Murder by Mocha

then added: “Maybe Patrice argued with Alicia or Herbie. Maybe it was a simple fight that went too far, a shove on a slippery stage. Maybe nobody meant for her to die . . .”

Lori and Sue Ellen took notes, asked more questions. Finally, we all stood up.

“I’ll have these recordings copied, Detective Soles,” Ruben Salter said. “You might find more clues with time to review them more carefully. Perhaps you’ll see the killer bringing the umbrella into the party.”

“Bringing the umbrella in won’t prove anything,” I pointed out. “Anyone could have grabbed an umbrella out of the cloakroom—”

“Thank you so very much, Mr. Salter,” Lori quickly cut in. “I appreciate everything you’ve done to help us here.”

“You’re quite welcome, Detective. Please take my card. Call me if you need more help with this case, or if you need a lawyer, or for anything. Anything at all.”

Mr. Salter watched us until we reached the end of the corridor and filed into the elevator.

“Lori’s got a boyfriend,” Sue Ellen quietly sang after the doors closed.

“I got us the access to the lobby cams, didn’t I?” Lori smiled.

Sue Ellen snorted. “You little tramp! You did it again. What would the other Officer Soles say if he knew about your doe-eyed act? You know, the sergeant you married?”

“Who do you think suggested it?”

Forty-five minutes later, the corpses were piled high at the NYPD’s temporary command post inside Rock Center’s lobby. Dozens of dead umbrellas—wet, torn, and twisted by the wind, abandoned on sidewalks or stuffed in trash bins—were heaped like cordwood at a bonfire. All had been collected within a five-block radius around the complex, in a search that involved more than a dozen officers.

Unfortunately, the black umbrella with the NN logo was not among the casualties. Now I waited by the mutilated parasols while Lori and Sue Ellen received a final report from their superior.

“A detective located Patrice Stone’s smartphone,” Lori told me when the huddle ended. “It was dashed to pieces on Fifth, right below the Garden. I assume it was tossed over the side by the killer.”

As we walked to the elevator, I remembered the countdown clock Patrice had set up on that phone, a digital monument tracking the months, days, hours, and minutes before the man she loved returned from duty in Afghanistan. Now that reunion would never take place. If her soldier came home at all, it would be for his fiancée’s funeral.

“The pieces have been collected and bagged,” Lori continued. “We’ll check for prints and get the exact time the phone was destroyed from its chip, but the junk’s been lying in the street for hours, so . . .”

Her voice trailed off when she noticed my eyes. I’d felt the tears welling but couldn’t stop the flow.

“Sorry, Cosi. When bad guys win, I know it’s hard to take. But that’s the world we live in. Answers never come easy, and you can’t expect miracles.”

Twenty

As we moved toward the elevator bank, things got hazy. I swiped at my cheeks, but residual tears fractured my vision.

Famous art deco murals adorned this grand lobby. Colossal human forms cavorted along the walls and sprawled up onto the ceiling. Now those sepia-toned images swirled into muddy chaos.

Chaos churned inside me, too.

Only seven or eight years separated Patrice from my Joy. I pictured Patrice’s mother hearing the news of her pointless death, and my sadness spun into outrage. I saw Patrice’s fiancé, getting the awful word in Afghanistan, and my outrage whirled into fury. Disturbed, I looked up, but the Titan-like portraits only made my existence feel more diminished.

Answers never come easy, and you can’t expect miracles . . .

But I did expect miracles. I expected them because I saw them every day. My daughter was a miracle; Mike was a miracle; love was a miracle; and so was life itself. Patrice’s earthly existence may have been extinguished tonight, but that had more to do with hell than heaven, and I had no problem calling on a higher power to help me find justice for her.

At the elevator bank, my gaze drifted north again, over the heads of the detectives. In one of the lobby’s murals, five muscular men kicked a small globe around as if playing a game of soccer. Each of these giants represented a different race of mankind. Each appeared bent on winning control of that kicked-around world.

The masterpiece was dynamic, bold, commanding attention. The detectives didn’t even glance at it.

“Matisse was right,” I murmured.

“What’s that?” Sue Ellen asked.

I gestured to Sert’s famous Contest. “While John Rockefeller was building this complex, he tried to hire Matisse to paint a mural for his lobby.”

Lori and Sue Ellen finally looked at the work.

“That’s Matisse?” Lori asked.

“No. That’s José María Sert, a Spanish artist. Matisse turned down the commission.”

Sue Ellen snorted. “Not enough money, right?”

“Money wasn’t the issue. Matisse didn’t think workers hustling to and from their offices would have the patience to see the qualities in his art.”

“Uh-huh,” Sue Ellen said, but her head was already down again, considering her leads.

In my own way, I was, too.

On our ride up, I thought about Matisse’s rejection—and how it became Sert’s opportunity. I considered the figures in his Contest, a group of competitors struggling against each other to obtain control of a world.

I could almost hear Mike’s voice: Just think of it in your terms, sweetheart. If someone commissioned you to paint a mural of tonight’s competing players—suspects who had motive and opportunity— who would they be?

Certainly, Alicia and Maya would be in the foreground. That pair had the strongest motives for wanting Patrice dead. Herbie Lansing I’d put right next to his wife, Maya.

The next figure wasn’t as compelling a subject, but it was one I couldn’t erase: the pixie-haired Susan Chu. As Patrice’s assistant, Susan might advance with her boss’s sudden demise. That wasn’t a strong motivation, but it was cause enough for concern.

Sharing that background horizon would be the “Luv Doctor,” Sherri Sellars. The radio psychologist had come here to help Alicia pitch Mocha Magic, but I couldn’t help wondering if that was her only business tonight. Did Sherri secretly covet a piece of Alicia’s product, just like Maya, the fitness queen? Would getting rid of Patrice advance that goal in some way?

Almost at the vanishing point (yet still in the picture), I saw Sherri’s assistant, Daphne Krupa. “Don’t Call Me Daffy” struck me as a young woman with intelligence, energy, and ambition—and with those chili-pepper red glasses and matching stockings, she was obviously vying for some kind of attention. Like her friend Susan, Daphne might score a major advance now that Patrice was out of the game.

Before the elevator doors swished wide again, I made my quick, final suggestions to Lori and Sue.

“Add Sherri Sellars, Susan Chu, and Daphne Krupa to your possible persons of interest. If Maya, Herbie, or Alicia don’t pan out, take a look at those three. If nothing else, they’re all good sources for victimology. Patrice’s boss should provide some good background, too. She goes by the single name Aphrodite . . .”

The detectives nodded, made their notations, and I followed them along the corridor and into the Loft space. Several guests glanced our way as we entered. From their flinching gazes, I knew I looked a sight—torn stockings, matted hair, and Kevin’s jumbo sports jacket wrapped around me like a Big Apple circus tent.

Not my best moment.

Lori touched my shoulder. “The names you gave us. Are they in this room?”

“Yes.”