other like old friends.
“Thank you, Randy, for
“The pleasure’s mine.” Knox led the woman into his den.
While Mrs. Perry settled in, they talked and laughed. Then the two lifted paper cups-presumably filled with whiskey shots.
“I’ll drink to that,” Mrs. Perry said before Knox moved to close his office door.
I turned to Madame. “Don’t you find it suspicious that Mrs. Perry and her buddy Randy are toasting each other the same afternoon Breanne was attacked and nearly killed?”
“I do, indeed, my dear.”
We took the elevator down to Eighth Avenue. The sidewalks were jammed with commuters, traffic was snarled, car horns were honking. The sun had disappeared, taking the day’s brightness with it, and above the skyscrapers, storm clouds were painting my city the color of cemetery stone.
Madame flagged down a cab, and we climbed into the backseat. As the driver took off, she turned to me.
“It seems there’s much more to this case than one angry ex-husband.”
I nodded. “Neville Perry and his mother, Randall Knox and his vendetta, Monica Purcell and her deal to dish dirt on her own boss. And who knows what else is out there…”
“Lots of threads,” Madame said.
“And they’re tangled together worse than the Gordian knot.”
“Maybe there’s a single strand you can pull that will unravel the whole thing.”
“Maybe,” I said, channeling Mike Quinn. “But maybe isn’t going to solve this case.”
TWENTY-NINE
WHILE the evening rush washed over Manhattan, the postwork crush swept through the Village Blend. Today the crowd was literally spilling out the front door. Feeling depleted and defeated, I waded through the mob, the rich, earthy scents of freshly roasted coffee beans leading me toward the espresso bar like a lurching zombie.
“Caffeine… must have caffeine.”
“Hey, Clare!” Tucker Burton called. “What’s up?”
“Hit me twice, Tuck. I need it bad.”
“You got it, sweetie.”
It was my day off, but I stepped around the marble counter anyway to check on the state of the shop. Tucker-my lanky, floppy-haired assistant manager-was in charge today, and we briefly chatted about the employees, the stock, and the machinery. The normalcy of it all felt reassuring, along with the news that everything in my house was under control.
Since my people were veterans at dealing with a postwork rush, I let Tuck shoo me away. Picking up my double espresso, I headed across the crowded room to a just-vacated cafe table near the fireplace.
The Pisco Sour or Randall Knox (or both) had given me a slight headache, but the warmth of my double espresso was starting to cut through the bewildering fog of alcohol and vitriol. As my taste buds soaked up the nutty, caramelized flavors, my wedged platform sandals began tapping to the electronic drum machines of Tucker’s retro eighties mix.
Tuck must be psychic, I decided, because the titles playing over the Blend’s speakers were like a sound track to the events of my week: New Order’s “Blue Monday” followed by Boy George’s “Do You Really Want to Hurt Me,” the Eurythmics’ “Would I Lie to You,” and Billy Idol’s “White Wedding.”
“Okay,” I muttered, “if Cher comes on next with her eighties retread of ‘Bang, Bang, My Baby Shot Me Down,’ I’m going to lose it.”
But the next song I heard didn’t come from the Blend’s audio speakers. It came from my handbag. I pulled out my cell and silenced the ringtone, then checked the display and smiled.
“Hi, Mike. I knew you’d call when you had the chance.”
“Are you okay, sweetheart? Lori Soles just told me you witnessed a mugging today-in a restaurant bathroom. Is that right?”
“I’m fine, but it was an attempted murder not a mugging…”
I filled Quinn in on the details, along with my conversation at the
“Knox sounds wrong, Clare. He has a strong motive to be involved with a revenge scheme. So does Mrs. Perry. But you need-”
“Evidence-I know! Have you gotten anything out of Stuart Winslow yet? Maybe they’re all working together.”
“Sorry, sweetheart. I don’t have good news for you on Winslow.”
I groaned, forecasting the need for another doppio espresso.
“When we got him down to the Sixth, he started talking without a lawyer-ranting, mostly. But he wouldn’t admit to anything. After a few hours of questioning, he finally lawyered up and clammed up.”
“Where does that leave us?”
“I can tell you where it leaves him. Free as a bird. He’s on his way to being arraigned right now. He should be out on bail very soon.”
“Oh no, Mike. Isn’t there any way to hold him? Charge him with attempted murder?”
“We searched his apartment, but that single bottle of OxyContin that he handed you was the only narcotic we found.”
“What about the other pills he had? I saw them!”
“Other than a little more OxyContin, we found zip. We raided his closet, but the only items in there were the kinds of supplements and herbal products you’d find in any health food store. He must have his dirty stash somewhere else, most likely under another name. We couldn’t find it in his residence, and he wouldn’t talk. So the only charge that stuck to him was one count of intent to distribute an illegal substance.”
“No murder weapon, either? No gun.”
“No weapons of any kind in his apartment.”
“What about all the other things he’s guilty of?”
“The DA’s office can’t charge Winslow for the robbery in Queens, or Monica Purcell’s overdose, or attempted murder of his ex-wife, because he wouldn’t admit to any of those things, and there’s no evidence that directly connects him.”
“And the Rxglobal Web site?”
“That’s an angle we’re working with the DEA, but that will take time. No judge will hold him without bail based on the evidence against him right now. And your testimony against him is just about the only thing we’ve got to even make the first charge stick. The prosecutor’s office wasn’t even comfortable charging him with conspiracy to commit robbery.”
“But he agreed on the wire! We have it on tape!”
“The rings were never actually stolen, and he never accepted them from you, just agreed to let you steal them. The defense will cry entrapment. It’s not enough for the prosecutor to go forward, Clare.”
I rubbed my forehead, tried to figure out a next step. “Winslow couldn’t have been the mugger at the restaurant,” I reasoned aloud, “because he was still in custody then. But if he’s going to be free soon, he might try to hurt Breanne himself.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“I’ll try to reach Breanne and warn her. I’ll try Matt again, too, but he’s been unreachable for hours.”
“Why?”
I sighed. “It’s too long a story to explain now.”
“Fine, but you better suggest to Breanne that she hire a bodyguard.”
“I will.”
We signed off, and I rang Breanne. By now, she was out of the ER and back in her Sutton Place apartment-no hairline fracture, no damage to her vocal chords. She was just bruised, sore, and shaken. Before I could ask her about Randall Knox, she asked me about Matt.
“Have you heard from him yet, Clare?”
Bree’s typical cool, clipped tone was gone. Her voice sounded vulnerable and human. For the first time since Matt had announced their engagement, Breanne Summour sounded like a woman in love.
“I’m sorry,” I said gently, “he hasn’t come back yet. I can’t reach him on his cell, either.”
“Neither can I. You’ll let me know when he shows, won’t you?”
“Of course.”
I told Breanne about my visit to Knox’s office, including the Miriam Perry appearance. I also warned her about gossip boy’s declaration that he’d be publishing a scandalous story on Monday, something that included an angle on the stripper Hazel Boggs.
“Whatever this story is, he promises it’s going to upset you a great deal. So brace yourself.”
Breanne had little to say after that, just thanked me for informing her. Finally, I told her about her ex-husband being released on bail.
“… and since Matt isn’t there with you, Mike Quinn strongly suggests you hire a bodyguard.”
“I already have,” she said. “He’s outside my apartment door right now.”
It’s about time. “Okay, Breanne, just make sure you show him a photo of your ex-husband, so he can stop the man the moment he comes near you. Would you do that?”
“Good idea, Clare. I’ll do that right now.”
