dark goatee, he looked like he was driving to an all-night jam session at the Blue Note—or a Mexican bank robbery.
“Matt,” I said, trying to keep my voice light. “I have a quick question for you.”
“Shoot,” he said, then smirked. “Not literally. I mean, Quinn hasn’t given you his gun, has he?”
“Did your mother ever date a cop?”
“You’re kidding, right?” Matt snorted. “My mother trusts cops about as much as I do.”
“Since when?” I challenged. “She never said anything to me about not trusting the police.”
“I’m not surprised, given what your boyfriend does for a living. Around you, she obviously kept her opinion to herself.”
“So you don’t recall her mentioning dating a detective?”
“What’s this all about?”
“Did she ever mention a man named Cormac O’Neil? Maybe she called him Murphy or Murph?”
“No, Clare. That name doesn’t ring any bells. Now why are you asking?”
“I’ll tell you about it—later.”
“Well, at least tell me why I’m driving you to an outdoor art space in Queens.”
I took a breath. “Aphrodite has taken over the park for a PR party to launch a new line of home furnishings. The event is scheduled for Saturday, but at three o’clock today, I’m supposed to meet Maya Lansing and Alicia Bower on the grounds to mediate their peace conference.”
Matt rubbed his dark goatee. “Isn’t Maya that half-naked fitness queen who threaten to end you? Maybe we should buy pepper spray. I can stop by the Queens Spy Shop. They’ve helped me before—”
“No. I don’t need—”
“On second thought, Maya is pretty buff. Maybe you should bring a Taser. The nose is good, though you’ll look tougher with a battered face. Intimidating, you know?”
“This is supposed to be a peace conference.”
“So was the Munich Agreement. Eleven months later Nazi tanks rolled into Warsaw.”
“You’re the one who brought the tank!”
“That’s not the point.” Matt’s eyebrows knitted. “How did this all come about?”
Waving the letter from Alicia, I delivered a carefully edited version of my trip to Nutrition Nation—leaving all of Franco’s involvement on the cutting room floor. By the time I was finished with my update, we were through the Midtown Tunnel and inside the borough of Queens.
“So you’re telling me our new business partner isn’t just a drug pusher. She’s also a—”
“Murderess.” I swallowed hard. “Yes, sorry, but Alicia had motive and opportunity. And she also framed Maya Lansing for the crime.”
The light changed, and we drove past a public housing project and into a distressed industrial area made up of junk-yards, warehouses, and garages. Most depressing were the shuttered businesses: Laundromats, delis, bodegas. Their deteriorated signs were half rusted, their windows dark.
But then Matt made a right turn onto Vernon Boulevard, and the world around us suddenly transformed. Vernon paralleled the East River, and between the sun-kissed chop of that flowing water and the wide road we were on, stretched a lush, green swath of parkland.
A block later, I recognized the walls of the Noguchi Museum, a building with ten art galleries on two floors. I’d spent a glorious day here a few years ago, viewing the works of Japanese-American artists as well as the lamps and furniture designed by Isamu Noguchi.
My tension eased as I remembered the simple tranquillity of the open-air sculpture garden within those walls—an example of the miracle that was New York City.
As challenging and rocky as life often became on these urban streets, sometimes all you had to do was turn a corner to find yourself in a better place, one filled with imagination, vision, beauty, and hope.
“We’re here,” Matt said, one eye on his GPS screen. “Socrates Sculpture Park is on our left, past this big box store.”
“Pull into the store’s lot,” I said. “Nancy warned me there was no other place to park around here.”
We swung into Costco’s sprawling acreage, past its automotive garage and discount liquor store. Matt found a spot big enough to accommodate Bree’s fashionista prop, a space facing the East River, a channel of water that led directly to the Atlantic Ocean.
Matt cut the engine and powered down the windows. Fresh sea air swept in along with the cry of seagulls and the sweet scent of Italian roasted peppers from a nearby concessions area.
In front of our Hummer, a narrow sidewalk paralleled the jagged shoreline. Two African-American teens, an older Greek man, and a Hispanic father and son sat among the damp rocks, dangling fishing lines hopefully.
Across the treacherous river the Manhattan skyline rose up like the shimmering walls of a mythic city—one of the most breathtaking views of New York I’d ever seen.
“Okay, Clare. What’s your plan, and why do you need me?”
“I’m going to blackmail Alicia Bower.”
Matt peered over his sunglasses. “That’s a crime.”
“So is murder. I’m going to inform Alicia that I’ve figured out she killed Patrice. I’m going to lay out my evidence and threaten to go to the police unless she cuts me in for a big piece of the profits on Mocha Magic.”
“Alicia won’t like that,” Matt said. “And Maya Lansing won’t, either. And the fitness queen is very big and very buff.”
“I’m going to inform Maya that Alicia tried to frame her by using her Nutrition Nation umbrella when she committed the murder.”
“You’re going to start a cat fight, and you’ll be in the middle!”
I pulled a digital recorder from my purse. “I’m going to document the entire conversation. When I tell Alicia I want money in exchange for my silence, I’m sure she’ll incriminate herself.”
“So what?” Matt threw up his hands. “That recording will be made without consent, so nothing you get will be admissible in court.”
“Doesn’t matter. If I can establish Alicia’s guilt without doubt, I can turn over the recordings to Lori Soles and Sue Ellen Bass. Those two detectives are trained interrogators. In an interview room, they’ll be able to break Alicia down and get a confession.”
“Not if she shuts her yap and hires a lawyer.”
“I’ll be a witness to whatever she says. So will Maya. They’ll get her, Matt.”
“That still doesn’t explain why I’m here.”
“You’re my backup.”
“How can I back you up if you’re supposed to come alone and the security guard at the gate won’t let me in?”
“Now comes the genius part of my plan.” I dug into my handbag and pulled out Joy’s old baby monitor. “My supersecret weapon.”
I handed Matt the device’s receiver while I kept the actual monitor.
“This thing is battery operated and voice activated, too. And it’s got a great range. You’ll be able to hear me, so I can narrate what’s happening. You can’t talk to me because the monitor only works one way. But if you hear trouble on my end, you go right to the gate and alert the guard.”
“Clare, this thing is an antique! You probably haven’t given it a real workout since Joy was an infant.”
“Wrong. I used it through most of our daughter’s adolescence.”
“This I’ve got to hear.”
“When Joy was fifteen, I caught her trying to sneak out of our Jersey house past midnight. So while she was at school the next day, I dug this out of my closet and hid the transmitter in her bedroom. After that, I could hear everything she said when she was on the phone with her friends. When Joy made plans to go out and party without permission, I was always there to thwart them. She never managed to sneak out, not once, all the way through graduation. So believe me, this works.” I held it up, smiling wider than an infomercial babe. “Guaranteed.”
“Clare, you’re diabolical.”
