and kind, a pleasant change from Lieutenant Salinas’s approach the previous night, which veered from downright suspicious to mildly hostile. I was relieved that Detective Lippert was treating me like a witness, not like a criminal—or an accomplice.
“I’m sorry to have to do this, Ms. Cosi. I know you’ve had a bad experience tonight.” Lippert tilted his head slightly. “But if you can answer my questions, it would be a really big help. It’s best if we talk now, while the memories are fresh, and we can get as accurate a timetable as possible. It would probably be the most important thing you could do for us to help us catch the killer…But if you’d rather not, if it’s too trying to talk about right now…I certainly understand.”
Lippert paused expectantly, a notebook in one hand, a pen in the other.
“Of course we can talk,” I said. “I want to help you find the killer. Tommy Keitel was no saint, but he certainly didn’t deserve to die like this.”
The detective smiled. “Good. Let’s start at the beginning. Tell me everything you think is relevant, starting with why you and your daughter were here after hours in the first place.”
I explained to Lippert about my daughter’s leaving the restaurant earlier in the evening and then coming back for her knives. I explained to Lippert that Joy had only returned to the restaurant to pick up her stuff, and that I came here to meet her.
When Lippert asked me what my daughter’s relationship was with the deceased, however, I clammed up.
“She works for him,” I said.
“Joy worked for the victim. I see,” Lippert said. “And is that all they were to each other? Just employer and employee?”
“She was an intern here for the last three months.” I kept my answer short and only slightly evasive. “Her culinary school can confirm that.”
Then I switched the subject pronto and began telling Detective Lippert about Brigitte Rouille and her violent outburst. I also mentioned that Tommy Keitel was feuding with the restaurant’s owner, Anton Wright, about something. I brought up that shady character named Nick and told Lippert about Keitel getting some kind of mysterious missive in a glossy black envelope.
“It sounded like Chef Keitel received more than one of these envelopes,” I said. “And whatever was inside angered him tremendously. It could have been a threat, even blackmail of some kind.”
“Blackmail? Hmmmm. And why do you think that, Ms. Cosi? Because the letter came in a black envelope?”
I stared at Lippert. “I think it’s something you should look into.”
“I see…”
Detective Lippert continued to listen to me talk, he even took some notes, but then he went right back to Joy. He asked what “stuff” my daughter had come for so late, and I told him about the things in her locker and her expensive knife set.
“You’re talking about the knife kit spread out on the counter beside the deceased?” Lippert asked.
“Yes.” I nodded. “It’s Joy’s.”
The luggage tag attached to the set had my daughter’s name and address right on it. Unless they were idiots, the detectives had to know it was Joy’s already.
“Maybe Chef Keitel was packing up Joy’s knives when the killer arrived,” I theorized.
“And the killer used your daughter’s knife to kill him?”
“I guess it was the closest blade in sight—”
Lippert’s expression turned thoughtful then mildly puzzled. “In a kitchen full of knives? There are blades and meat hammers and skewers hanging all over the place in there. Why would some stranger just happen to grab your daughter’s knife?”
Clearly, Detective Lippert was playing with the idea of Joy as the killer. I wasn’t surprised he wanted to
