Her response is syncopated, I realized, suddenly flashing on a BB Gun rap lyric. Faye Keitel had memorized her grief response so that she could recite it on autopilot a thousand times in a row.
“This is Clare Cosi,” Roman said. “Clare is the mother of Joy Allegro.”
Ack. It was true, of course; but, given the circumstances, it wasn’t the introduction I would have chosen!
To Mrs. Keitel’s credit, she remained stoic and unflappable. She stepped forward and actually put her arms around me in a semblance of a hug.
“I’m sorry,” she told me. “Sorry for what Tommy drove your daughter to do. Joy is so young and naive. Tommy’s done this sort of thing before.”
“That must have been hard on you,” I said.
She shrugged. “He’s been sued for sexual harassment a number of times. Stalked once, too, by some poor, deluded young woman who’s probably locked up in Creedmoor now.”
Faye frowned. “I don’t want this to sound like it probably sounds. Tommy was a wonderful man in so many ways. You learn to put up with the bad things, because there was so much good in him.”
Despite her earnest tone, I could easily see that Faye was not at all broken up about her husband’s death. I could understand her emotions because of my own experiences with Matt. After all the things that Tommy had put her through—the infidelities, the petty social humiliations that resulted from them—any love she may have had for the man had withered and died. Now that Tommy was dead, I doubted she felt anything more than relief.
Anton Wright approached and touched Faye’s arm. “The deputy mayor is here. He’d like to express his condolences.”
“Excuse me,” she said, resting her hand on my arm. “Please, if there’s anything I can do.”
I nodded, and Anton led her away.
Brio had drifted off, observing us from a distance, no doubt. Now he was speaking with Robbie Gray. Across the room, I spied Janelle Babcock standing with Napoleon Dornier. I could see the displeasure on the man’s face as I approached.
“Can you believe Henry Tso?” Janelle whispered. “Before tonight, the only two emotions he ever displayed were arrogance and anger.”
I smiled. Dornier looked away.
Janelle sensed the tension. “Excuse me,” she said.
Dornier moved to leave. “I have to go, too.”
“Stay,” I insisted. “I’d like to speak with you.”
Dornier finally met my gaze. “We have nothing to talk about, Ms. Cosi—”
“I know you were Tommy’s friend. But you also have to know that Joy is innocent.”
Dornier frowned behind his amber glasses. “That’s not what the police think. They interviewed me about the murder. I told them all about Joy’s relationship with Tommy.”
“You knew?” I said.
“Everyone did. There are no secrets in a place like Solange. Of course your daughter killed Tommy. Who else would do it?”
“Hold on there a minute, Nappy.”
The man winced, taken aback by my brazen use of his nickname. Good, I thought, because I wanted him off balance.
“I can think of at least one other suspect,” I told him. “Do you remember that black envelope Tommy received the day he was murdered? The letter he told you to burn, like the others? Don’t you think that’s a little suspicious? Did you mention those letters to Detectives Lippert and Tatum?”
Dornier looked away, adjusted his glasses. “Lippert and Tatum were only interested in what I had to say about your daughter and her relationship with Tommy.”
“So you didn’t even mention the letters, did you? Tell me what you know,” I said. “Please. You know Joy. You know she has a good heart. She genuinely cared for Tommy. She admired and respected him. Now she’s facing prison for a murder I can assure you she did not commit.”
“You’re her mother. Of course you think—”
“If it’s possible that someone else did this, at least tell me who it might be.”
Dornier shifted on his feet and sighed. “The man behind those letters is Billy Benedetto. He’s the beverage manager at a club called Flux—”
“The place on Fourth Avenue. The club that used to be a church, like the old Limelight?”
Dornier nodded. “For months now, that man has been sending letters, demanding money from Tommy. I don’t know why. The chef would never discuss it. The letters would come, all of them in those black envelopes, and Tommy would tell me to burn them. It got to the point where it was routine.”
“Routine? How many have there been?”
“Over twenty. Two a month, since January—”
“Like an overdue bill notice.”
“Exactly.”
“So what did Tommy owe this man?”
“If you want to know that, ask Benedetto yourself,” Dornier replied. “Tommy would never discuss it, so I have no idea.”
Despite Dornier’s surly tone, I thanked him, and we parted. Then I found Janelle, said good-bye, and headed for the door.
On the way, I noticed Faye Keitel and Anton Wright standing together in an alcove. Their heads were together, and they were whispering. Anton nodded and touched Faye’s hand. It was a comforting touch, but then it appeared to change. His fingers ran up and down her bare arm in a gesture that looked more like an intimate caress. It didn’t last long. Had I misjudged it?
I wondered if there was something sparking now between them…or if something had sparked long ago, before Tommy’s death. The two didn’t stay together long, and there wasn’t much else to see, so I moved along.
My best lead now was this man named Billy Benedetto, and that’s who I was going to see. I checked my watch. It was too early in the evening for a dance club to be open, so I’d have to cool my heels for an hour or two. Then I’d head to Club Flux and ask to speak with the beverage manager. What would I say next? I wasn’t sure, but as I stepped onto the frigid uptown sidewalk, a chilling thought occurred to me. If Benedetto believed that Keitel owed him, maybe the debt had just been collected.
Twenty-Three
Purple light illuminated the granite walls of the former Fourth Avenue Episcopal Church. The cathedral was no longer a house of worship. The stained glass windows with religious scenes had been replaced by massive laser light displays that morphed and shifted with the relentless rhythms that filled the century-old sanctuary.
A winding sidewalk outside the entrance to the Gothic structure had once been the path to Sunday services. Now those same stones were buried under the spiked heels and polished loafers of at least one hundred flashily dressed revelers, waiting to be admitted to the club’s inner sanctum.
In recent weeks, this gray stone structure had been rechristened Club Flux. Now there was a new breed of faithful flocking here, the type that willingly followed the leaders of the hip, the trendy, the terminally chic. If this brand-new nightspot was the location of the season, these dedicated pilgrims would line up to adulate.
I, on the other hand, just wanted to get in and out of the darn place as quickly as possible, but the length of the line at the door was irritating beyond belief. Moving past the crowd, I approached the velvet rope. Three bouncers guarded this draping gate, each bigger and tougher-looking than the last.
Seeing them here, it occurred to me that if you put Armani on a trio of football thugs, they still looked like football thugs, only dressed in Armani. I approached the least intimidating linebacker in the group—least intimidating because his shoulders were only broad enough to rival the span of the Brooklyn Bridge, his neck thicker than my waist.
“Hi,” I said, loud enough to be heard over the music. “Could you tell me how long I’ll have to wait on this line? I’m guessing at least an hour?”
I’d just exited a too-warm taxi, and my long gray coat was still unbuttoned. The big man eyed me from the top of my French twist to my green silk heels. The Valentino suit screamed class, and his gaze lingered a long moment on the exquisite emerald necklace, which shouted, “Money, honey!”