“What do you mean?”
In record time, the woman’s expression went from human and caring to cold and accusatory. “I thought you told Matt that I was out of danger.”
Wow, I thought. The bitch is back.
I folded my arms. “I thought you didn’t believe you were in danger.”
“Apparently, I was wrong.”
“Well, apparently, so was I.”
I crossed to the stall where we’d struggled and studied the floor, hoping to see something the attacker may have dropped, but all I could make out were some of the contents of Breanne’s purse. I stooped down and began to clean up the mess.
“Did this guy say anything to you?” I asked. “Demand anything? Threaten you?”
Still on the floor, Breanne shook her head. “I came into the bathroom, and he attacked from behind. I guess he was hiding in one of the stalls. When he saw me, he sprang out, dragged me in, and slammed the door shut. I tried to fight him off, but then his hands were around my neck, and I couldn’t breathe.”
I nodded, processing the tale, trying to make sense of it. I was still picking up scattered items. I found her PDA behind the toilet and returned it to her.
“I wonder how it got way back there?” I said.
“I was trying to call Matt.” Breanne studied the floor. “It was in my hand when that man grabbed me.”
I continued picking up her things. When I got to the Mace can, I held it up. “Coffee notwithstanding, chili pepper is getting to be my new favorite ingredient.” I smiled, hoping to lighten her mood a fraction.
It didn’t.
“I guess this is all pretty funny to you, too, huh, Clare?”
“Funny? Are you mental?”
“Before I came in here, I saw you getting your jollies over my distress. When Matt pitched a fit and stormed out, I saw the smile cross your face.”
“Oh, for the love of... I’ll tell you why I smiled, Breanne, and it had nothing to do with relishing your pain. I was admiring what you did. I was happy to see you finally act like a wife!”
The stunned look on the woman’s face was nearly priceless. Of all the responses I could have given her, she’d never gambled on that one. But then she never wanted to think of me as anything more than the ex-wife, the enemy.
“You’re not kidding, are you?” she said.
“Roman told me that your marriage was just one of convenience, that you really didn’t care about Matt’s playboy lifestyle; and it made me sad to think you weren’t going to demand what any real wife should: faithfulness. When I saw what you did with those announcements, I realized you did care.”
Breanne glanced away, massaged her forehead. She’d obviously cast me as the villain in this little play, someone who was only set on sabotaging her. My words now and my actions three minutes earlier flew directly in the face of those assumptions.
“Okay,” she said softly. “Okay...”
I wasn’t sure what okay meant, but her tone sounded a lot less accusatory and a whole lot friendlier. I took that as a good first step.
“Breanne, can I give you some advice—ex-wife to hopefully not future ex-wife?”
Breanne gritted her teeth, but she nodded.
I crouched down, back to her level. “Stop trying so hard to cut Matt off from his past.”
“But you just said you admired what I did with the old flames.”
“The old flames are one thing; his family and his life’s work are another.”
Breanne frowned, shook her head.
“Listen, Madame is hostile to you for a pretty basic reason. She’s picked up on your animosity vibe, your jealousy. She’s heard you say things that imply Matt would be better off not working for the Blend. Madame is afraid you’re going to pull her son away from the family business that she’s kept going for half a century, a business that started with Matt’s great-grandfather. She’s afraid you’re going to cut the strings that attach her son to her life.”
Breanne met my eyes. “You’re afraid, too, aren’t you, Clare?”
“Maybe I am. We all have threads in our lives, continuous strands that reach back years, decades, entire lifetimes. The threads are what help define who we are. Matt has always meant a lot to his mother, to his daughter, and to me. My advice to you is pretty simple: instead of trying to cut Matt off from what’s defined him over a lifetime, try harder to entwine yourself with it. Like those gorgeous wedding rings Nunzio created for you. Three different types of gold—white, yellow, rose—all weaved together into one band. Past, present, and future, right? Isn’t that why he chose the design?”
Breanne looked away again, began to chew the gloss off her bee-stung lips. “Okay, Clare. I’ve heard everything you said, and I’ll think about it—”
“They’re in here!”
The shout came from just outside the bathroom door. The waitress was back with her manager and a half-dozen others. The door flew open, and I heard sirens in the street.
“Sounds like the cavalry’s here,” I said. Then I took Breanne’s arm and helped her to her feet.
Twenty-Seven
“A mugging! Come on, you can’t be serious!”
“Do I look like I’m kidding, Ms. Cosi?”
I stood in the middle of Machu Picchu’s dining room, facing off with the senior detective assigned to the case. Rocky Friar was in his early thirties and built like a granite statue. Trying to talk with Friar, I soon discovered, was like trying to reason with a granite statue, too.
“I was there, remember? I saw it. That man was trying to kill Breanne Summour, not rob her. It was attempted murder.”
“What would lead you to this conclusion?” Friar asked, his skepticism thinly veiled and infuriating.
“The man was choking her,” I said. “His hands were wrapped around her throat—”
“The perpetrator was trying to steal Ms. Summour’s valuable necklace.”
“If this was just a simple robbery, then why did the man ignore a wallet, credit cards, and hundreds of dollars in cash spilled all over the floor?”
“Generally speaking, Ms. Cosi, your average criminal type isn’t the brightest bulb on the Christmas tree.”
“A five-year-old knows how to pick up money.”
“I’m not going to waste time trying to fathom the stupidity of the criminal mind.”
“Oh, is that so? Silly me. And I thought that’s what cops did for a living!”
Oops. Friar’s expression just went from strained patience to openly annoyed in under a second. Okay, so maybe that last quip was a little over the top...
“I’m sorry, Detective. I’m still a little upset about what happened. But I need you to hear what I’m saying: this isn’t the first time there’s been an attack...”
I told the man about the SUV jumping the sidewalk on the Upper East Side, and the murder of Breanne’s look-alike stripper, Hazel Boggs, in the West Village. Finally, I told him about Breanne’s ex-husband, Stuart Allerton Winslow. I explained that he was under arrest now for illegal distribution of medication and conspiracy to rob his wife.
Before I even finished, Friar raised his hand. “I might be missing something, seeing as I’m not delving into the criminal mind like I ought to be. But with Winslow sitting in an interrogation room on Tenth Street, I don’t see how he can possibly be implicated for today’s mugging in a Soho bathroom.”
“But he could have hired someone to attack her—”
“And I really don’t see any connection between a dead stripper and the attempted robbery of a socialite in a restaurant—beyond the fact that both victims have blond hair and nice legs.”