Espresso Shot

“She’s slippery, that girl. She’ll tell you one thing to your face then turn around and undermine you in a meeting. She got an editor fired over it, you know, and she’s royally pissed she didn’t get the woman’s job. She’s also angry it’s taken her four long years to get promoted when she knows I did it in two. So I’d be careful believing what that little waif tells you.”

A moment later, the door to Breanne’s office swung open. The editor-in-chief strode out, barely glancing at us as she raced away.

“Where are you going now?” Roman called.

“The art department, darling! The Sinamon feature article’s still got issues, and her people are due here in fifteen! Monica! Tell Belinda to make sure the conference room’s ready. And Clare! We’ll need more of your coffee! Lots more!”

As Breanne’s long legs swept her away, I noticed she’d left her door wide open. Terri was still off on her errand. And except for us, the area was deserted.

“See?” Monica whispered, pointing to Breanne’s office. “If you go in there, you’ll probably find Ms. Summour’s e-mail box still wide open. She did that all the time when I was her assistant, just walked away from her computer, sometimes for hours at a time. I warned her about it. What good is password protection if you don’t close your e-mail box?”

With a shake of her blue-black hair, Monica turned and walked away. I watched her disappear down the hall and wondered whether her comments were trustworthy. Was Terri really the slippery one? Or was Monica lying to my face?

Well, one of her claims was easy enough to check out. I got up from Terri’s desk and walked inside Breanne’s spacious corner office.

“What are you doing?” Roman called.

“Checking Monica’s story.”

I moved around the huge glass desk. Breanne’s computer screen was lit up and active; her e-mail box was still open, just as Monica had warned. Anyone could have slipped into her office and sabotaged Breanne. A password wouldn’t have been needed. And who better to know when and how long her boss would be away than her current assistant?

“Clare!” Roman called from Terri’s desk. “Look at this.”

Neville’s Web site was now up on Terri’s computer screen. Today the former chef was blogging about wanting to chop his critics into little pieces. There was even an animation loop showing a meat cleaver swinging at a woman’s neck. Recipes followed for seasonal stews and soups.

“That meat cleaver looks exactly like the one he sent to Breanne,” Roman said, “complete with the death-black bow. My, he really is getting morbid.”

“Oh, God…”

Feeling sick to my stomach, I told Roman to give me a minute. Then I stepped back into Breanne’s office, shut the door, pulled out my cell phone, and called Mike Quinn.

I ran down everything: the suspicious man hanging around Fen’s while Breanne was inside; Monica’s phone call to an unknown number concerning her boss’s schedule and the arrival of some one-of-a-kind wedding rings; the counterfeit e-mail that mucked up the bride’s fitting. Finally, I told him about the rivalries that seemed to be bubbling inside Trend’s cauldron of an office.

“You’ve got a lot of observations, Cosi. What’s your conclusion?”

“When you get right down to it, this place is filled with the typical bitchy backbiting of office politics. It’s not pretty, but I don’t see anyone here with a grand vendetta to threaten Breanne’s life…” Then I described Neville Perry’s black-wrapped wedding gift.

“The meat cleaver goes beyond prankish, Mike. It feels like a real threat to her life, which is why I’m calling you now.”

“Does Breanne want to pursue charges?” he asked.

“No.” I closed my eyes. “She still thinks it’s a joke.”

“Well, no ADA I know would waste time on a case like that. Unless this guy Perry makes an actual threat to Breanne or attempts to harm her, you’re stuck. You need to get more on him, Clare. Can you find a way to do that without breaking the law?”

“Yeah, Mike. I think so. Otherwise, I’m relying on you to bail me out.”

“Bail you out?” Mike laughed. “With what? Since I lent you my checkbook to furnish my apartment, I’m broke.”

“Sorry, buddy, but a girl can eat only so many ‘picnics’ on a bare living room floor before it gets old-not to mention cold.”

“Honeymoon’s over, huh?”

“Not if you consider cuddling up on a new sofa romantic.”

“I do. What’s more, Cosi, I expect to see you on that very sofa tonight. When are you coming over?”

“I’ll get back to you, Quinn. I’m on the job!”

I closed the phone on Mike’s sputtering (I was still a little pissed at him for getting me into this) and left Bree’s office.

Roman was still at Terri’s desk.

“Okay,” I told him, “tonight’s more important than ever.”

“You mean the underground restaurant?”

“I’m going with you to Flushing, and I’m going to interview Neville Perry, try to press a few of his buttons. You can be a witness to any threats he makes or confessions of violent intentions toward Breanne. Whatever we hear, we’ll both convey to her. Then maybe she’ll finally press charges, and we can get a police interrogation, maybe even a warrant to search his residence. What do you think?”

“Sounds like a plan, Shirley Holmes.” Roman’s impish eyes danced. “It seems I really am going to be your Dr. Watson-your big, gay, epicurean Watson.”

“Right.”

“But, listen, honey, before you start solving crimes again…” Roman tapped his watch. “You’d better get that coffee made.”

Damn. The coffee…

I took off down the hall. On the way to the break room, I rang Matt and gave him the update on the cleaver, quietly warning him to keep Breanne out of public places.

“Talk her into eating takeout at her place tonight, okay? And for heaven’s sake, use a private car service. Don’t walk anywhere. Between that SUV last Friday and the look-alike shooting last night, the last place that woman should be is on a New York sidewalk.”

“You believe me now, Clare, don’t you?” Matt asked.

“I believe Breanne has at least one serious enemy. Whether or not they’re serious enough to commit murder, the jury’s still out.”

SIXTEEN

I met Roman at precisely seven thirty on the Times Square platform of the Number 7 line. We grabbed the last two seats aboard the first car, and the train took off, rumbling toward the East River and the borough of Queens.

On subway lines that ran through the touristy parts of Manhattan, laughter and conversation were common. On this line, at this hour, the quiet weariness was palpable, like an oppressive fog. The riders around us were recent immigrants, their tired eyes scanning foreign-language newspapers, staring into space, or closed altogether, grabbing a few minutes’ peace before tackling a second job or the next chore on life’s endless list.

Roman Brio failed to notice. His demeanor was giddy, anticipating a magical night in gastronomy land. “These underground restaurants provide quite a thrill. A few have been disappointing, but most are full of delights.”

I nodded silently. At the moment, I felt more simpatico with the other passengers. Matt’s wedding was four days away. I’d already worked hard on the advance prep, but there was still more to be done. I certainly didn’t want to be schlepping out to Flushing to talk to a disgruntled chef who could very well have the bride-to-be in his crosshairs.

Our train made two more stops under Manhattan ’s avenues, then it rolled beneath the East River, emerging minutes later out of its subterranean tunnel like a giant steel snake. We ascended four stories to a wide-ranging system of elevated track and sped farther into the low-rise borough, leaving Manhattan’s glittering skyscrapers far behind.

Roman leaned close. “We’ve slipped the bonds of civilization and plunged into the untamed frontier of the metropolis. The culinary adventure begins!”

“We’re on our way to Flushing, Roman. Not Calcutta. Or are you testing the opening line of your next column?”

“I’m simply making an observation. To most residents of Manhattan, Queens is an undiscovered country. Sure, they come here to use the airports, but that’s it.”

“Not so true anymore.” (Having employed part-time workers who didn’t have Roman’s bank account, I knew Astoria and Long Island City were getting hotter by the year.) “Even young white-collar professionals are having trouble affording Manhattan rents. Queens is a close alternative.”

“I suppose you’re right.”

“No supposing about it.” I checked my watch. “Listen, we have a good forty-minute ride in front of us. Why don’t you fill me in on this Chef Perry feud with Breanne. How personal is it, anyway? Do they have any kind of history?”

“No history. Those two only met in passing-parties, openings, that sort of thing.”

“Then the Trend expose on Perry’s restaurant started it?”

“I told Breanne not to bother, that Perry would sink under his own substandard practices. But Bree has a mind of her own on such things.” Roman shrugged. “You know the story, right?”

“Only broad strokes; I need details.”

As I gazed through the scuffed Plexiglas windows at passing shops, churches, and row houses, Roman explained how Breanne sent a bright, young Latino writer to work undercover in Chef Perry’s popular new eatery in Tribeca (the chic triangular shaped area below Canal Street, hence the name). Apparently, the writer took extensive notes and hundreds of secret photos of what really went on in Perry’s kitchen, including the use of expired meat and dairy products as well as frozen pre-prepared seafood (not unusual for some restaurants but blasphemy for a chef who loudly professed his brilliance on his short- lived reality television show and later in the press).

“And let’s not forget the frantic preplanned hiding of expired foodstuffs on days the health inspector came calling.” Roman sighed. “It’s an ugly thing, what Chef