The guy’s funny, streetwise, has washboard abs, and kept in touch with her all these months. Plus he carries a badge and a gun—useful little perks in all five of our boroughs. Face it, Matt’s going to find out.”
“But he doesn’t have to find out this trip.”
“Don’t sweat it,” Tuck replied. “I wouldn’t want to drop the news about Franco on any daughter’s daddy— especially not Matteo Allegro.”
“Thank you,” I said, glancing around. “Now let’s get Nancy on board. Where is she?”
“Gone,” Tuck said.
“Gone where?”
Tuck arched an eyebrow. “Before you disappeared with Mr. Blue Suit, Nancy declared she was feeling faint.”
“
“Is she okay now?” I asked, worried.
“She spent a little time in the bathroom,” Esther said. “When she came out, I sent her home in a cab. We don’t need a barista keeling over in the middle of service. Not good for public relations.”
I frowned. “Did she have a fever? Chills?”
“Nope.” Esther smirked. “In fact, now that I think about it, the whole thing might have been a ‘dizzy act.’ ”
“What does that mean?”
“Well, she sampled quite a few of our aphrodisiac-laced goodies. Maybe she faked being ill so she could go back to the Blend to try hooking up with Dante. She’s pretty excited about some special tattoo he’s supposedly creating for her.”
The fact that Dante was designing a “special tattoo” for Nancy was news to me. Either Dante was humoring her, or Nancy had finally figured out a way to get the artistic attention of her boy-crush.
Before I could speculate which it was, Alicia tapped my shoulder.
“Excuse me, Clare, I have a question . . .”
“Alicia? What is it?”
“Have you seen Patrice Stone? I ran out of business cards. I have more in my coat pocket, but I can’t find my Burberry—the trench I lent her? Patrice needs to tell me where she tossed it . . .”
“It’s not in the cloakroom?”
“No.”
Susan Chu drifted over. “Daphne and I were looking for Patrice a little while ago, but we couldn’t find her. I mean, this isn’t that big a place so where did she go, right?”
My daughter, my ex-husband, and my newbie barista were gone, and now Patrice was missing . . .
“Let’s pan out,” I said. “Susan and Daphne, check the ladies’ room—all the stalls . . .”
With a nod, they dashed off.
“I’ll go speak with Aphrodite,” Alicia said. “Perhaps she sent Patrice on some errand and didn’t tell anyone . . .”
After they were gone I thought back to the last time I saw Patrice Stone, it was right before she slipped into Alicia’s hooded raincoat and dashed outside to retrieve her missing smartphone.
“Keep an eye on things,” I told Esther.
“Sure, boss. Where are—”
I hurried across the half-empty party room, down the corridor, past the elevator bank, and pushed through the doors that led to the rooftop Garden. The air felt chillier, but the storm was letting up fast, the steady rain dissolving into drizzle. Rippling puddles still covered the Garden’s stone floor, acting as mirrors for the illuminated columns above them. The most brilliant light, however, radiated from St. Patrick’s white spires, gleaming across Fifth Avenue. The bells inside those twin steeples began to chime the hour. The sad, haunting sound rang across the concrete chasm and echoed through my bones.
Ignoring the few droplets of rain that pelted my skin, I dodged the puddles at my feet and headed for the podium. The little canopy over the raised stage had failed to protect a thing. Every surface was completely rain swept. I carefully climbed the few slippery steps and looked around the podium, searching for any sign of Patrice or her missing smart-phone. Finally, I turned to face the rear of the stage and the reflecting pool behind it.
That’s when I saw her. Sprawled facedown in the blue water was a human figure. The brightly lit pool framed the woman’s silhouette. Around her battered head, a blood-flecked cloud mingled with locks of golden hair to form a scarlet halo.
I stumbled back down the stairs, nearly slipping off. When I reached the pavement, I hurried to the pool’s edge, dropped to my knees, and seized Patrice with both hands.
As I heaved her toward me, Alicia’s pearl-gray trench billowed on the surface like angels’ wings. The pool sloshed over, soaking my skirt and legs. The body was heavy and limp. It took all of my strength just to drag her out of the water and roll her onto her back.
Her flesh appeared gray-white. The terrible wound on her forehead had drained to a pinkish hue. Her prairie-sky eyes were half-open and unfocused, her limbs already stiffening in the icy air.
I didn’t check for respiration or a pulse. With the dying chimes of the cathedral’s bells, the horrific truth was plainly evident. Poor Patrice Stone was stone-cold dead.
Eighteen
Dripping wet from the reflecting pool and fighting back tears, I returned to the hallway and the elevators. The party continued, the remaining revelers oblivious. I was numb during the ride downstairs, and by the time I reached the security station I was shivering uncontrollably, my wet ponytail plastered to my back.
I found “Matterhorn,” the security director with the muffin top neck, and stammered that I’d discovered a dead woman in the Garden. He mobilized his force, ordering them to seal off the area and lock down the elevator bank.
Despite the flurry of activity, Kevin (his real name) sat me down in a folding chair, took off his own giant blue sport coat and wrapped it around me, insisting I wait right there with him for the NYPD to arrive.
Within minutes, the night air was filled with sirens, the streets with flashing lights. Uniformed officers swarmed the art deco lobby, followed soon after by plain-clothed detectives, enough to number an entire squad. Many of them looked familiar to me since I’d seen them that morning at the One Seven.
Among the sea of suits were two of my favorite customers: Detectives Lori Soles and Sue Ellen Bass. Both were still wearing their chocolate blazers and beige slacks. Sue Ellen’s dark hair was down now, but she was still keyed up. The pair noticed me but didn’t approach. Instead, they fell into a huddle with Kevin and a man in a trench with prematurely gray hair who was most likely the squad’s senior officer. They glanced at me several times, but then the huddle broke and the Fish Squad flanked me.
Lori Soles crouched down. “How are you doing, Cosi?” she asked. Her short blond curls were frizzy from the rain; her blue eyes big and unblinking. “You okay?”
“I’m okay.”
She asked me to recount how I found the body. I did. Finally, Sue Ellen broke in with a question.
“Do you feel up to returning to the crime scene?”
“Of course.” I nodded. “I want to help.”
I tried to give the sport coat back to Kevin, but he insisted I keep it around me to stay warm and ward off any shock. I thanked him again and followed Soles and Bass to the elevator.
In the Garden the rain had stopped completely, even the mist had cleared, yet there was still silent lightning—multiple flashes from police cameras photographing every angle of the crime scene. We circled the stage and halted a dozen yards away from the reflecting pool, now surrounded by so many officers wearing CSU
