the Olympic girl. Before the day ended, Matteo Allegro was guiding shaky blades across ice for maybe the second time in his life.
When Franco caught me watching him, he set the framed photo back on my desk. “I guess Joy’s always been into that Hello Kitty stuff, huh?” He touched the little pink Hello Kitty brand hat and mitten set Joy wore that day. “Cute...”
The dreamy little smile on the man’s face, the semiglazed look in his eyes—they told me all I needed to know. Franco knew about Hello Kitty. He
Was I okay with that?
The printer finally disgorged the single sheet capture of the Candy Man’s photo. I passed it to Franco and cleared my throat, focusing on the subject at hand, or at least in his hand—
“Do you think you could identify this model if you saw him in the flesh?”
Franco saw the image and winced. “What part of his flesh am I supposed to identify, ’cause there’s a lot of it here? Maybe you should get a vice cop for this beefcake watch.”
“You’ll do. Let’s grab a cab.”
“Cab? To where? I came here to see—”
“My daughter, I know. But Joy went to brunch with friends from culinary school.”
When Franco’s face fell, I assured him she’d be back soon enough—and in the meantime, he could help me with a little backup (in case I actually
“So you want me to work on my one and only lunch hour?” Franco said.
“Don’t think of it as work. It’s the Confectioners’ Exposition. There will be hundreds of vendors pushing sweet-tooth bliss with free samples at every booth.”
“Samples? Of candy? And I’m going to do this because... ?”
“Because Dirty Harry never passes on a chance to dispense justice.”
Franco snorted. I folded my arms and gave him a possible-future-mother-in-law stare. “You don’t want me to tell Mike you’re still going after that dealer, do you?”
He threw up his hands. “Fine. It will make my day to provide you with a little backup. But I want lunch first.”
“I’ll make you and Joy a nice home-cooked dinner tonight. Until then, gorge on chocolate. I plan to.”
“Ugh,” Franco rubbed his hard stomach. “I ate too much fancy candy last night. I need red meat.”
Twenty-Five
“Man, is it warm in here,” Franco said, tugging at the collar of his open shirt.
We were standing inside architect I. M. Pei’s ascending “glass house” entryway to the Javits Convention Center on Manhattan’s West Side. Unfortunately, on this pleasant spring afternoon the temperature in this sun- washed atrium was so high that “hothouse” would have been a more apt description.
Signs warned of “minor inconveniences” owing to the ongoing renovation, and the spotty air-conditioning in the lobby was definitely an inconvenience, especially since it provided Manny Franco with an excuse to gripe like a teenager.
“Just take off your leather jacket if you’re uncomfortable,” I said.
“Great idea, Coffee Lady, people tend to relax when they see the guy in front of them is armed.”
“Sorry. I forgot about your shoulder holster.”
“Well, people may need the police, but that doesn’t translate to them liking us. A low profile means the jacket stays on.”
“I understand. The only time I see Mike’s shirtsleeves is in my—”
“Bedroom?” He waggled his eyebrows.
“Kitchen. Focus, Detective. We’re at a foodie convention.”
“Next!” A cashier waved us forward.
“Let me take care of this,” Franco said, cutting in front of me with wallet in hand. Though his spirit was willing, the detective was floored by a case of sticker shock. He closed his cash flap and handed over his Visa card.
“I could go to a Jets game for what these tickets cost,” Franco said as he gave me a badge pass.
“Look at it this way: the Jets usually lose, and you pay extra for snacks. Here you can stuff yourself with goodies for free.”
“I’d rather have a plastic cup of beer and a pair of Nathan’s foot-longs.”
We passed through the doors into the first exhibition area, where hundreds of booths and thousands of attendees filled a quasi-industrial space as big as a space shuttle hangar. Like a foodie UN, this expo brought together a world of Candy Lands with colorful company banners dangling like national flags across the high ceiling. Exhibitors, large and small, were aligned in long rows displaying chocolates, pastries, and snacks galore.
Overwhelmed by the sheer number of booths, I leafed through the guidebook in search of some kind of map. “Okay, the Nutrition Nation booth is in aisle seventeen—”
“Answer me something.”
“What?”
Franco leaned close. “You told me about the stunt at the hotel yesterday, about the guy with extreme sideburns and the blond chick in black. Was there anyone else involved?”
“No. Why? You have someone else in mind?”
“How about an older dude? Tall and lean, silver hair, sharp blue eyes. Smartly dressed with a bone-white scar on a ruddy face.”
I shook my head again.
“Funny, because the guy I just described was hanging around outside the Blend when I got there this morning, and just now I saw him back here in the Javits lobby.”
I whirled. “Where?”
“He’s gone now. Back outside.” Franco turned me back around. “Not interested in paying the admission, I guess.”
“Do you think he was following me?”
“Well, he wasn’t following me.”
“There was an older man in the Blend yesterday,” I said. “He called himself ‘Bob,’ said he was a former customer, and asked questions about Madame. Then he abruptly disappeared.”
“Did he look like I described?”
“Was that scar nasty looking? Running down his cheek, over his chin, toward his throat?”
“That’s him.” Franco caught my alarm. “Take it easy, Clare.”
“You don’t understand. Mike told me he’s looking into a cold case—one that involved the Village Blend and the murder of a police officer. So any ‘former customer’ around Scarface’s age, who also happens to be stalking me, is going to make me plenty paranoid.”
Franco scowled. “If that guy is shadowing you, he’ll be lurking outside when we leave. I’ll introduce myself —” He fingered the gold shield hanging around his neck. “Persuade him to tell me what he wants with you...”
“Yodel-AAY-eee-OOOH!”
The sudden Alpine cry made me jump, and I wasn’t the only one. Given what we were discussing, Franco was so startled he reached into his jacket to touch the butt of his gun.
“Yodel-AYYY-eee-OHHH! Swiss Alpine Village TREE-EETS!”
The crowd parted for a chubby young yodeler wearing Lederhosen and a feathered hiking cap over blond curls. The two pig-tailed women flanking him wore dirndl dresses straight from the Bavarian Alps. Each Fräulein carried woven baskets filled with chocolate-covered treats.
