Holiday Grind

Young looked at me askance, as if he were trying to place me. “You do live in my building, right? Chaz said you were a neighbor.”

“Actually, I live several blocks away. But I’m familiar with your building, and the property around it. It’s usually a fairly safe part of the city, but the other night, there was a murder on your street. You know about that, right?”

Young nodded. “I read about the shooting. Apparently it happened in the alley right outside my residence.”

“I knew the victim, Mr. Young. He was a friend of mine.”

“Oh?” he said. “I’m very sorry.”

“Thank you.”

At the mention of knowing the victim, I noticed a subtle change in the man. His coolness began slowly evaporating and he began to fidget.

“The victim’s name was Alfred Glockner,” I explained. “He was an aspiring stand-up comedian, and he worked as a Traveling Santa. Does his name mean anything to you?”

Young pursed his lips and then frowned. “I never heard of a Mr. Glockner. Should I know him?”

“That’s a question I want answered. You see, I’m privately investigating Mr. Glockner’s murder, and just last evening the police received evidence that proves Alf was on the fire escape, right outside your apartment window, just minutes before he was gunned down.”

Young’s fidgeting form froze. He was silent for a few moments, and then he said, “I’m stunned to hear that. I really am. I mean, I didn’t see or hear anything out of the ordinary that night. Not even sirens.”

“Well, I was wondering—why do you think Alf was on your balcony?”

Young’s eyebrow arched, a little cruelly. “I guess he wasn’t delivering presents, was he, Ms. Cosi? I mean, I would have expected Santa to use the chimney for that, wouldn’t you?”

“I’m serious, Mr. Young.”

“I know you are, and I’m surprised you’re even asking that question. Burglaries increase during the holidays. That’s one of the things I learned researching today’s show...”

As he spoke, Young glanced several times at his Rolex. His gaze then began darting back and forth between me and his closed office door. Is he hoping for an interruption? Or is he worried who might suddenly walk in and become a party to this conversation?

“I was out much of that day, holiday shopping,” Young continued. “Perhaps this Glockner fellow saw me with shopping bags around the neighborhood and followed me back to my building with the intent to rob my apartment.”

I recalled what the bartender at the White Horse had told me. Alf was there that night. He’d ordered a cranberry juice and then left in a hurry without finishing it. I also recalled the small shopping bags I’d seen on James Young’s coffee table—the ones labeled Tiffany, Tourneau, Saks.

Did Alf notice James Young walking home that night? Was Vicki Glockner right? Was Omar Linford pressuring or threatening Alf over the money he’d lent him? Was Alf so desperate to pay back Linford that he’d turned to burglary? If he had, was James Young Alf’s first try—or had Alf done it before?

The phone on Young’s desk buzzed.

“If you’ll excuse me, Ms. Cosi,” he said, reaching for the receiver. “I have work to do.”

Reluctantly I left James Young’s office to search out Madame again. After thanking Heidi for her help, we flagged a cab on Eleventh.

“What did you find out?” Madame asked as we settled into the backseat.

“James Young is an attractive, confident, financially comfortable man. That’s what I found out.”

“Don’t those sorts of men commit murder, dear?”

“Not my point. If James Young caught Alf Glockner in the act of burglary, would a man like him have gone all the way down to the alley, shot him, and then robbed the Traveling Santa cart to make it look like a random mugging?”

“Patently ridiculous.”

“Agreed. Just last night, Young saw a dark figure on his fire escape—me—and all he did was call his doorman.”

“Who did attack you.”

“Yes, the Neanderthal also locked me in a Dumpster. But he didn’t shoot me. He called the NYPD. I’m sure he would have done that for Alf, too... Still, there’s something about James Young that doesn’t feel right...”

“What’s that?”

“Young became very tense when I brought up Alf, as if he were hiding something. Or at least knew more than he was telling me.”

“Perhaps he was just uneasy with your grilling him about a terrible crime that occurred right outside his home.”

I drummed my fingers on the cab’s vinyl seat and watched restaurants, storefronts, and apartment houses roll by. “Young is certainly perceptive enough to know that I was suspicious of him—or at least of Alf’s being on his balcony.”

“Wouldn’t it make you nervous to have someone suggest you may have something to do with a murder?”

“I guess so.”

“So where are we now?” Madame turned in the car seat to face me. “The trail hasn’t gone cold, has it? Perhaps Mr. Young left you with another lead? Do you have a new theory?”

I raised an eyebrow. “You’ve certainly picked up on the gumshoe slang, haven’t you?”

“No mystery there, dear.” Madame waved her hand. “You’re not the first coffeehouse manager who’s regularly provided hot stimulants for men in law enforcement.”

Having heard more than a few racy stories of Madame’s bohemian years, I wasn’t at all sure how to interpret that remark. Before I could clarify what exactly she meant, however, our taxi pulled up to the curb. We paid the driver, climbed out, and gasped. The line to get into the Village Blend was literally around the block.

“My goodness!” Madame gawked. “I thought you told me afternoon business has slowed considerably since the economic downturn.”

“It has.”

“Well, my dear, I haven’t seen this kind of enthusiasm for a retail refreshment since Seinfeld aired an episode on the Soup Nazi! Did some television show film an episode about our Village Blend?”

“Not that I know of... Come on.”

Rather than fight our way through the crowd, I led Madame around to the back alley, pulled out my keys, and unlocked the back door. We entered through the pantry area, passing the service stairwell that led down to the basement and up to my private apartment.

“Would you rather we go upstairs to talk?” I asked.

“And miss finding out what all the fuss is about? Not on your life!”

Seventeen

“People, people!” Tucker yelled, clapping his hands. “Will you puh-leeze give your order a thought on your way up to my counter! And have your money or credit card out before you get to me!”

The espresso bar looked like a caffeinated zoo—but a well-run caffeinated zoo. I still couldn’t believe the shop was so busy. When I’d left earlier to go to Studio 19, the place had already slipped into its typical weekday- afternoon coma. Now the main floor was raucously packed. Tucker’s shift had started, but Esther was still here, mixing drinks with Dante behind the espresso machine—she’d obviously agreed to stay past her scheduled departure time to help handle the thirsty tsunami.