“Okay, Clare. Take it easy. I do believe you. I had to ask.”
I calmed, realizing Mike’s years as a detective weren’t going to vanish just because of a personal relationship. The possibility of Joy’s being guilty was there, so he had to consider it. The man’s pragmatism probably reached the molecular level.
“So now we move on,” Mike said.
“Move on?” I whispered. “What do you mean, move on?” Was he giving up on Joy? On me?
“We move on to other suspects, Clare. Tatum isn’t looking. He and Lippert firmly believe they’ve found their killer. So if you want this crime solved, we’re going to have to solve it ourselves.”
“You’re in this with me?” I said, close to tears.
“Of course.”
“Oh, thank God.”
“Good, because we can use his help. We can also use a theory, if you’ve got one.”
“Brigitte Rouille,” I said without hesitation. “She’s my prime suspect.”
“Okay, Clare. I’m listening.”
“Well, Brigitte was Tommy’s second-in-command. The woman had excellent knife skills, she was very strong physically, and she had a history with Tommy. He went out on a limb to give Brigitte a job when nobody else would. Two and two is four. With Tommy’s womanizing ways, I’m sure he and Brigitte were lovers at one time.”
“You think Brigitte is capable of murder?”
“Yes. Her behavior toward my daughter was off-the-charts hostile. She called her a brat and a whore and threatened Joy with a knife. There were plenty of witnesses to that, me included.”
“Good.”
“I believe Brigitte killed Tommy in a fit of anger. The man had just fired her for using drugs. She could have returned to the restaurant to have it out with him—or maybe even throw herself at him, for that matter. Knowing Tommy’s ego, he could have said any number of things to send her into a violent rage.”
“Why use Joy’s knife to kill him?”
“That was the sweetest revenge of all for Brigitte. It allowed her to frame her romantic rival for the man’s murder while getting herself off the hook. And as for the fingerprints on the knife—well, it was Joy’s property, so her fingerprints on the blade shouldn’t be a revelation, should they? Brigitte could have wiped her own prints off or worn a glove.”
Mike paused for a moment. “It’s not a bad theory. Drugs can drive people to commit crimes they might not have considered sober.”
“That’s not all.”
“Okay. I’m still listening.”
“I think Vincent Buccelli’s death points to Brigitte, too.”
“How?”
“Tommy and Joy were using the boy’s apartment for sexual encounters.”
“Christ, Clare. What was your daughter thinking?”
“Don’t even go there.”
“Well, clearly Keitel went there. To Vinny’s apartment, I mean. And if the head chef was disappearing with the pretty intern often enough, then people probably figured out what was happening, right?”
“Yes, Mike, exactly! If Brigitte still had feelings for Tommy—maybe even hoped to become his mistress again—how would she have felt seeing him carry on an affair right under her nose with an intern half her age? It probably drove her crazy to see the two of them disappearing in the afternoons for sex. I’ll bet Tommy was even insensitive enough to tell Brigitte where she could reach him while he was gone! And…come to think of it, more than one person at the restaurant mentioned that Brigitte had it in for Vinny. She probably started picking on him when she realized he was allowing Tommy and Joy to use his apartment for their trysts!”
“Makes sense so far.”
“Well, here’s the kicker. On the night Brigitte threatened my daughter with a knife, she accused Joy of ‘undermining’ her rep with Tommy. That was the very same night that Vinny was murdered. I’m betting Brigitte cracked that night. She went out to Queens and killed Vinny, using a knife from Solange. I think she did it with the intention of framing Joy, who had a key to Vinny’s place. Or even Tommy, since she knew he went there to sleep with Joy.”
“I follow. An investigation would have eventually turned up their names. Both had access to Vinny’s apartment, and both worked at Solange, so they had access to the murder weapon.”
“I’m not saying it makes complete sense. But the woman wasn’t making a lot of sense the night I saw her ranting. If we can find her, we might get her to confess to at least one of the murders.”
“And Joy’s a suspect in Vincent Buccelli’s murder, too. Is that right?”
“She was interrogated but never charged.”
“Who’s the detective on that case?”
“Lieutenant Salinas.”
“Hold on…” I heard some shuffling of paper. “Salinas is in Queens, right? Do you remember the precinct number?”
I told him.
“Okay, Clare. You’ve got solid theories—for both murders. I’m going to give Salinas a call…”
Mike hung up, and I rose from the couch. As I stretched my achy body, I felt painful needles shoot through my arms. That’s when I noticed the nasty purple bruises where Lippert’s men had restrained me.
On a furious exhale, I headed for the kitchen and slammed together a stove-top pot of espresso. I needed the dark kick—even though I was already disturbed enough to kick furniture.
I ground the Italian roast fine, dumped the black sand into the filter, filled the lower chamber with water, screwed together the two separate parts, and banged the Moka Pot onto the gas burner.
Within minutes, liquid began to boil inside the little silver pot. At just the right moment, the water shot from the lower chamber to the upper, forcing itself through the cake of packed grounds. That’s when the stove-top espresso was born, suffusing the room with the intense aromatics of the darkly caramelized coffee beans.
I closed my eyes, and in the briefest flash of sense memory, the rich, earthy smell returned me to my childhood. I was back in my grandmother’s grocery again, watching Nana stir her pots of minestrone, mix up her homemade pastas, bake her Italian breads and cookies.
A sturdy, practical immigrant, Nana had lived a hard life, losing sisters in the Great Depression, a husband and brothers in World War II. She had what they called “the insight” and was able to read coffee grounds for the women of the neighborhood, advise them, even perform the occasional ritual to banish those cursed with the malocchio—what the old Italians called the “evil eye.”
Because my own mother had abandoned me—and my father was too busy running numbers, not to mention running around with a succession of flashy women—my grandmother was the one who made sure I was raised right.
Nana was my mother, my friend, my teacher, my shoulder to cry on, my fearless defender. Until her death, just a few months before I’d met Matt, she was the one person whom I could count on to make a bad day good again.
And now it’s your turn, Clare.
Since Joy’s arrest, my emotions had been all over the map. But dread and helplessness were no good to me now. It was time to distill my fears down, concentrate them into the essence of something useful.
I poured myself an ink-black shot and bolted it back. I poured a second and drank it down, too. The phone rang before I could pour a third.
I snatched up the kitchen extension. “Hello!” I blurted, a little too loudly. (The caffeine was starting to hit.)
“I spoke with Lieutenant Salinas,” Mike began without preamble. “Got his home number from the desk sergeant, since he wasn’t on duty. Got him out of bed, actually. But he wouldn’t tell me much—”
“What do you mean, he wouldn’t tell you much?” I paced the small kitchen, all set to fight somebody, anybody. “He’s a cop. You’re a cop. You’re both cops, for heaven’s sake—”
“Sweetheart, calm down—”
“Don’t tell me to calm down! This is my daughter’s life we’re talking about—”
“Clare! Listen to me! Salinas is not Ray Tatum, whom I’ve known for years. Salinas is a cop in a different borough, and as soon as he realized I knew one of his prime suspects, he clammed up. He had a right to. But at least I got him to admit he sent a man to Brigitte Rouille’s apartment. Unlike Tatum and Lippert, Salinas followed your lead. His detective found out that Ms. Rouille skipped out on her rent several weeks ago with no forwarding address.”