“I was born in the apartment above the place. My father died in his bedroom. Now it belongs to a damn health club chain—the house my grandfather built with his own hands.”
He shook his large gray head; the ponytail swayed. “That place was everything to me. When my grandfather died, we needed a new chef. Keitel was that man. We paid his asking price, put a fortune into renovating the place, and it worked. Keitel’s new menus were the talk of the town. People waited for weeks to eat his food. Then one day that arrogant prick woke up and said he was ‘bored’ with cooking Italian and wanted to learn French cuisine instead. On nothing more than a whim, he left me and my family high and dry. What a complete and total asshole. I watched the business my grandfather built wither and die right in front of my eyes. Tommy wouldn’t even sell us his recipes. His contract was ironclad. He owned the recipes. So he took them with him, and the prick never even used them again!”
Benedetto locked his sad eyes onto mine. “The heartbreak killed my mother, God rest her soul. The pressure ruined my marriage, too. I lost everything because of that egomaniac. All I ever wanted out of Tommy was some amends. But do you think he’d give it to me?”
“Give it to you?” Okay, now we’re getting somewhere… “I don’t understand. You weren’t threatening Chef Keitel in some manner, were you?”
“Threaten him!” Benedetto bellowed so loudly I flinched. “You’re damn right, I threatened him!”
I tensed in my chair. Uh-oh. I’d obviously pressed the anger button.
“That son of a bitch was a millionaire! Solange made him famous! All I wanted was a loan, or even just for Tommy to lend his name to a new restaurant I’m trying to open. It was the least he could do. But the prick wouldn’t even answer the phone when I called, had me thrown out by that prissy little maître d’ of his when I paid him a visit.”
I cleared my throat, tried to appear completely calm and cool and unperturbed, which wasn’t easy. This man was shaping up to be the killer—of Keitel, maybe Vinny, too, although I couldn’t imagine the motive there, but if I could keep him talking, who knew what I could get? I was so close now. I didn’t want to blow this.
Just stay on his good side, Clare. He thinks you’re in his corner. Just keep him thinking that.
“Everything you’ve told me is heartbreaking,” I said, shaking my head in sympathy, not unlike Detective Lippert had done with me. “It’s awful what Keitel did to you and your family…”
“Your damn right it’s awful.”
“Roman will be very interested in these details, Mr. Benedetto, but…I must ask. You don’t strike me as the kind of man who would dare take no for an answer, especially from a man as arrogant as Chef Keitel. Didn’t you do anything to drive your point home with him?” Like the point of a knife maybe?
“You have me there, Miss…Cosi, was it?”
I nodded.
“I did something, all right. I wrote to the man.”
“You wrote to him? Is that all? Doesn’t sound like much.”
“What do you mean by that?”
I shrugged. “Just one measly letter?”
Benedetto threw back his head and laughed. “Try twenty-one—at least. I sent the man bills for exactly what he owed me.”
“And did he ever pay up?”
Benedetto grinned, displaying an uneven row of sharp yellow teeth. “He’s dead now. I’d say he’s paid in full.”
My mouth went dry. “Did you kill him?”
“What?”
I leaned forward, put a finger to my lips. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell, but did you…you know…do the deed?”
“What kind of a question is that?” He eyed me warily now. “Are you a cop?”
“No.”
“Well, I don’t like the look in those cat green eyes of yours. I think you should get out of here. Roman Brio can call me if he wants a story. If you really work with him, you tell him to contact me himself. And another thing, nobody gets something for nothing in this world. If Brio wants my Keitel story, then he’s going to have to pay.”
“Pay?”
“Yes. I just got a backer for my restaurant. And when it opens, I expect Brio to be there reviewing it. And I expect a rave.”
“I see.” Brother, this guy’s whole life is about extortion.
“What’s ‘I see’ mean, missy? Do you agree?”
“Sure. What’s the restaurant?”
“You’ll find out soon enough. My backer’s coming up here tonight to finalize the plan.” He glanced at his watch.
“And who is this backer? Does he own other restaurants? Does Roman know him?”
“It’s someone with deep pockets. That’s all you need to know.”
I could tell he wanted me to leave, but this mysterious “backer” story had me intrigued. Benedetto was so open about his past with Keitel. Why clam up now?
“How can you be sure your backer isn’t going to back out?” I pressed.
“Oh, he’s not backing out, missy. This one has to come through for me, or he’s in big trouble. I’ve got something on him. Something big. Something bad. And there’s no way in hell he can afford to cross me now.”
“What do you mean by that exactly? That you have something on him? Because it sounds a little like blackmail.”
Benedetto scowled at me and pointed to the door. “I want you gone right now.”
“But—”
“Do you want me to call my security team?”
I flashed on the linebackers in Armani guarding the velvet gate. “No. I’m going.”
I left the man’s office and descended the stairs.
If anyone was bitter and angry enough to kill Tommy Keitel, I’d just met him. The only thing that niggled at me was the murder of Vincent Buccelli. It didn’t make sense. Yet.
I resolved right then to wait at the bar and watch the mirrored door. If Bendetto’s mysterious backer was going to show, then I was going to wait and see who it was.
I didn’t expect to recognize the person on sight. But my gut told me that if Benedetto wanted Keitel dead, and Keitel ended up that way, then he may have hired someone to do it. And in that case, I wanted to know what this “backer” looked like, if only to be able to recognize him out of a mug shot book.
When I opened the soundproof mirrored door at the bottom of the stairs, the wall of pulse-pounding noise smacked me in the face. Despite the din, I collared the bartender, pointed at a pale blue drink a young woman was dangling in her manicured hand.
“One of those…” I didn’t know what the heck it was, but I liked the color.
The drink came, I paid for my eleven-dollar cocktail, and snagged a stool at the bar, watching and waiting for Billy Benedetto’s mysterious backer to arrive.
Five minutes passed. Then ten. Then fifteen. But not one soul entered that room. While I kept watching the door, I’d been nursing what turned out to be a blueberry martini. After twenty minutes of very slow sips, my tapered glass was finally empty. I was about to order again when a sweet, male voice spoke close to my ear.
“I’d like to buy you another, if I could.”
I turned. Beside me at the bar, a fashionably dressed man at least fifteen years my junior smiled down at me. He was model handsome, far more striking than the Hollywood celebrity I’d collided with earlier. He was tall and tanned with black hair worn slicked back like Wall Street’s Gordon Gekko, only this guy was closer in age to Gekko’s son.
“Simon Ward,” he said, offering me his right hand. I shook it, and he rested his left hand on top of mine. I got the distinct impression he’d done that so I could see the Rolex on his wrist.
“My name’s Clare,” I said.
“Clare.” His smile broadened. “Clare. I like that name.”
Upon second glance, I decided that the man’s tailored suit was much too trendy for a stodgy brokerage house, and he was far too young to be a power player in the financial world, anyway. I figured him for a scion of a wealthy family, some trust fund baby who’d come to the new Club Flux on a lark. New York City was full of that type: young, well-educated, sophisticated urbanites who never had to do a lick of work, unless boredom with partying set in. Why? Because they were smart enough to come out of the right birth canal.