“I’m sorry. I don’t know who that is.”
Prin sighed. “Big D? Devon Conroy? Among other things, he’s the host and producer of American Star—”
“Oh, right, right. Like that Star Search show from the eighties with Ed McMahon.”
“Ed McWho?” I could practically hear Prin rolling her eyes.
“Forget it,” I said, feeling my age (and for a moment there, I actually felt good that I didn’t have to go all the way back to Ed Sullivan for an example!) “Go on.”
“Well, Big D was having lunch with some television people. I saw him sit down at one of Graydon Faas’s tables. So I pulled Graydon aside, begged him to switch with me, give me the chance to wait on them. You know that prick Faas actually made me pay him a Benjamin to trade tables?”
I was sorry to hear that bit of the story. Obviously, Graydon wouldn’t be the first young man interested in making a buck (or a hundred) where he could. But it didn’t speak very highly of his character to charge a fellow worker for a favor.
“So you waited on Big D’s table?” I prompted.
“Yeah, I did. And along with the check, I slipped Devon my demo CD.”
“Ohhh…” I groaned, finally understanding why David had fired Prin. She’d broken his first commandment of working at Cuppa J.
“Remember that celebrities are here on vacation,” David had lectured the staff at the beginning of the season. “My guests do not want to be harassed, photographed, or hounded. And while they’re under my roof they won’t be. No one is ever to do anything but wait on them. No fraternizing, asking questions, requesting autographs, ever. On grounds of immediate termination.”
“Fine, so I knew it was against the rules,” Prin went on. “But it’s not like rules can’t be bent a little. And Big D was totally down with it. He didn’t complain. David wasn’t even there to see me do it.”
“You mean someone ratted you out?”
“Nobody had to. Jacques caught me in the act and fired me on the spot.”
“What? It was Jacques who fired you?”
“Yeah. Who do you think fired me?”
“Jacques told me it was David.”
Prin laughed. “Mintzer was nowhere in sight. I pissed Jacques off so he got rid of me. And let me tell you, he was looking for a way to get rid of me, so he did.”
I wasn’t so sure Prin was telling the truth. “But David hired you,” I argued. “And he owns the restaurant…”
“I’m sure Jacques got David to see things his way. Based on what I actually did, it wouldn’t have been too hard. It doesn’t matter anyway. I’m glad to be back in Manhattan. Madre Dios, I thought people on the Upper West Side had attitude, but they’ve got nada on the ‘I’m all that’ divas out there.”
“Prin, back up. You said Jacques was looking for a reason to fire you.” One particular reason suddenly came to mind. “Did it have something to do with the suppliers?”
Prin laughed again, sharp and cynical. “You’re talking about Jacques’s ten percent deal, aren’t you? I found out about it, and I figured he was up to something shady. I never said a word, but he knew that I knew, which is really why that bastard wanted me out. I don’t know what’s going on, but you better watch your back, Clare.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean Papas is a prick. But I always liked you. You know, before you got ahold of me, I thought a can opener was the standard tool for coffee prep! Anyway, Clare…guess I’m trying to say thanks for everything you taught me and always being so patient and sweet, you know?”
“Oh, Prin, you’re welcome—”
I was about to ask Prin about her relationship with Treat Mazzelli, but I never got the chance. Someone on her end called her name, and Prin told me she had to get back to work. I wished her luck and said goodbye.
I stood in David’s kitchen a moment, gazing at the glowing display panel on my cell phone and thought about the one person I could talk to right now, the one man who would understand my dilemma—and not just because it was his job. Without hesitation, I toggled to the fourth number on my speed-dial list and pressed.
On good days, I liked to think Detective Mike Quinn’s attraction to me was genuine and based as much on my ability to listen as my big green eyes and sense of humor (and take it from me, a weary, grim-faced New York cop is one tough comedic audience). On bad days, however, I chalked up his regular appearances at the Blend as a simple case of his addiction to my barista skills. Upon meeting the man, I’d single-handedly converted him from a drinker of stale, convenience-store swill to an aficionado of rich, nutty, freshly pulled Arabicas. And, for sure, once you’re hooked on that perfect cup, going without can make you homicidal (well, figuratively anyway).
Whatever the reason for Mike’s friendliness toward me, however, I was glad to hear him answer my call on the first ring.
“Clare? Are you back in the city?”
Mike’s voice was as difficult to read as his features. By now, however, I had trained my ear to detect his subtlest change in tone—not unlike picking up the faintest traces of exotic fruit in a hard-to-cultivate coffee. In this case, the almost inaudible rise in Mike’s deadpan pitch told me the NYPD detective was, in fact, delighted to hear from me.
“No, Mike, I’m not back yet,” I replied. “I’m sorry to tell you I’m still stuck on the balmy beaches of the Hamptons.”
“Poor kid.”
“I hope I didn’t wake you.”
He snorted. (I always could make him laugh.) “I’m on duty,” he informed me.
“So what are you doing? Right now.”
“Why? This isn’t one of your phone sex calls is it?”
A male voice in the background laughed.
“I’m serious, Mike. Tell me.”
“I’m sitting in an unmarked car parked on Houston Street, waiting for someone to rob the decoy cop using the ATM machine across the street.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Hardly. Three robberies in two weeks at this same machine, one ended in a stabbing. Now, tell me what’s wrong.”
“Why do you think something’s wrong?”
“Because I haven’t heard from you in two weeks, it’s after midnight, and that creepy ex-husband of yours has crept back into town.”
“Mike, how the hell do you know all that? Are you spying on me?”
“Relax, it’s a coincidence, that’s all. I stopped by the Blend for a double tall latte and spotted Allegro getting out of a cab.”
“I hope you got your coffee.”
“I did. Tucker makes a nice latte.” There was a semi-long pause. “You make them better.”
The pitch went slightly lower just then. The pleasure pitch. The pitch that made me conjure images of the lanky cop drinking his double latte in my bed.
I cleared my throat. “Thanks.”
“Anytime. So what’s the trouble, Clare?”
I spilled, telling him about the shooting. I described the murder scene, how I’d found Treat shot, then the shells on the beach. He asked me to describe the bullet casings and I did. I even mentioned the tracks in the sand, the flipper fins, and told Mike the name of the investigating officer.
“I never met this O’Rourke but I’ll ask around.”
“Thanks, Mike.”
“Listen, Clare. I see two scenarios here. One is that the murderer is an amateur, not a true professional—”
“Because I found the shells the shooter left behind?”
“Because you found three shells. Did you see any other bullet holes? In the window, the walls?”
“No, nothing, but I’ll try to find out if the police found anything.”
“If there are no shots close to the window, then for a pro the shooter was a lousy marksman, which brings me to my second scenario.”
“Which is?”
“The shooting was an accident.”
“What! That’s crazy.”
“Think about it, Clare. It’s the Fourth of July. Fireworks are going off all over the place. Some kid, maybe a teenager or even an idiotic adult with too much money and not enough sense starts shooting off a rifle for the hell of it. Most of the shots go wild, but one hits the mark and someone dies. It’s happened before.”