The wind was still strong, but the steady rain was easing, its tattoo decelerating with a promise that waiting it out would be worth it. Beneath the narrow awning, Patrice lingered, watching drops turn to drizzle.
“Clare?” Madame called. “Are you coming?”
“Yes.”
Turning to go, I stole one last glimpse of the desolate image: Patrice Stone, arms folded, waiting for the wind to die.
Sixteen
As we moved back inside the crowded party room, Daphne and Susan drifted away, and I leaned toward Madame. “We need to find Maya Lansing’s husband.”
“Captain Herbie? Why, dear?”
“Because . . . the fake corpse we saw covered in fake blood this morning was a bodybuilder, and Maya is a fitness queen. There might be a connection. Alicia actually called her a ‘steroid-shilling witch.’”
“Coincidence?”
“Mike says in police work there are no coincidences. This isn’t exactly a criminal investigation, but . . .” I met Madame’s gaze.
Her silver-gray brows knitted. “You think Maya really put her own husband up to seducing Alicia?”
“It’s outrageous, I grant you, but Maya strikes me as the kind of woman who banks on outrage.”
“But why bring the Candy Man here? How could it help her? What would it accomplish?”
“For one thing, it would rattle Alicia, goad her into causing a scene while Maya can stand back and look poised and together.”
“Oh yes, I see. That would be disastrous—and diabolical.”
We found Maya easily enough. She was holding court near the tall windows, her stunning body dramatically backlit by New York’s cityscape. On the edge of the knot that had formed around her, I spotted my ex-husband. (Not a surprise. Next to coffee beans, half-naked women were Matt’s favorite stimulant.)
Every few seconds he stole a glance at the daringly undressed fitness diva. The photojournalists weren’t nearly as coy. Snapping pictures, they openly admired her display right along with the wholesale buyers, some of whom actually took personal cell phone shots.
“That Maya is one clever operator,” Madame whispered.
I wasn’t going to argue. Her topless stunt, plus a room of mostly male buyers, plus samples of our new aphrodisiac would add up to a stunning success for her attention grab—unless we could stop it. Unfortunately, as Madame and I crept closer, our hopes sunk. “Captain” Herbie Lansing was nowhere to be found.
“Dead end,” Madame whispered.
“Not funny.”
“Sorry, dear.”
“Listen, Maya’s husband is here somewhere. Maybe he stepped out to the restroom. Just keep an eye out for a cheesy yachtsman’s cap.”
Suddenly, Madame’s eyes lit up. She pointed.
“You see Herbie?” (I assumed.) “Where?”
“Not Herbie. Someone else. Someone I know you’ve been looking for . . .”
Turning, I finally saw him: Detective Michael Quinn. He stood near the samples table, talking with my daughter, his broad-shouldered form draped in the blue serge suit that I’d helped him pick out a few months ago. Expertly altered by an NYPD-friendly tailor, the coat was nipped and tucked to curve with his athletic physique while giving away no sign of his weapon (in Mike’s case, the gun and shoulder holster he wore like a third arm). As he turned, I noticed his tie, silver and blue silk—the one I’d helped his young son and daughter select for a special Christmas present.
Whatever Joy was discussing with Mike appeared to amuse him immensely. His lighthearted mood surprised me. Could he really be over his resignation so fast? Or was laughing with my daughter just a polite act?
“Go visit with your man,” Madame said. “I’ll keep an eye out for Captain Herbie.”
“Captain Herbie?” It actually took me a second to refocus, but refocus I did. Leaning close, I left Madame with a piece of advice: “When Alicia gets back here, warn her—in no uncertain terms—what could be coming her way.”
“Oh, I will. Don’t you worry, but . . .”
“But what?”
“If Maya’s husband does turn out to be Alicia’s Candy Man, what next?”
“Tell Alicia she should use the situation to her advantage. She needs to stay calm and composed. She should pull Maya aside and demand she leave the party right now and drop all attempts to cut herself in on the profits of Alicia’s product or else.”
“Or else what?”
“Or else Alicia will file charges.” When Madame tilted her head in confusion, I reminded her: “You know that martini the Candy Man pushed on Alicia last night?”
“The drink he brought to her hotel room?”
I nodded. “Alicia was smart. She pretended to drink the stuff but poured most of it into the flower vase. Then those two martini glasses vanished the very same time that Dennis did, and I got suspicious. I convinced Detectives Soles and Bass to have the alcohol in the vase tested for drugs. If they find any, the Candy Man can be charged with a felony, and if Maya put him up to it, then she’s culpable . . .”
I stopped talking when I saw Madame was no longer paying attention to me. “What are you looking at?”
Lifting her chin, she smiled. “Good evening, Detective Quinn.”
“Good evening, Madame Dubois. Mind if I borrow your manager?”
Her violet eyes sparkled. “I think she’d be disappointed if you didn’t.”
A moment later, Mike’s breath was hot at my ear. “Somewhere private where we can talk?”
I swallowed, surprised at the voltage just one of Mike’s whispers could send through my system.
“Follow me,” I said, taking his hand.
The kitchen was dimly lit and empty, the constant whir of large refrigerators the only sound. As I turned to face him, he deftly slid an arm around my waist and yanked me close.
“Whoa, slow down!” I said, flattening my palms against his chest. “What’s gotten into you?”
“Five shots of that Mocha Magic stuff . . . Or maybe it was six.”
“Six shots!”
“Esther fixed me up.” Mike’s hands slipped up and down my back, then over my backside.
“Seems to me, she fixed me up!”
“Not her fault,” Mike said. “I told her I needed a major caffeine hit, and she said there were more than enough samples to go around.”
“Believe me, Esther loves to play imp.”
“You wanted us to test this stuff, didn’t you?” Mike’s reply was somewhat garbled. His lips were too busy tasting my neck, my jaw, my earlobe.
“Hey, I’ve been worrying about you for hours,” I said, squirming in his grip. “I want to know what happened today. You seem pretty darn happy for a guy who just resigned from a job he lives for.”
“I didn’t resign.”
“You reconsidered?”
“I reassessed.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means my paranoid assumptions were flat-out wrong. The first deputy commissioner wasn’t hunting for a head. He knew about our case coming apart with that poor kid’s suicide, but he said he understood. He’d had his own share of jobs gone wrong. He seems like a good guy—Larry Hawke is his name.”
“Hawke?”
“He’s a real old-timer. Hero cop, decorated while still in uniform . . .” Mike smiled down at me. “See? No more worries.”
“But—”
My reply melted away in a kiss so electric it could have been licensed as a stun gun. Fighting to keep my head, I broke off, pulled away . . .
“Take it easy, okay? Anyone could come through that kitchen door at anytime.” I exhaled. “Alicia claimed this stuff was potent. It looks like she was right.”
Mike laughed. “I haven’t enjoyed herbs and spices this much since I was in uniform, splitting a bucket at KFC. I ever tell you that?”
“No.”
“My partner liked the wings. I was a breast and leg man.”
I removed his roving hand from my thigh. “What were you and Joy laughing about, by the way?”
“You don’t know?” Mike said in a tone that implied I should.
“No. I don’t know. What?”