“Jacques told me it was David.”
Prin laughed. “Mintzer was nowhere in sight. I pissed Jacques off so he got rid of me. And let me tell you, he was looking for a way to get rid of me, so he did.”
I wasn’t so sure Prin was telling the truth. “But David hired you,” I argued. “And he owns the restaurant…”
“I’m sure Jacques got David to see things his way. Based on what I actually did, it wouldn’t have been too hard. It doesn’t matter anyway. I’m glad to be back in Manhattan.
“Prin, back up. You said Jacques was looking for a reason to fire you.” One particular reason suddenly came to mind. “Did it have something to do with the suppliers?”
Prin laughed again, sharp and cynical. “You’re talking about Jacques’s ten percent deal, aren’t you? I found out about it, and I figured he was up to something shady. I never said a word, but he knew that I knew, which is really why that bastard wanted me out. I don’t know what’s going on, but you better watch your back, Clare.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean Papas is a prick. But I always liked you. You know, before you got ahold of me, I thought a can opener was the standard tool for coffee prep! Anyway, Clare…guess I’m trying to say thanks for everything you taught me and always being so patient and sweet, you know?”
“Oh, Prin, you’re welcome—”
I was about to ask Prin about her relationship with Treat Mazzelli, but I never got the chance. Someone on her end called her name, and Prin told me she had to get back to work. I wished her luck and said goodbye.
I stood in David’s kitchen a moment, gazing at the glowing display panel on my cell phone and thought about the one person I could talk to right now, the one man who would understand my dilemma—and not just because it was his job. Without hesitation, I toggled to the fourth number on my speed-dial list and pressed.
On good days, I liked to think Detective Mike Quinn’s attraction to me was genuine and based as much on my ability to listen as my big green eyes and sense of humor (and take it from me, a weary, grim-faced New York cop is one tough comedic audience). On bad days, however, I chalked up his regular appearances at the Blend as a simple case of his addiction to my barista skills. Upon meeting the man, I’d single-handedly converted him from a drinker of stale, convenience-store swill to an aficionado of rich, nutty, freshly pulled Arabicas. And, for sure, once you’re hooked on that perfect cup, going without can make you homicidal (well, figuratively anyway).
Whatever the reason for Mike’s friendliness toward me, however, I was glad to hear him answer my call on the first ring.
“Clare? Are you back in the city?”
Mike’s voice was as difficult to read as his features. By now, however, I had trained my ear to detect his subtlest change in tone—not unlike picking up the faintest traces of exotic fruit in a hard-to-cultivate coffee. In this case, the almost inaudible rise in Mike’s deadpan pitch told me the NYPD detective was, in fact, delighted to hear from me.
“No, Mike, I’m not back yet,” I replied. “I’m sorry to tell you I’m still stuck on the balmy beaches of the Hamptons.”
“Poor kid.”
“I hope I didn’t wake you.”
He snorted. (I always could make him laugh.) “I’m on duty,” he informed me.
“So what are you doing? Right now.”
“Why? This isn’t one of your phone sex calls is it?”
A male voice in the background laughed.
“I’m serious, Mike. Tell me.”
“I’m sitting in an unmarked car parked on Houston Street, waiting for someone to rob the decoy cop using the ATM machine across the street.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Hardly. Three robberies in two weeks at this same machine, one ended in a stabbing. Now, tell me what’s wrong.”
“Why do you think something’s wrong?”
“Because I haven’t heard from you in two weeks, it’s after midnight, and that creepy ex-husband of yours has crept back into town.”
“Mike, how the hell do you know all that? Are you spying on me?”
“Relax, it’s a coincidence, that’s all. I stopped by the Blend for a double tall latte and spotted Allegro getting out of a cab.”
“I hope you got your coffee.”
“I did. Tucker makes a nice latte.” There was a semi-long pause. “You make them better.”
The pitch went slightly lower just then. The pleasure pitch. The pitch that made me conjure images of the lanky cop drinking his double latte in my bed.
I cleared my throat. “Thanks.”
“Anytime. So what’s the trouble, Clare?”
I spilled, telling him about the shooting. I described the murder scene, how I’d found Treat shot, then the shells on the beach. He asked me to describe the bullet casings and I did. I even mentioned the tracks in the sand, the flipper fins, and told Mike the name of the investigating officer.
“I never met this O’Rourke but I’ll ask around.”
“Thanks, Mike.”
“Listen, Clare. I see two scenarios here. One is that the murderer is an amateur, not a true professional —”
“Because I found the shells the shooter left behind?”
“Because you found three shells. Did you see any other bullet holes? In the window, the walls?”
“No, nothing, but I’ll try to find out if the police found anything.”
“If there are no shots close to the window, then for a pro the shooter was a lousy marksman, which brings me to my second scenario.”
“Which is?”
“The shooting was an accident.”
“What! That’s crazy.”
“Think about it, Clare. It’s the Fourth of July. Fireworks are going off all over the place. Some kid, maybe a teenager or even an idiotic adult with too much money and not enough sense starts shooting off a rifle for the hell of it. Most of the shots go wild, but one hits the mark and someone dies. It’s happened before.”
I remained unconvinced and told Mike so.
“Okay,” he said. “There’s a third possible scenario. That the shells were left behind on purpose. If that’s the case, look for the gun to show up in a place where the cops can easily find it.”
“Because the shooter is trying to frame someone else?”
“Exactly,” said Mike.
“I’ve already considered that possibility. But all these theories don’t answer my central question—who was really the intended victim? I’m convinced it’s David, but he swears he has no enemies. He’s convinced it really was Treat.”
“If you want to eliminate this Mazzelli kid as the true victim, then you need to know more about him,” said Mike. “What types of things was he doing off the job, who were his known associates. Who did he hang with, in other words. That said, if I had to make the call based on what you’ve already told me, I’d say your friend David is in danger.”
“Why?”
“It’s simple. Rich men tend to make more enemies than waiters.”
Twelve
