French Pressed (19 page)

In a corner I saw an ancient, avocado-hued refrigerator, beside it a card table with a hot plate, a roll of paper towels, plastic plates, and a Mr. Coffee machine with a badly stained carafe. A six-foot folding ladder, several easels, all of them covered, and another card table laden with bottles and jars of paint dominated the space under the mural.

I smelled something like burning roses and a perfumed tobacco before I noticed there was another person in the room. A diminutive Asian woman with short, bottle-bleached hair was sunk so deep into a beanbag chair that all I could see were her head and her legs. She wore bell-bottom Levi’s decorated with embroidered flowers, boots, and a black sweater.

The young woman was attached to an iPod, head bobbing to the beat pounding in her brain. She clutched a thin black cigarette between two ebony-manicured fingers. Sitting next to her on the floor was a mason jar with three long sticks of incense burned halfway down. Her eyes seemed glazed, and she didn’t appear to even register our presence.

“Where can I find De Longe?” Mike asked the young man.

Maxwell pointed to the stairs. “Second floor. Last door at the end of the hall.”

The kid dipped his brush in a cup filled with vermilion paint, faced the mural again. Mike took my arm and led me to the staircase.

“Be a gentleman and knock first, Officer Asshole,” Saul Maxwell called over his shoulder.

I felt Mike tense. I tugged his arm. “Forget it,” I whispered. “Let’s find Brigitte.”

The stairway was cracked concrete and lit by what little sunlight penetrated an insulated glass wall streaked with soot. The second-floor hallway was dark, and musty, too. Mike found a light switch and another bank of fluorescent lights sprang to life. Two rooms flanked the main corridor, one filled with art supplies, the other with a pile of assorted junk, which I realized after a moment’s viewing was meant to be a sculpture.

The door we wanted was at the end of the hall. The aromas of burning incense and tobacco, which had been so strong downstairs, were now dissipating, and I began to pick up another smell, a vague putrid odor.

“Mike, be careful,” I warned. “I don’t know a thing about this Toby person. But I know Brigitte has knife skills.”

Mike stepped up to the door and listened for a moment, then knocked gently. “Toby De Longe? My name’s Quinn. I need to have a few words with you.”

Silence.

Mike knocked again, harder. Then again, hard enough to shake the wooden door in its frame. Finally he grabbed the doorknob and twisted it. The door opened a few inches then caught on the security chain.

“Damn…” Mike muttered. He leaned close to the door, peered through it.

That putrid odor was a lot stronger now. “Can you see anything?”

Mike shook his head.

“What do we do?”

“This.” Mike reared back a foot and slammed his broad shoulder against the wood. The chain broke loose from the frame with a splintered crack. The momentum sent him across the threshold, and he quickly caught his balance.

I hurried into the room after him, but he’d already turned around on me. Before I could see anything, he was pushing me back into the hall.

“Back, Clare. Get back!”

“What? Why?!”

As he continued to dance me backward, I struggled to peer around his tall body. We’d come this far; I wasn’t giving up now!

The room looked stark and miserable from what I could glimpse around Mike’s stubborn form. There were frayed beach towels on the floor in lieu of furniture, cardboard boxes for dressers and drawers, a futon against the wall. The rumpled bed was occupied—and that’s when it hit me. The person lying on that mattress wasn’t sleeping.

“Mike, stop it! Let me go in!”

“She’s dead, Clare. They’re both dead.”

Hands on hips, I stared up at the man. “Are you forgetting I found two stabbing victims in two days? I can handle this. Now let me go!”

Mike released me abruptly, showing me his palms. “Fine, Clare. Go in, if that’s what you want.”

“Yes. That’s what I want. I may not have a gun or a license, Mike, but I’ve brought more than one murderer to justice, and you know it.”

Mike held my gaze for a long moment. He nodded. “You’re right, Clare. You are.” His tone was respectful if not apologetic. “Okay then. If you say you can handle it, then you can.”

“I can.”

I stepped through the doorway and began to cross the small room. The smell was pretty bad as I moved toward the futon. I tried my best to cut off air to my nose, breathe only through my mouth.

“Don’t disturb the scene,” he reminded me.

Toby De Longe and Brigitte Rouille were side by side on the floor mattress. Tongue lolling and black, face greenish red, Toby De Longe had obviously died first. A rubber ribbon had been tied around his biceps, and his forearm was black below the compressed flesh. A hypodermic needle was still sticking out of his arm; a singed spoon and a melted candle lay next to the bed. There were several small squares of creased blue paper, too.

“Some very bad heroin has come to town,” I heard Mike say, rubbing a hand over his face. “It comes in those blue wrappers. We’ve been trying to get the word out, but…”

His voice trailed off.

I shifted my gaze to Brigitte. Compared to her boyfriend, she looked positively placid. One arm was thrown over her head, the other stretched out on the bed. Her long, black hair was loose now and splayed all over the sheets. She could have been asleep, except for the greenish cast to her face and neck and the purple marks where gravity pulled her blood toward the floor. I leaned close to see her face, trying not to inhale, but a whiff of something sharply sour passed the receptor cells in my mouth. I gagged, and the odors of the room rushed into my nose.

“What’s that sour smell?”

“You mean other than the putrid rot of the decaying bodies? Looks like Brigitte vomited while unconscious. See how blue her lips are? She suffocated before the pills she ingested killed her.”

I hadn’t noticed the bottle clutched in her hand. “What did she take?”

“We’ll let the medical examiner tell us that.”

Mike knelt down on one knee, gently touched Brigitte’s pale arm. “Cold.” He hung his head for a moment. “She’s been dead for a long time.”

I continued to stare at the lifeless woman. “Why did this happen?”

Mike rose, placed a hand on my shoulder. “My guess, from the look of the scene: De Longe was a junkie who tried to kick his habit and failed. He took the bad heroin, died, and Brigitte killed herself in grief.”

“Damn!” a voice cried behind us.

Mike and I both turned. Saul Maxwell was standing in the doorway.

“Call 911,” Mike commanded.

Maxwell shook his head. “Sorry, dude. Our phone service has been interrupted. Someone forgot to pay the bill.”

“I’ll call it in,” Mike told him, reaching for the radio in his overcoat. Saul Maxwell retreated down the stairs.

“Maybe Brigitte was feeling remorseful,” I said hopefully. “Maybe she was feeling guilty about killing Vinny and Tommy, and that’s why she chose to kill herself.”

Mike shook his head. “Sorry, Clare. I’ve seen enough corpses to know that Brigitte Rouille and her boyfriend here have both been dead for at least twenty-four hours, probably longer.”

I stepped back; the nausea came over me then. I covered my mouth, swallowing hard, forcing my lunch back down. Mike’s words blew away any chance I saw to clear my daughter of murder.

“You could be wrong…” I challenged weakly.

“Sweetheart…” Mike sighed, eyes full of sympathy. “It’s remotely possible Brigitte killed Vincent Buccelli. But there is no way in hell she murdered Tommy Keitel. I’m sorry, Clare. By then your prime suspect was already dead.”

R
AYBURN
Way had been a dead end all around. We waited at the scene for the ambulance and police to show. Then we piled into Mike’s weather-beaten Dodge and headed back downtown.

By six o’clock, it was already dark, and the temperature was plunging fast. Mike double-parked his sedan in front of the Blend and climbed out. Our good-bye was brief, because the Brigitte mess and then rush-hour traffic had tied us up for hours. Mike was barely on time for his job.

“Today was a bust, but don’t worry,” he said after opening the car door for me. “We’ll find Keitel’s killer, Clare. We will. It’ll just take a little more time.”

Standing on the sidewalk, looking up at him, I summoned a weak smile.

Mike’s words were real; I knew he meant them. Even though I’d watched him feed baloney to that super in Washington Heights, I could tell he wasn’t just “handling” me now. I could hear the experience in his voice, the steely confidence that came from years and years of enduring as much failure as success. I could only imagine how many frustrating hours he’d gone through on investigations that dead-ended and got dropped into cold-case files.

I was willing to do almost anything now to keep Joy’s case from going cold. But I wasn’t a hardened professional with over a decade of investigative experience under my belt, so even with Mike’s pep talk, I was feeling pretty discouraged.

“If you learn anything new, leave a message on my answering machine,” Mike said. “I’ll be on duty all night and into the early morning, but we can follow up any lead you come up with after my tour’s over. We’ll do it together, Clare.
Together.
Okay?”

“I’m grateful to you. I am. But you can’t work double duty forever, Lieutenant. You have to sleep some—”

Mike swept me up in his arms, covered my mouth with his. For a few seconds, my feet were off the ground.

“Good night, Clare,” he whispered.

Then he released me, and I was sinking again, back down to earth. My gaze followed him as he returned to his car, slid behind the wheel. I continued to watch as he restarted the engine, checked the rearview to pull out. When he noticed me watching, he shot me a smile. I nodded from the sidewalk, unable to move until he drove away. Then I turned and pushed through the Village Blend’s beveled glass door.

The coffeehouse was busy on this Saturday night. A fire was burning in the hearth, one of Gardner Evans’s jazz CDs was playing over the sound system, and the aroma of our freshly brewed French roast was stimulating the air.

Esther Best looked up from a table she’d just cleaned.

“Welcome back, boss,” she said, drying her hands on her blue apron. “How’s it going?”

“Okay, Esther. How are you? Your big date’s tonight, isn’t it?”

“You know it! Tucker and Dante are in at seven, and then I’m gone!”

Esther regarded me through her black-framed glasses. I guess I must have been wearing my emotions on my face, because she frowned. “You okay, boss? I mean, I heard about Joy from Matt. I’m really sorry about that. You must be wrecked. You want to talk?”

I needed to unload, so I told Esther everything, starting with Tommy’s murder, the details of Joy’s arrest. I even told her about my futile search today for Brigitte Rouille, and the state in which we found the sous-chef and her lover.

By the end of my story, Esther’s mouth was gaping. “Listen, boss, why don’t you sit down, and I’ll bring you a nice fresh espresso. After all you’ve been through, I think you need to relax. Decompress, you know…”

“But I was going to help out—”

“No need. Gardner’s got the bar covered. And I’ve bussed the empty tables, emptied the trash, and restocked the coffee bar. Any espressos that need to be pulled between now and seven, Gardner can handle. Take a load off. Go sit by the fire.”

Esther grabbed my long gray overcoat. “Let me hang this up, too.”

“Okay.
Thanks
. I appreciate this,” I said, and couldn’t resist adding, “though it proves you must be in love; either that, or the Esther Best I knew has been replaced by a really sensitive and caring pod person.”

“Don’t tell anyone,” Esther whispered. “Especially not Tucker. I’ve worked for years to cultivate
the image
.”

“What image?”

“Snark bitch extraordinaire, of course!”

Esther took off for the coffee bar; I crossed our wood-plank floor and dropped into an overstuffed armchair near the hearth. I stared at the flames for a few minutes, then Esther brought over my espresso.

I sipped it slowly, letting my mind have time to absorb the caffeine slowly, calmly, reasonably. In the end, I knew Esther was right. I needed to decompress.

When I heard my cell go off, I fished inside my handbag for it and was surprised at how stuffed the thing was. Then I realized it was still packed with the papers I’d snatched from the kitchen in Brigitte Rouille’s Washington Heights apartment.

The phone was Matt again. He was at his mother’s apartment, updating her on Joy’s arrest and the lawyers’ opinions. The latest legal word was that the district attorney’s office would probably be throwing the book at Joy—second-degree murder, two counts—in hopes of getting her to plead down to manslaughter.

“But she didn’t kill Tommy or Vinny. Why should she admit it to get a reduced sentence for something she shouldn’t have been charged with in the first place?!”

My voice had gotten a little loud. A few customers glanced curiously in my direction. I slumped down in my chair.

“Clare, I’m not suggesting our daughter cop a plea. I’m just telling you the lawyers are discussing this as an option.”

“I know, Matt. You’re right. I’m sorry I bit your head off.” I massaged the bridge of my nose.

“It’s okay, Clare. I know you’re stressed, worrying about her. I am, too. How did you make out today? Did you get any closer to finding Keitel’s killer?”

“I hit a dead end…” I could hear the exhaustion in my voice, the disappointment, the dread. “But I’m not giving up. I’m not…”

Matt must have heard the shakiness of my own conviction because his voice suddenly sounded stronger. “Of course you’re not giving up. You never gave up on me, did you? You saw me through my rehab. And you were always there for Joy, year in and year out; day in and day out; through the hard times and dull times—unlike yours truly…Clare, all I’m trying to say is…I know you; I know the stuff you’re made of; and I know you won’t give up…”

As Matt’s voice trailed off on the digital line, I sat speechless for almost a full minute.

“Thank you, Matt,” I finally replied. “I mean it.”

“I’ll see you later, okay?”

“Okay.”

As soon as I hung up, I moved myself, my espresso, and my bag stuffed with Brigitte’s papers to an empty café table. With renewed determination, I pulled out the thick wad of wrinkled and dog-eared pages and spread them across the coral-colored marble surface.

Most of the papers were months and even years old—things that should have been tossed—shopping lists, directions, reminders to do this or that chore.

There were recipes here, too, some clipped from magazines, but most handwritten in a flowing, delicate hand. Some were simple fare: a peasant omelet, baby peas
à le française
, a sole
normande
.

Others were detailed instructions for preparing more complex dishes and even entire courses. I found a three-page recipe for
pâté en croute
featuring woodcock, foie gras, and truffles. A lengthy description of how to prepare
ballottine d’agneau
, stuffed and braised shoulder of lamb. Even instructions for a roasted pig stuffed with
boudin noir
and
boudin blanc
, black blood and white veal sausages.

I discovered several newspaper and magazine clippings in the mix—not about Solange, or even food. The articles were all about the New York art scene.

One recent clipping was a page from
Time Out
, advertising a Chelsea gallery exhibit of three new artists, one of them Tobin De Longe. Another clipping from a local paper featured a scathing review of the same show, singling out Brigitte Rouille’s boyfriend for special scorn. Other clippings mentioned De Longe’s artwork. The notices were either neutral or negative.

Finally I found a couple of pages covered with names, phone numbers, and addresses, written at different times with whatever ballpoint, felt-tip, or pencil was within reach at the time. As I scanned the pages, one name jumped out at me. It was written in bold felt-tip and underlined twice:

Nick

“Nick?” I whispered. The address under the name was on Brighton Beach Avenue. I closed my eyes, remembering the shady-looking guy to whom Tommy Keitel had introduced me on the night that Vinny was murdered.
Nick from Brighton Beach,
Tommy had called him. This
had
to be the same man!

“I wonder if Mike’s ever been to Brighton Beach…” I murmured.

“Brighton Beach?” Esther said, overhearing me as she set down a fresh espresso. “Did you just say something about Brighton Beach?”

“Yes…there’s someone there I definitely need to find.” I showed Esther the note with the address. “Part of my investigation for Joy.”

“That’s a coincidence,” Esther said with a tilt of her head.

“What is?”

“Boris is taking me to Brighton Beach tonight.”

Did I miss something?
“Boris?”

Esther nodded. “Boris is taking me to Sasha’s for chicken Kiev and blinis with caviar.”

“Back up, Esther. I thought you were dating some rapper character named Gun. Who’s this Boris?”

Esther rolled her expressive brown eyes. “Same guy. BB Gun is his handle, but his real name is Boris Bokunin.”

“Your boyfriend is a
Russian
rapper?!” I asked excitedly.

“A Russian émigré slam poet and urban rapper,” Esther corrected, raising an eyebrow above her black glasses. “They pretty much broke the mold after they made my Boris.”

My brain was racing now (and I hadn’t even needed the second espresso). I remembered what Mike said about investigating new clues together, emphasis on
together
. But the man wasn’t going to be available until tomorrow morning, and I doubted very much he spoke fluent Russian, anyway.

If Boris was a recent émigré, he probably could. At the very least, he knew his way around the population of eastern bloc expatriates in Brighton Beach, Brooklyn.

There was no time to waste, and now there was no reason to waste it. “Esther.” I took hold of her arm. “Would you and Boris mind if I tagged along on your date tonight?”

Esther gagged. “Boss, puh-lease. I don’t need a chaperone. I told you before, Boris is a good guy, a real gentleman, actually—” She stopped abruptly and covered her mouth. “I can’t believe I just said that.”

“Esther, listen. It’s not that I think
you
need a chaperone. It’s that
I
might.”

“What?” Esther scratched her head. “Okay, now I’m existentially confused.”

After I laid it all out, she told me she would be happy to help.

“Thanks, Esther. I mean it. And listen, I hope I don’t ruin your big date.”

She shook her head. “I’ll smooth things over with Boris. We’ll just hit Sasha’s a little later, after we find your mysterious Nick guy.” She laughed. “Boris is the kind of dude who’s up for anything. He’s a real man of the world.”

I excused myself to go upstairs, splash some water on my face, and check the apartment’s machine for messages. When I returned to the Blend thirty minutes later, Tucker and Dante had already arrived to relieve Gardner and Esther. And Esther was waiting for me at a table with her date. He stood when I approached.

“Clare Cosi, this is Boris Bokunin,” Esther said.

I recognized him as the same wiry, tightly wound dude I remembered from the other night. He was wearing the same spiky blond hair, too, and the same black leather blazer. But his baggy blue jeans and basketball shoes were now replaced with pressed black slacks and black boots. The T-shirt was gone, too. Tonight’s shirt, peeking out from behind the black leather, was a bright red silk number. He stood and removed his sunglasses. He had close-set gray eyes filled with curiosity, a wide nose, and a genuine smile.

I offered my hand, but instead of a simple shake, Boris slapped it, squeezed it, waved his hand around, and slid his fingers along mine, then gave a high five. Finally he tucked his hands into his belt and struck a gangsta pose.

“Clare Cosi, Clare Cosi, a fresh urban posy, a fragrant flower with the power to make the Village rosy,” he rapped. “How you do, how you do, so nice to meet you!”

“Uh, hi,” I replied. “I guess Esther talked to you about my dilemma? I’m so sorry to ruin your date—”

He raised a hand to silence me. “To someone so phat, so perky and tender, I’m proud and glad to have a service to render, for the Cosi, Cosi, the Village posy.”

I glanced at Esther. “Does he do that all the time?”

“You’ll get used to it,” Esther replied with a shrug. Then she grinned. “Now I want you both to make nice while I change clothes in the euphemism.”

I found it very sweet and European the way Boris waited until I sat down before he sank into his own chair.

“So, Boris, what do you do for a living?”

“I’m a baker’s apprentice,” he replied. “It’s a temporary thing, to make the Benjamins. Long term, I’m looking to hit it big in the show biz thing, like Eminem. He da man. He da king. He da boss with da bling.”

Boris slipped his sunglasses back on.

“Esther tells me you have lots of talent. But she didn’t say how you got into this whole rapping thing.”

Boris leaned across the café table. “It started once upon a
long
ago—” He moved his hand through the air. “Back, back when I was in school. See, Clare Cosi, I’m a practical guy. I want to be more than a baker someday. But to get ahead in this world, respect’s what plays.”