“What about the attempt to run Breanne down on the street?”
“Gas guzzlers run amok all the time in this burg. You’ll have to do better than that.”
I stared at the man. Broad and angular, the detective’s jaw jutted like a concrete window ledge; his neck resembled a Greek column. His hair was the color of toasted walnuts, his eyes were the color of warm rum, but his mind had all the flexibility of a stale baguette.
“Why don’t you talk to the detectives at the Sixth Precinct involved with the cases I mentioned. You can call Mike Quinn or the investigating officers in the Hazel Boggs murder case, Lori Soles and Sue Ellen Bass.”
At the mention of Sue Ellen’s name, Rocky Friar’s eyes bugged. And then it hit me. When Friar first arrived, his name sounded familiar, but I was still rattled by the attack and hadn’t made the connection. Now I remembered.
Rocky Friar worked out of the Ninth Precinct and lived in Mike Quinn’s Alphabet City apartment building (Divorced Badges ‘R’ Us). He was also Sue Ellen’s old boyfriend, the one who’d declared her banned from the building.
“Frankly, Ms. Cosi, I don’t buy your theory on the case. Sounds like a tangled mess to me. I think you’re overwrought from the attack.” He jerked his thumb at the bar. “Do yourself a favor: have a good stiff drink and find a seat.”
“But Lori Soles and Sue Ellen Bass might have a new lead on the—”
“Forget it. I’m not talking to Sue Ellen Bass about this case, or any other.”
Friar turned his broad back to me and gestured to a young Hispanic detective. Like Friar, the younger man was dressed in a sport coat and dark slacks. He wore his gun on his hip and his gold shield on his belt. The man nodded to Friar, ended his conversation with a waiter, and hurried to Friar’s side. I willed myself invisible and stepped closer to the pair.
“What d’ya got, Victor?”
“Nobody from the kitchen staff saw anything out of the ordinary. The party guests are still being interviewed, but no one’s come forward with an eyewitness account other than the woman you were interviewing. And I got the victim’s statement before the ambulance took off—”
“Did the perp make any sexual advances? Fondle the victim?”
Victor shook his head. “She claims he didn’t even demand money or valuables, just started choking her—”
“You mean he grabbed her necklace,” Friar said.
Victor glanced at his notes. “The victim called it choking.”
Friar noticed me lurking, just then.
“I’ve taken your statement, Ms. Cosi, so I’m done with you. Move along.”
Gritting my teeth, I walked away, fumbled in my bag for my cell phone, and hit the second number on my speed-dial list. Mike Quinn’s voice mail picked up.
Damn.
Okay, next. I fished out the card Detective Soles had given me. She said to call if I uncovered any new developments in Hazel Boggs’s murder. In my opinion, this was a new development, so I pulled out my cell phone and punched in the number, half expecting to get her voice mail, too. But I got an answer on the second ring.
“Detective Lori Soles.”
I identified myself, and the woman’s tone instantly turned friendly. “Clare Cosi, my favorite PI.”
“Anything new in the Hazel Boggs case? It’s important I know, or I wouldn’t be bothering you.”
“The bullet was recovered at the autopsy,” Lori said. “We’re expecting a ballistics report this afternoon, tomorrow morning at the latest. Anything new on your end?”
“I’m at Machu Picchu in Soho, and Breanne Summour was attacked here about thirty minutes ago. The senior detective on the scene thinks it’s a mugging.”
“Who is it?”
“Rocky Friar.”
“Oh, brother.”
“But Friar is wrong,” I quickly added. “I was there, an eyewitness to the attack, and I say it was a hit. I’m more convinced than ever that the death of Breanne’s look-alike and this murder attempt on the real thing are connected.”
“I don’t know what you’ve got,” Lori said. “But it certainly sounds interesting. I’ll run it by my partner. If she’s good to go, we’ll be there in fifteen.”
I closed the phone and returned to Madame and the luncheon.
Breanne was gone by now. The ambulance was taking her to Beth Israel’s ER. The paramedics didn’t think her vocal chords were damaged, but they suspected a hairline fracture of her collarbone. For that she needed X-rays.
By now, my daughter had returned to the Village Blend to visit with some of the baristas she hadn’t seen since leaving for Paris. Frankly, I was glad to get Joy clear of this mess. A dozen or so guests remained. They were speaking in hushed whispers by the bar. Two uniformed officers were taking final statements. Seated at a corner table, I saw Madame nursing a glass of sangria blanco. I sat down beside her.
She glanced at me and sullenly shook her silver white head. “The groom stormed off, and the bride-to-be was strangled within an inch of her life. I’d say the luncheon was a stunning success, wouldn’t you?” She drained her wineglass and asked her boyfriend, Otto, to fetch another: tout de suite.
“There’s a silver lining, though,” she added. “This ill-advised marriage will very likely be canceled.”
“Not so loud.”
Madame waved me off. Otto came back with her fresh glass of sangria, and she downed it nearly as fast as her son had chugged beers at the White Horse.
“Are you grieving or celebrating?” I asked.
“Both.” She shook her head again. “Neither. Oh, Clare... I just want my son to be happy. Matteo won’t be. Not with that woman.”
“Well, don’t be so sure the marriage is off. Breanne Summour generally gets what she wants.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
Suddenly, a bright flash of light shot through the room. Everyone froze. Then I heard Rocky Friar’s voice boom, “Grab that guy, now!”
Near the entrance to the restaurant’s front bar, a uniformed officer caught the arm of a middle-aged, balding man. I saw an expensive-looking camera in the man’s hand, a khaki photographer’s vest around his paunchy torso, and shook my head.
“The paparazzi are here—or at least one paparazzo.”
“I said no reporters,” Friar barked. “Who let this vulture in?”
The uniform shrugged. “He was in, Detective. Liquid lunch up front.”
“I’m only alone because my date was delayed,” the photographer said.
“I’ll do the talking,” Friar shot back. “What’s your name, and who do you work for? And for the love of God, don’t tell me you’re a tourist.”
“I’m not a tourist, Detective. I’m a freelance photographer. So I don’t work for anyone, specifically—”
“That’s a load of bull!” shouted a familiar female voice.
Sue Ellen Bass’s never-ending legs strode boldly into the restaurant and right up to Friar. Hustling up behind her were the blond cherub curls of Lori Soles. I was relieved to see both women.
“That mook’s name is Ben Tower,” Sue Ellen said, “and he works for that sleazebag Randall Knox at the Journal.”
Ben Tower?
I blinked, suddenly seeing the black courier type on the white card that I’d found hidden away in Monica Purcell’s secret drug box. So this was the freelance photographer who’d given Monica his card.
When I first read the man’s handwritten note, I thought Tower was a fashion photographer seeking work from Trend, somebody who was young and hot that Monica might have been interested in personally. But the bald man in the rumpled plaid pants and bulky vest was not young, and he was obviously a newshound, not a fashion photographer.