Of course, someone would be there—Tommy Keitel himself—which was why I was speeding toward his restaurant now. Joy wasn’t going back there to pick up her knives and personal items. I was certain she was really going there to see Tommy one more time, either to tell him off or make a last desperate attempt to win him back.
But if Joy was going up there looking for closure, explanations, or any kind of comfort, she was about to be severely disappointed because Keitel’s singular goal tonight was to leave her emotionally bloodied. I couldn’t let her go through that alone, but there was an even more vital reason I was speeding north. Solange was a minefield, and I didn’t want Joy anywhere near its ticking bombs, especially at this hour.
Tommy Keitel and Anton Wright were feuding about something. Who knew if that would lead to violence? And even though Brigitte Rouille had been fired, it didn’t preclude her returning to the scene to vent some rage. Then there was that glossy black envelope that made Tommy crazy. What was inside that thing? Was someone blackmailing the man? Would there be deadly repercussions if he failed to comply?
And what about Tommy’s creepy Russian friend Nick? The mysterious man in black from Brighton Beach had arrived at the restaurant late the previous night. If he really was a mobster, then any number of shady things could be going on in Solange’s kitchen after hours.
As my taxi sped uptown, I continued to fret, hoping the least I would find when I entered the premises was some petty scene—like my daughter in tears, begging her inappropriate lover to take her back; or Tommy Keitel desperately dodging Joy’s own personal choice of flying cutlery.
I can handle the situation either way, I told myself. I’ll just pull my daughter into my arms, and we’ll both wave good-bye to Chef Tommy Keitel for good.
Thankfully, traffic was light, and within fifteen minutes we were rolling up to the curb beside Solange’s signature burgundy awning. I paid the cabbie and approached the glass door. Beyond the window, the reception area was dimly lit, the only illumination a menu set on a glowing brass pedestal. My gloved fingers closed around the front door’s long handle. I pushed, and the door opened.
A little surprised that it was still unlocked, I stepped into the restaurant. With a quiet swish, the door swung closed behind me. I unbuttoned my coat.
“Hello?” I called into the darkness of the empty dining room.
The large, shadowy space carried a slight funereal scent of decaying lilies. With the crystal and copper chandeliers extinguished, the sunny walls now looked a sick, pasty yellow. The tablecloths, once the color of crème fraîche, now looked like gray ghosts. The gargoyles weren’t so whimsical anymore. From their high perches, their carved faces had turned grotesque, like cackling spies from the underworld. Their wooden eyes wouldn’t stop following me as I stepped around the gathering of shrouded tables.
My low boots were halfway across the room when a shrill scream froze me in place. The cry had come from the kitchen, and I instantly took off for the double doors. As I pushed from murky dimness into bright fluorescence, I heard a young woman’s voice wail.
“Oh, no! Noooo! God, no…”
The sound of sobbing came next, and I blinked against the glare, hurrying forward around the high service counter.
“Joy!”
“Mom, stay back!” my daughter cried, rushing to my side.
There was moist heat in the room, the scent of simmering stock. Why is someone cooking at this hour?
As Joy gripped my arm, I finally spied a figure in the center of the kitchen. The man was sitting on a metal stool, his body slumped all the way over a cutting board covered with purple cubes of freshly cut beets, coated now with his own blood. The victim had been stabbed in the same manner as Vincent Buccelli. Someone had plunged a chef’s knife deep into the shoulder at the base of his throat.
I gently removed my daughter’s clinging grip, stepped closer. I knew who the man was before I saw his face. I recognized the salt-and-pepper hair, the thickly muscled forearms under rolled-up sleeves.
The corpse was Tommy Keitel.
I swallowed and took another step forward, just to make sure.
When I saw the wide, sightless blue eyes, I knew he was gone. And I recognized something else. The murder weapon had a black handle and the familiar Shun symbol on the blade. This was a ten-inch Shun Elite chef’s knife, I realized with a jolt. It retailed for hundreds of dollars and was forged from powdered steel, allowing for an exceedingly sharp and durable edge.
It’s crazy the kinds of things that pop into your mind at a time like this. But these facts were stored in my memory because I’d purchased this very knife the previous December.
The evidence was undeniable. Tommy Keitel had been murdered with my child’s own personal chef’s knife, the one I’d given her last Christmas Day.
“Mom, come away,” Joy insisted, tears streaming down her cheeks.
“In a second,” I replied.
A knife kit was open on another prep table next to Tommy’s corpse. The knives were stored in a fiery red canvas bag with a luggage ID tag and plastic cat charm dangling from the zipper. All the knives were in their sheaths except one.
I faced Joy, who had her back against the swinging double doors.
“Your knife kit is here, Joy,” I said, trying to remain steady. “Were you packing up when this happened?”
I couldn’t believe it, but I was actually asking my daughter if she had just killed her lover.
Joy shook her head, used the long sleeve of her pink jersey to swipe at the unceasing flow from her eyes. “I just got here five minutes ago…” she said between gasping sobs. “The doors were unlocked…so I knew Tommy was…probably back here…in the kitchen…I came back here and found him…like that…”
“Call 911,” I said.
Joy took a step toward the phone on the wall.
“No!” I cried. “Don’t touch that phone! Don’t touch anything! Use your cell.”
“I can’t. Lieutenant Salinas took it last night.”
“That’s right. Okay…” I put my arm around my daughter.
“Come with me, honey. I have my cell. We’ll call the police from the dining room.”
Then, with a final glance at the late Tommy Keitel, I led Joy out of his kitchen.
Within minutes of my 911 call, two uniformed officers arrived. One man waited with us—although I suspected he was really guarding us. The second man went into the kitchen, and almost immediately came out again. These two were followed by more men in uniforms, and a pair of plainclothes detectives who sat us down at a table.
Someone turned on the lights, and the dining room was bathed in a golden glow. The walls were sunny yellow again, the room warm and welcoming. But the laughing gargoyles hadn’t changed for me. From their balcony seats, they appeared to be grinning at the officious activities of police personnel as if Chef Keitel’s grim, brutal murder had been staged entirely for their amusement.
I closed my eyes, said a prayer for Tommy’s soul. Yet the prickly feeling of dread was still chilling my skin. Beneath the buzz of conversations, I could almost hear a quiet, demonic cackling. Something terrible was still to come. Even the gargoyles knew it.
I took a breath, blocked these dark thoughts, and tried to avoid looking up.
In a burst of sound and movement, new arrivals entered the premises, a horde of men and women in overalls, clutching rolls of yellow crime-scene tape. The forensics team streamed in through the dining room and into the kitchen.
A short time after that, the two detectives on the case introduced themselves. Eugene Lippert and Ray Tatum were part of the Nineteenth Precinct’s detective squad. Lippert was probably fifty, his beige suit slightly rumpled. He had thick ankles and wore Hush Puppies on his large feet.