Latte Trouble

He fixed his eyes on us. They were bright, as if with fever. “Do I know you?” he whispered hoarsely.

I shook my head. “I was at Lottie Harmon’s party…I saw what happened to you and Mr. Flatt. I just thought I’d pay you a visit…see how you’re feeling.”

Jeff Lugar laughed bitterly. “I’m fine, just fine, or so the doctors tell me.”

“Indeed? Why, that’s excellent news,” Madame said with measured enthusiasm.

“Is it?” Jeff replied. He lifted a hand to brush his shock of hair away from his face. Once again, the limb trembled so much I couldn’t look away. Jeff Lugar followed my gaze, then lowered his arm quickly.

“Neural damage caused by oxygen depravation,” he explained. “Another delightful effect of the cyanide. There’s some brain damage as well, though I’m told it’s nominal—whatever that means.”

Jeff Lugar tried to laugh again, but coughed instead. When the hacking intensified, I stepped forward and poured him some water. He drank with rasping gulps.

“Thanks…the oxygen makes my mouth dry.” He tried to pass me back the plastic cup, splashed water on my wrist and arm.

“I’m sorry. I’m…I’m not the man I used to be.”

I sat in silence for a moment, while Madame gently queried Jeff Lugar about his home and family, his health and situation. When I spied an opening in the conversation, I jumped in.

“Do you know why someone would want to poison Ricky Flatt?”

“Maybe because Ricky was a little bitch.”

I blinked.

“Look,” Jeff Lugar rasped. “I can hardly blame that waiter for poisoning Ricky. Flatt was such a turd sometimes, the way he was goading his ex-boyfriend…”

“Were you jealous of Ricky’s old flame?”

Jeff shook his head. “No way. I couldn’t even stand Ricky. I was only there that night because Ricky insisted I come. Said it would boost my modeling career. It would be good for me to be seen—with him…or so he claimed.”

“So you’re sure it was the waiter who’s guilty?”

Jeff shrugged. “Who else? That’s who the police say did it and I believe them. Who am I to argue with the police?”

“Maybe Ricky wasn’t the intended victim,” I prodded. “Maybe someone else was supposed to die and you and Ricky just got in the way.”

Jeff nodded. “That’s what my friend Bryan said happened. He was there, too. Saw the whole thing. I guess it’s possible.”

“Who’s Bryan?”

“Bryan Goldin. You just missed him.”

“White-blond buzz cut? Billy Idol look?”

Jeff Lugar nodded. Mr. Eighties revealed at last, I thought.

“Will you be getting out soon?” Madame asked.

“I’m being moved to a rehab facility upstate, a six-month stay—that’s how long the doctors say it will take for me to fully recover my…capacities…”

We conversed for a few more minutes, until I noticed Jeff Lugar getting weaker. I touched Madame’s arm and we said our good-byes.

“That poor boy,” Madame sighed. “He looks simply terrible.”

“At least he’s above ground.”

“Yes, but I fear he has a long road to recovery.”

I could see Madame’s heart ached for Jeff Lugar. I was sad for the man, too, but my mind was more focused on Bryan Goldin. In a city of ten million people and a fashion industry of thousands he’d turned up three times now. At the rollout party, Bryan Goldin had seemed unattached, yet on the yacht he appeared to be a member of Lebreaux’s entourage. Now here he was again, this time as an apparent friend of the unfortunate Jeff Lugar. Suddenly Matteo’s off-the-wall theory about Lebreaux working behind the scenes to destroy the Village Blend’s reputation sounded more plausible. Could Lebreaux actually be using Bryan like some kind of demented hit man— even if it meant spiking a latte with cyanide and committing a totally random act of murder? Was it possible that Bryan missed killing Lottie, harmed a friend instead, and now felt guilty?

Madame and I rode the elevator down to the lobby. We were about to leave the hospital when I spied Mr. Eighties on his way back up—presumably to Jeff Lugar’s room. He slipped past us without a glance, stepped into an empty elevator.

I squeezed Madame’s arm. “I’ll be right back,” I whispered. Then I stepped into the elevator next to Bryan Goldin. We were the only two occupants as the doors closed and the elevator ascended.

The button for the tenth floor was already glowing, but I tapped it anyway. The doors slid shut, I pressed my back into the corner and glanced at the young model. He glanced at me in return—just a quick look, the way people check one another out in elevators. It was clear he hadn’t recognized me, or was very good at feigning indifference if he had. Of course, I didn’t exactly stand out in a crowd—not the way Goldin did with his buffed appearance, stylish, expensive clothes, dyed hair, and outlaw tattoos.

The elevator gave a jolt, then started to rise. If I was going to pounce, it was now or never. “Excuse me, but you’re Bryan Goldin, right?”

He blinked in naked surprise. Then the curtain of cool indifference descended. “Yes,” he said.

“I saw you the other night. At Lottie Harmon’s party.”

He squinted, took a closer look. “Do you work for a designer label? Or maybe a magazine, Ms…?”

“Cosi. Clare Cosi. Actually I saw you at the party, and the other night, too. On the yacht with Mr. Lebreaux.”

Goldin shifted uncomfortably, glanced away, then poked the elevator button impatiently.

“Are you a friend of Lebreaux?” I asked, forcing a smile. “I’ve known Eduardo for years…”.

“I know Lebreaux,” Goldin said, allowing the statement to hang there.

The elevator stopped at seven. The doors slid open. I thought Bryan was going to bolt but he stayed, using the distraction as a chance to turn his back on me. Two conversing nurses stepped into the elevator. One pressed the button for eight, then someone called from the corridor and the two women hurried out of the elevator again. The doors closed and Goldin and I were alone again.

“I bet you’re a model,” I cooed.

“Sometimes,” Goldin muttered.

I wondered about his connection, if any, to Lottie’s runway show with Fen tomorrow. “Do you model for Fen?”

Bryan Goldin curled his lips in a near-perfect imitation of Billy Idol. “Of course.”

Of course? Odd choice of words, like it was a given or something. Was it simply confidence bordering on arrogance? Or something else? I was about to ask another question when the elevator stopped on eight and the door opened. No one got on, and we waited for a moment. Then, as the doors were about to close, Bryan Goldin slipped between them and hurried down the corridor. I tried to follow but he’d timed his exit perfectly and the doors closed in my face.

On the tenth floor, I walked back to Jeff Lugar’s room and peered inside. Save for the quiet hiss of the respirator, the room was silent. Jeff Lugar was alone, sleeping soundly. I wanted to see if Bryan would return, but after fifteen minutes he still hadn’t, so I walked back to the elevator.

Twenty-Two

As Mr. Raj drove us back to the West Side of Manhattan, I told Madame what I’d discovered—which wasn’t much, in my estimation.

Bryan Goldin knew Lebreaux and he’d modeled for Fen. But all that got me was a legitimate reason for his being on the Fortune and at Lottie’s party. I also brought Madame up to date with Rena