Through The Grinder

“Clare,” called Detective Quinn, approaching me behind the counter. “I have a question for you before I go.”

With his grim expression back, I expected a query concerning Valerie Lathem…or at the very least one about the list of coffee drinks that seemed to constantly perplex him. But to my stunned surprise, he didn’t mention either one.

“Are you free for dinner Thursday?”

Three

She lived in one of those high-priced new buildings they’d put up near the river with rooftop parking and a view of the Jersey swamps.

HUDSON VIEW read the white metal sign bolted to the red brick building. “CONDOS AVAILABLE, INQUIRE IN-SIDE.”

The bricks were new, the cheap chrome light fixtures shiny as a drawer full of QVC cubic zirconias, but the building had no style, no character, and no history. A nearly featureless rectangle, which, in the Genius’s view, would succinctly describe the woman inside — if you added a pair of pathetically second-rate breasts.

Her SinglesNYC.com profile had lied, of course.

“All of them lie,” whispered the Genius. “All of them…”

From the building across the street, the Genius watched the woman prepare for her Thursday night date. With her drapes left wide open, the blonde probably assumed no one was peeping. An easy mistake, since she was fifteen floors up, the office building directly across from her condo was only half leased, and the space where the Genius now stood appeared unlit and uninhabited.

Through the dark window, the Genius watched the woman drop her white towel and step into a lacey pair of black panties.

“Well, well, well, I see our hair color’s a dye job…”

Next came the bra — a push-up lace number that matched the black panties.

“That’s it, honey, work what you’ve got,” whispered the Genius, disgusted by the woman’s attempt to disguise her second-rate breasts.

Then came the little black dress, the shoes, the jewelry, the makeup. And…what’s this? The Genius peered through a pair of binoculars to find the woman moving toward her laptop. After punching up the SinglesNYC Web site, the woman stared at the photo, reread the profile.

“Yes, and what do you think of tonight’s date? Quite a catch isn’t he?”

Inside her apartment, the woman strode confidently to the mirror to survey herself. Then, giving herself a dirty little smile, she reached up beneath her skirt and slowly pulled off her panties.

“No panties for the big date? Hmmmm…another bad girl.”

“So what’s bothering you about it?” I asked Mike Quinn that Thursday evening.

“Something doesn’t sit right,” he said. “I mean apart from the fact that the transit boys let the news vultures snap away before the blood was swabbed up.”

“Those front page photos were…unfortunate,” I said. “I can’t imagine how Valerie Lathem’s poor grandmother felt, seeing her granddaughter’s blood on the tracks like that. Splashed all over the newspapers.”

“You got it,” said Quinn on an exhale of disgust. “You got it.”

I put down the salad bowl of fresh mesclun, raddiccio, and grape tomatoes, glistening in a dressing of olive oil, aged balsamic, and freshly ground sea salt, the shaved Pecorino Romano cresting over it all in creamy curling waves. Then I sat next to the detective in the cozy dining room of my duplex, which was located in the two floors above the Village Blend.

I’d set the antique Chippendale table with care, using the handmade lace cloth Madame had purchased in Florence and the candleholders of blown Venetian glass. Before Quinn arrived, I’d lit the candles and lowered the chandelier’s wattage, so the flickering glow of candlelight would reflect itself in the polished wood sideboard and bring a feeling of warmth to the room.

Earlier in the day, Quinn had offered to take me out to a nearby restaurant, but I told him it was a better idea for me to cook dinner for him at my place. No mental slouch, he understood.

Quinn was a married man. A lot of people knew us in this neighborhood. Since I had nothing prurient in mind — and I sincerely doubted he did, either — I didn’t think we should take the chance of giving the wrong impression to some passing acquaintance. Ours, or worse, his wife’s.

Better, I thought, to keep our private friendship just that — private.

“Wine?” I asked.

He’d thoughtfully brought a bottle of Pinot Grigio, and I’d been letting it breathe on Madame’s Florentine tablecloth for the last ten minutes.

“Let me,” he said and poured for us both.

I was relieved to see him take a glass because, from the moment he’d entered the apartment, he seemed tense, making me wonder if I really had made the right decision to entertain him privately.

Maybe the wine would relax him.

“So is that why you were unhappy with the transit police?” I asked. “Because of the news photos?”

“Something doesn’t sit right,” he repeated.

I studied Quinn’s face, all freshly shaved angles, shadows still present under winter blue eyes. As usual, his expression was unreadable.

We sat in silence a few moments.

Like most men, Quinn was the Twenty Questions type. “Something doesn’t sit right with…the search you made of her apartment?” I prompted.

The detective nodded as he took a sip of wine. “And with the suicide.”

I could think of a dozen more questions, but it wasn’t my business to grill him. It was police business. And Valerie Lathem’s family’s business. And none of mine. So I dished the mesclun into the Spode Imperialware “Blue Italian” pattern salad bowls. (It wasn’t Madame’s best china, but it was my favorite. The homey blue scenes of Northern Italy set against the white earthenware reminded me of an especially carefree summer when I was Joy’s age.)

“Clare, do you recall ever seeing Ms. Lathem come into the Blend with a companion?”

“Companion?”

“Friend or lover? Male or female?”

For a moment, I tried to recall her visits — anything unique about them, but it was so difficult to even remember her face. “It’s difficult…we serve hundreds of people a day. I try to get to know the regulars…but when we get busy…well, you’ve seen how crazy it can get…”

Quinn nodded.

“I can only recall her coming during the morning rushes. Alone.”

We ate in silence for a full minute.

“Did she leave a note?” I asked, too curious not to. “You know, a suicide note. Explaining why…”

“No note. No nothing,” said Quinn. “No drugs, no alcohol, no record of mental instability, or strained relationships. Everybody loved her. That’s what doesn’t sit right. There are usually some signs of problems. Issues. But my search and interviews have turned up a young woman who had everything to live for.”

“Was it possible she didn’t kill herself? That she just…I don’t know, slipped off the platform?”

Quinn shook his head. “The motorman said she flew right out in front of him. Flew. She didn’t drop down partially. She projected forward…and yet…”

“What?”

“She’d bought a bag of groceries at the Green Market. Who the hell buys groceries ten minutes before they off themselves?”

“You think she could have been pushed?”