A Brew to a Kill (9 page)

I exhaled and complied. Within seconds, the buzzing murmur from the darkness seemed to recede. Was I imagining it? Or was my shadow audience falling silent so they could listen, too?

“Relax, okay? Try to empty your mind. Can you do that for me?” Buckman purred, a little too close to my ear. “Forget your worries… forget that you’re annoyed with me…” He chuckled low at that one. “Just let go of all conscious thoughts… let them slip away…”

Feeling silly, I pretended to give it a go, although I kept watch on this exasperating man through my eyelashes. He went patiently silent for a good two minutes—and eventually I felt my breathing slowing, my limbs relaxing.

“Okay, now, let’s drift back to the moments leading up to the accident…”

As he spoke, my eyes shut tighter and, amazingly, my mind was able to move backward to those horrifying moments.

“Now I don’t want you to analyze or interpret… I don’t want you to think at all… I just want you to tell me what you heard. Just tell me what your ears took in. Let’s start with the very first sound you remember…”

Slowly, carefully, I repeated the details of the accident in the order I remembered them. Eyes shut tight, I recited events all the way up to Lilly gasping out what might be her final words… that she thought she deserved what happened to her.

When I finished, I felt satisfied that I’d provided accurate testimony, and with a deep breath I opened my eyes—only to discover the fact that three highway patrol officers and two crash team detectives had joined Buckman.

As soon as the men saw that I was finished, they broke out in applause. Buckman extended his arm and dipped in a theatrical bow.

“Are you people sick?!” I cried. “Is this horrible event some kind of a joke to you?!”

“On the contrary.” Buckman yanked a small digital recorder from his tool belt and played a few of my own words back to me.

“You perfectly described the accident as we pieced it together in our preliminary. You
also
perfectly corroborated your own statement, as given to officers Langley and Demetrios.”

He tucked the recorder back into its pocket. “By god, honey, I only wish half the people who witnessed traffic events
saw
as much as you managed to hear. You’re the perfect witness for us: sharp, candid, principled. Any jury would love you.”

“She’s easy on the eyes, too, Max,” said one of the detectives. The other men chuckled.

I folded my arms. “Are you being serious?”

Smoke formed a blue halo around Buckman’s flattop. “Serious as cancer.”

“I’m glad,” I said, “because I know that you and your guys are referred to as the Death Race Gang. Somehow I doubt it’s because of your killer charm.”

“Funny, Clare… your
point
?”

“Your people are combing this area with more single-mindedness than gold rush prospectors. What exactly are you looking for? How are you going to use it to bring the driver to justice? And what about that van? How do you plan to locate it?”

“You ask a lot of questions for a witness.”

“Well, the victim was my friend—so let’s just say I care. Some of my best customers are cops, too, so let’s
also
say that asking questions about police cases has become an occupational hobby.”

Buckman chewed his cigar. “All right, fine… stay close to me then. You still may be able to help us, and you might learn a thing or two.”

B
UCKMAN
didn’t waste any time. Waving over one of his guys, he took possession of that strange yellow tool—the one that reminded me of a toy lawnmower. After aligning its little rubber wheels with the reflective tape on the ground, he flicked a switch on the handle and walked off, moving at a brisk pace.

“You’re measuring distance, right?” I asked, hurrying to catch him.

“Precisely. This little number is a Rolatape. It’s like a tape measure, but more accurate.”

We stopped after twenty feet, in front of the third and fourth members of Buckman’s team. Gaunt and intense with thick owlish glasses, the standing man tinkered with a small flying-saucer-like object mounted on a tripod.

“The impact came right about here,” Owl Man said without looking up. “The victim was carried, dragged, or thrown the rest of the way. You saw where she ended up.”

Buckman chewed his cigar. “Any skid marks around?”

“The brakes were never even tapped. Maybe the laser shots and infrared will show something else, but
lo dudo
.”

The stogie in Buckman’s mouth wiggled again, and I couldn’t stop my mind from sketching his caricature with that cigar as a smoking piston, moving at the behest of the whirring gears in the man’s flattop head.

“There are some fresh tire marks back there,” the fourth detective offered. Kneeling on the ground, he jerked his bald head in the direction of Canal Street.

“How about the victim’s clothes?”

“Secured,” said the bald man, “and I counted three sidewalk surveillance cameras along this block. Any one of them might help us out—took down the names and addresses of their businesses.”

Owl Man finished adjusting the tripod and grunted, satisfied.

“We’re going to need those recordings and the results of this TLS, too,” the bald man noted, rising.

(TLS? More alphabet soup…)
“Excuse me, but what’s a—”

“Terrestrial Laser Scanning,” Buckman replied, lifting his chin in the direction of the tripod. “We’re trying to re-create the accident using 3D scanning technology. Great for convictions. This device cuts through all the crap the slip-and-fall club dishes up in the courtroom.”

“What sort of crap are you referring to?”

“Oh, like when a drunk or criminally reckless driver claims an accident was caused by road debris, or a pothole, or poor line of sight, or a defective traffic light, or a flutter from the wings of a butterfly.”

“Yeah,” Owl Man added. “Or when they give us a song and dance about how their gas pedal stuck, or they tried to brake but the car just skidded anyway.”

Buckman nodded. “This scanner, and Bernie here, will limit that sort of bullshit defense—pardon my language.”

“Your language is the least of my concerns right now—and thanks for the explanation.”

“You’re welcome. Let’s go.”

Buckman took off again. We stopped in front of two long strips of reflective tape on the pavement. Another officer in a nylon jacket was taking pictures with a conventional camera.

“There, Clare. There’s your gunning engine and your squealing tires,” Buckman said, turning off his Rolatape and hoisting it over his shoulder. I followed his gaze and saw vague black smears on the rutted roadway.

“The sucker slammed on the gas and laid a lot of rubber before the cargo van got up enough gumption to move from this spot. Then the vehicle went from zero to whatever just as fast as the muffler-less hunk of crap could go.”

I studied the ground, trying to discern the tea leaves Buckman was using to get this story.

“Do you think this was deliberate?” I asked. “Remember what I told you when my eyes were closed? About what Lilly Beth said before she slipped away. She said she needed forgiveness… that she deserved what happened. Maybe someone else agreed…”

Buckman rubbed the back of his neck. “I understand what you heard, Clare, but I wouldn’t put much stock in what any person says at a moment like that. One time, I pulled this guy out of a burning car. All he could do was cuss out his business partner, and I mean he really cussed the guy out. All the time we waited for the ambulance, all the way to the damn burn unit. I thought they’d just had a fight, you know, something that led up to the wreck, maybe. Turned out the business partner was dead twenty years, and the vic had suffered a brain injury on top of the burns…”

“I know what you’re saying, but this was different.”

“Mentally your friend could have been back in Miss Crabtree’s third grade class, where she pinched a candy bar.”

I didn’t dispute him—not then. This was his job, and he seemed strangely good at it, despite some eccentric behavior.

“How fast was the driver going?” I asked.

“Hard to say. We’ll know better after we crunch the numbers and get a report from the hospital about the nature of the victim’s injuries. By the way, how well did you know Ms. Tanga?”

“When you talk about my friend, Detective, stick to the present tense—or you’re going to piss me off.”

For a fleeting moment, a new expression crossed Buckman’s face, something between surprise and respect. “Okay, Clare. Deal.”

“To answer your question: I’ve only known Lilly Beth for a few months, but as we started working together, we became pretty fast friends.”

“She’s in the coffee business, too?”

“No. She used to work as a registered nurse but switched tracks to become a dietician. I hired her for freelance consulting work, advice on cutting the fat and calories on some of my menu items, that sort of thing.”

“Does she have other clients?”

“She mentioned a spa in Hunterdon County.”

“What does she do for them?”

“Cooking and nutrition classes… and she also started working for the mayor’s office, a special projects initiative, helping the city’s kids eat healthier. She has one of her own, a son… his name is Paz…”

“Ms. Tanga is a single mother then? There’s no husband? No boyfriend?”

A lump formed in my throat and the floodlights blurred. The question made me think of that adorable little boy. Was he going to become an orphan now?

“Ms. Cosi?” Buckman prompted.

“Yes, Lilly is a single mother.” I swiped at my eyes. “She lost her husband when she was still pregnant with their son. He was a U.S. Coast Guard paramedic. Benny Tanga was his name. He died in a rescue attempt off the coast of New Jersey. Helicopter crash…”

Buckman paused, taking that in. “Tough break.”

“I know.”

“Current or past boyfriends?”

“She doesn’t have one now—none that she’s mentioned to me. As far as past relationships, I can’t help you there, either. You should speak with Terry Simone. She’s a customer of ours—and she’s known Lilly much longer than I have. The two met in nursing school.”

Buckman scribbled the name. “Where does Ms. Simone work?”

“Beth Israel. I also know Lilly and her son live with Lilly’s mother, Amina Salaysay. She owns and runs Amina’s Kitchenette in Woodside, Queens. She should be notified.”

“It’s all right. We’ll do that.”

“I can’t think of anything else to tell you. There must be something more I can help with…” I couldn’t stop myself from becoming emotional again, but I felt so powerless.

“Take it easy, Clare. You’ve given us plenty.” Buckman paused a moment then suddenly asked—“What cops?”

“Excuse me?”

“You said some of your best customers were cops.”

“That’s right…” I couldn’t tell if he was genuinely interested or simply trying to derail my tears with a distraction. Whichever it was didn’t matter. I pulled myself together and focused on his question.

“So who are they? Maybe I know these cops.”

“Do you know Sergeant Emmanuel Franco?”

“Franco!” Buckman guffawed. “What a goofball. I wouldn’t have thought a hump like that would be your type.”

“Actually, that ‘hump’ is more my daughter’s type.”

“My sympathies,” Buckman said, then shook his head as if I’d just told him I’d bought the Brooklyn Bridge on eBay.

“I’m also friendly with Lori Soles and Sue Ellen Bass.”

Buckman smirked. “Didn’t think you were their type, either.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing. I’m kidding.” Then Buckman pointed to the Claddagh ring on my finger. “That’s not a wedding band.”