“No!” Tuck said, raising a finger. “You’re the Wicked Witch. You don’t go... You fly.”
“Got it,” she said, flashing Tuck a thumbs-up.
“Break a leg,” he called as she hit the door.
“If you need me, I’ll be in my office,” I told Tuck after brewing a new coffee for Franco—this one in a paper cup.
“What took you so long?” he asked.
“Everything takes longer when you’re snooping.”
“Excuse me?”
“I made your coffee to go, so let’s go,” I told him.
I headed to the Blend’s second floor, where I had a small office and a computer. Franco followed me. As I slid behind my desk, he took the only other chair, throwing up his legs so he could cross his motorcycle boots on top of a stack of old invoices.
“So?” he said.
“So I’d tell you to make yourself comfortable but—”
“I always do.”
“I can see that. Enjoy your coffee. I have to check something online, and then we’ll talk.”
I fired up my computer, typed Nutrition Nation into a search engine, and clicked on the corporate page. Scanning the site, I began to wonder what the heck NN was doing at the Confectioners’ Exposition.
As far as I could tell, the company was shilling muscle-building powders, protein mixes, and enzyme shakes. So where’s the snack food? I started to wonder whether the Wicked Witch had gotten her facts wrong when I spotted a link teasing a new line of products.
To be announced at the ICE show. Hmm...
The imagery for the ad was done with artsy flare: a black-and-white photo of a nude male photographed from the side. The muscular model’s perfectly sculpted abdominal muscles were highlighted by stark light and deep shadows. I scanned up to the face, which looked awfully familiar, especially those long sideburns. A closer look and I was certain: This was Alicia’s Candy Man, Dennis St. Julian!
“You’re awfully quiet, Coffee Lady. What are you doing? Surfing for man-porn?”
“Kind of,” I replied as I smacked the print command.
While the printer churned away, I phoned Detective Lori Soles to give her a head’s up about Nutrition Nation. Unfortunately, all I got was her voice mail. I left a short “call me” message, reluctant to say more on a recording.
When I hung up, I discovered Franco also had been contemplating a photograph. The silver-framed snapshot on my desk had been taken more than a decade ago, when Matt and I were still married and Joy was around six.
My little girl had been dazzled by a young Olympic skater, whirling and leaping on an NBC morning show segment. The show was taped at Rockefeller Center, during those winter months when the courtyard was transformed into an outdoor ice skating rink.
Six-year-old Joy told her daddy she just had to twirl on that same skating rink as the Olympic girl. Before the day ended, Matteo Allegro was guiding shaky blades across ice for maybe the second time in his life.
When Franco caught me watching him, he set the framed photo back on my desk. “I guess Joy’s always been into that Hello Kitty stuff, huh?” He touched the little pink Hello Kitty brand hat and mitten set Joy wore that day. “Cute...”
The dreamy little smile on the man’s face, the semiglazed look in his eyes—they told me all I needed to know. Franco knew about Hello Kitty. He cared about Hello Kitty. If I had any doubt before, I didn’t any longer: Sergeant Emmanuel “Manny” Franco, street name “the General,” was absolutely infatuated with my daughter.
Was I okay with that? No. But what could I do about it? And what did I really know about this young man, anyway?
Well, I thought, here’s my chance to find out...
The printer finally disgorged the single sheet capture of the Candy Man’s photo. I passed it to Franco and cleared my throat, focusing on the subject at hand, or at least in his hand—
“Do you think you could identify this model if you saw him in the flesh?”
Franco saw the image and winced. “What part of his flesh am I supposed to identify, ’cause there’s a lot of it here? Maybe you should get a vice cop for this beefcake watch.”
“You’ll do. Let’s grab a cab.”
“Cab? To where? I came here to see—”
“My daughter, I know. But Joy went to brunch with friends from culinary school.”
When Franco’s face fell, I assured him she’d be back soon enough—and in the meantime, he could help me with a little backup (in case I actually did find Dennis St. Julian).
“So you want me to work on my one and only lunch hour?” Franco said.
“Don’t think of it as work. It’s the Confectioners’ Exposition. There will be hundreds of vendors pushing sweet-tooth bliss with free samples at every booth.”
“Samples? Of candy? And I’m going to do this because... ?”
“Because Dirty Harry never passes on a chance to dispense justice.”
Franco snorted. I folded my arms and gave him a possible-future-mother-in-law stare. “You don’t want me to tell Mike you’re still going after that dealer, do you?”
He threw up his hands. “Fine. It will make my day to provide you with a little backup. But I want lunch first.”
“I’ll make you and Joy a nice home-cooked dinner tonight. Until then, gorge on chocolate. I plan to.”
“Ugh,” Franco rubbed his hard stomach. “I ate too much fancy candy last night. I need red meat.”
Twenty-Five
“Man, is it warm in here,” Franco said, tugging at the collar of his open shirt.
We were standing inside architect I. M. Pei’s ascending “glass house” entryway to the Javits Convention Center on Manhattan’s West Side. Unfortunately, on this pleasant spring afternoon the temperature in this sun-washed atrium was so high that “hothouse” would have been a more apt description.
Signs warned of “minor inconveniences” owing to the ongoing renovation, and the spotty air-conditioning in the lobby was definitely an inconvenience, especially since it provided Manny Franco with an excuse to gripe like a teenager.
“Just take off your leather jacket if you’re uncomfortable,” I said.
“Great idea, Coffee Lady, people tend to relax when they see the guy in front of them is armed.”
“Sorry. I forgot about your shoulder holster.”
“Well, people may need the police, but that doesn’t translate to them liking us. A low profile means the jacket stays on.”
“I understand. The only time I see Mike’s shirtsleeves is in my—”
“Bedroom?” He waggled his eyebrows.
“Kitchen. Focus, Detective. We’re at a foodie convention.”
“Next!” A cashier waved us forward.
“Let me take care of this,” Franco said, cutting in front of me with wallet in hand. Though his spirit was willing, the detective was floored by a case of sticker shock. He closed his cash flap and handed over his Visa card.
“I could go to a Jets game for what these tickets cost,” Franco said as he gave me a badge pass.
“Look at it this way: the Jets usually lose, and you pay extra for snacks. Here you can stuff yourself with goodies for free.”
“I’d rather have a plastic cup of beer and a pair of Nathan’s foot-longs.”
We passed through the doors into the first exhibition area, where hundreds of booths and thousands of attendees filled a quasi-industrial space as big as a space shuttle hangar. Like a foodie UN, this expo brought together a world of Candy Lands with colorful company banners dangling like national flags across the high ceiling. Exhibitors, large and small, were aligned in long rows displaying chocolates, pastries, and snacks galore.
Overwhelmed by the sheer number of booths, I leafed through the guidebook in search of some kind of map. “Okay, the Nutrition Nation booth is in aisle seventeen—”
“Answer me something.”
“What?”