I rolled my eyes. “You’re sick, you know that?”
“I’m just an uninhibited package of self-actualized testosterone. You can’t condemn me for that.”
“Yes, I can. And, the truth is, I’m relieved that Joy’s leaving your restaurant. For a lot of reasons. You do know that Vincent Buccelli was killed with a knife from your kitchen?”
“What?” Tommy’s confident mask suddenly fell. He looked genuinely horrified. “I didn’t know that. The police never mentioned it.”
“They will. My guess is today’s interviews were only the first round. And since we’re being truthful here, I’ll be truthful, too. I only came here today because of Joy. I wanted to get in here to keep an eye on her—more precisely, the people around her. The way Vinny was killed suggests someone with knife skills did the deed. The knife’s handle and blade shape resemble the ones you’ve got here at the restaurant, and I believe someone here at the restaurant killed that boy.”
Tommy’s eyes narrowed. “Who?”
“I don’t know. But I’d like to find out. Did you know Vinny was gay?”
“No.”
“Did he have any kind of special friendship or relationship with anyone at your restaurant?”
“The police asked me that, and, frankly, I don’t know…If he was, it wasn’t obvious. He certainly kept it under wraps.”
“And did you say anything to the police about you and Joy using Vinny’s apartment for sex?”
“Merde.” Tommy closed his eyes, took a breath. “How do you know about that? Did Joy tell you?”
I nodded. “But she didn’t tell the police.”
“I didn’t, either.” He ran a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. “I didn’t think it was smart to give them a reason to look harder at her—or me, frankly.”
“Should they have?”
“You think I killed that boy?” Tommy met my eyes and held them. “I’m an ambitious prick, Clare. And I can be cutthroat in my business decisions. But I’m not a murderer…with maybe one exception.” His fists clenched. “When I think of an innocent kid like Vincent Buccelli being stabbed to death, it makes me want to kill whoever did it.”
Either Tommy was very good at faking honesty, or he was actually being honest with me. In this close proximity, I leaned toward the latter.
“If you didn’t hurt Vinny, then who did?”
“I told you, Clare, I don’t know. He was a quiet kid. He didn’t have any close friends here, apart from Joy, or enemies—apart from Brigitte picking on him constantly, which is only one of the reasons I let her go.”
“There are other reasons?”
“Brigitte’s back on uppers again. I don’t know which kind, but she knew the conditions of my hiring her. No drugs. She’s using again, so she’s fired.”
I nodded, knowing Brigitte may or may not have been responsible for Vinny. Either way, I had to consider other possibilities—and fast. Tommy’s patience could run out on me any second in his chilly cave. And I was close to freezing. But now was my best shot at getting some answers.
“Not to change the subject, Tommy, but is Anton Wright the only owner of Solange?” I had to ask the question, if only to put to rest Mike Quinn’s theory about organized crime being involved with the restaurant.
Tommy’s brow knitted. He was obviously confused by my question. “Yeah, Wright’s the only money man. Why do you care?”
“I was just curious.”
“No, you weren’t.” Tommy’s jutting chin lifted. “I can see it behind those bright green eyes of yours. You have an ulterior motive. What is it? You plan on hitting the man up for backing to open your own restaurant?”
“No. Nothing like that. I was just wondering if maybe he was involved with some shady partners. My father was a small-time bookie back in PA, so I’m not exactly an innocent about the way organized crime works. I know they can infiltrate legitimate businesses pretty easily, operate around them. Vinny’s violent murder with a knife right out of your kitchen could have been a warning of some kind.”
“That’s a hell of a leap. You think Vinny was whacked?”
“It’s a thought.”
“It’s ridiculous.”
“So someone from the mob isn’t threatening you or the owner, pressuring you or Anton Wright for more money, a bigger cut?”
“Listen, Anton’s the son of a Brooklyn butcher. He doesn’t like to admit that, but he grew up just like us. Then he became a stockbroker and made a few million on Wall Street, but it was always his dream to go into the restaurant business. Opening Solange was a big deal for him. It’s the third Manhattan restaurant he’s backed but his only successful one—due to me, of course. There’s nothing more to it than that. Hey, are you shivering?”
“I’m okay.”
“No, you’re not. I should get you out of here if you’re cold.”
“Is there anyplace else we can be alone to talk?”
“Not really, but does that matter?”
“Yes.” I put my hand on his chest, an automatic gesture as he moved to leave. “Just a few more questions—”
“You sure, Clare? Look at you. You’re covered in goose bumps.” The back of his hand moved to test my cheek. “Your flesh is like ice!”
“It’s okay. Really. I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not.” Before I could stop him, he’d stepped close and began to rub his large hands up and down my freezing arms. “How does that feel?”
I smirked up at the man. “Inappropriate.”
Tommy laughed. “You really are a pistol, you know that? Too bad I didn’t meet you before your daughter—”
“Tommy? Are you in there? They said you came down—” The door to the cave cracked open. And so did my world. My daughter stood there with a look of complete devastation on her young face. “Mom?”
Oh, no.
“Mom? And Tommy? I don’t believe it.”
I backed away from my daughter’s lover. “Joy, this isn’t what you think—”
“Yes it is,” she whispered. “I’m not an idiot.”
She bolted. I chased her. But her feet were in running shoes, and mine were in high heels. She was up the steps and out that restaurant’s back door faster than Brigitte Rouille.
I moved as quickly as I could through the shade of the concrete alley. By the time I reached the open sidewalk, the afternoon sun was blinding. I’d spent too much time in Tommy’s dim cellar. It had wrecked my vision.
I shaded my eyes and searched uptown then down, but bodies of pedestrians obstructed my view. I darted and moved one way then another. But it was no use. I had no idea where my daughter had run.
“No! I can’t have lost you!”
Tommy strode up behind me. “Clare, I’m sorry that happened.”
“You and me both!”
We stood together on the sidewalk, squinting against the sun’s glare as we spent another minute peering up and down the street.
“Don’t sweat it, Clare,” Tommy finally said.
“She’s my daughter, you jerk! Of course I’m going to sweat it!”
“Look…” he said, his voice tight but conciliatory, “she left everything behind back there. Her knives are out of her locker and all over her prep table. I’m sure she left things in her locker, too. She’ll be back. And when she comes, I’ll talk to her. I’ll explain that you and I were talking about Vinny and what she saw was completely innocent.”
“Will you even be here when she gets back?” My eyes narrowed. “You’re not taking off again?”
Tommy stiffened. “I’ll be here at Solange all day and all night, likely into the wee hours. Brigitte’s gone, and I’ve got some catching up to do.” Hands on hips, he braced his legs, like a ship’s captain readying for a storm. “Her replacement is very good, and he’s as cocksure of himself as yours truly, but I still have to make sure Henry can handle his promotion. It’s important that he’s able to take care of things when I’m not here.”
That sounded ominous to me. “So you plan on going AWOL again?”
Tommy looked away, glanced at his watch. “I have lots of work to do, Clare.”
“But you will tell Joy about going to Anatomy?”