Murder by Mocha (23 page)

This Maya wore more clothing, spandex mainly. With sculpted arms flexed, she clutched a ten-pound weight in each hand. At her Adidas-clad feet sat skin toners and diet powders in packaging bearing her smiling face.

“Excuse me,” I called to a man in a black leotard. He was crouched down low, fiddling with an extension cord. “I need to speak to someone in charge.”

Muscle Man rose to his full height. He wasn’t that big—if you considered the average New York delivery truck. And his craggy middle-aged face wasn’t all that wrong for his hyperpumped frame. (My family scrapbooks contained an old photo of my
nonna
sticking her head through a cut out of Charles Atlas taken at Kennywood Park. There was a surprising resemblance, although Nonna didn’t have a walrus mustache.)

“If you’re the replacement girl, then you’re late,” he snapped.

“Excuse me?”

“What agency sent you over?” he asked, checking me out. “You’re fine, I guess, except for your age ...”

“I’m not a model.”

“Oh! Sorry about that. I’m Vince.” His hand pumped mine. “I thought you were my replacement booth bunny.” He winked, looking me over with a whole new interest level. “One of the three girls I hired bugged out at the last minute, claimed she dyed her skin green and couldn’t get the stuff off. Crazy, huh?”

“Uh...” Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Franco watching us, but he kept his distance, pretended to be checking out the booth’s products.

“So, are you a fan of Maya Lansing? Interested in her stuff?” Vince asked, gesturing to the standee. “She came by yesterday for a meet-and-greet. You should have been here.”

“Really? Did you happen to give Maya an umbrella? A big golf umbrella with your logo on it?”

“I did indeed. But I’m sorry to tell you, honey, those aren’t freebies. They’re for Nutrition Nation associates and national wholesale buyers only. You’re welcome to purchase one online for thirty-five dollars.”

An amplified voice interrupted him. “Vince to the stage, please. Two-minute warning . . .”

“Time for the show. Grab a spot up front.” He winked again. “You’ll get plenty of free samples.”

Vince walked to a raised platform and climbed a few steps, where he picked up a wireless microphone. A recorded drum roll began, and the disco ball over his head spun wildly. Drawn by the drumbeat, a crowd formed and moved to the edge of the stage. I grabbed a front row view before it became impossible. Franco joined me.

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Nutrition Nation, your source for a better body,” Vince said, electronic voice booming.

With the familiar
bink-bink
opening to “Tainted Love” by Soft Cell, the curtains parted and a bevy of svelte women in neon spandex, retro hot-pink leg warmers, and spotless white headbands “dancercised” onto the stage.

“Why are you laughing?” I asked Franco.

“Fond memories,” he said. “My oldest sister’s Jane Fonda workout videos were late-night viewing in my troubled youth.”

“How many siblings do you have, anyway?”

“Too many.” He smiled. “But I love them all.”

For a “hard case,” this guy really did seem to have a soft, chewy center. It gave me hope.

Meanwhile, Vince continued his spiel.

“... and founded in 1980, Nutrition Nation has been helping you reach your personal best for three decades with innovative new products that fit the changing needs of our times.”

The dancing girls dipped for a few push-ups. When they jumped back onto their feet, each clutched a silver-blue candy bar.

“You wonder why bulk-up and nutrition bars taste so bad? So did we! And our answer is a new line of nutrition bars that tastes as good as they work. Containing European-style dark chocolate and a proprietary mix of ingredients, each of our new candy bars target areas of the body with specific nutrients to add bulk and strengthen muscles.”

Franco glanced at me. “Candy bars for bodybuilders?”

“Now we know why they’re at the ICE show.”

“Here to prove how effective the new, delicious Triple-Triceps for Men bars can be, straight from Asgard, home of the Norse gods, it’s the Thor of Triceps!”

A blond bodybuilder clad in fake fur and a ridiculous horned helmet emerged from behind the curtains carrying a huge stone mallet. He flexed his sculpted arms and mugged for the crowd. Behind us, female whoops and wolf whistles erupted. This audience appeared to know this show well—many of its members were wearing smocks and costumes from other show booths.

Vince’s voice boomed once more. “Here to demonstrate the proven results of our new Bionic Biceps Power Bar, straight from his Saxon homeland, it’s the Beowulf of Biceps!”

No more faux fur. Now we got spandex stitched to resemble medieval chain mail. This Beowulf had a long, brown ponytail and clutched a rubber sword that flopped rather limply (in my opinion). The ladies didn’t seem to mind. They applauded and cheered for more.

Unfortunately, the detective at my side didn’t agree. He hid his face behind his hands. “Let me know when this is over.”

“And now, from Mount Olympus, the Sun God has come down to earth to introduce Ultra-Abs for Men. Here he is, shining down on us all... the Apollo of Abs!”

A single spotlight highlighted a third bodybuilder. Clad head to toe in a yellow velvet bodysuit with shiny gold tassels, only Apollo’s face and rock-hard midriff were bare. A crown made of gold plastic flames topped his head, and his long sideburns were dabbled with shiny gold sparkles.

His marblelike abdominal muscles were certainly impressive, but it was Apollo’s face that was unforgettable. In fact, the last time I saw the man who called himself Dennis St. Julian, he was sprawled across a hotel bed, a phony butcher knife sprouting from his well-developed chest.

“That’s him!” I whispered, shaking Franco. “The Apollo of Abs is Dennis St. Julian, the phony corpse from the hotel!”

Franco lowered his hands and peeked at the gyrating male bodybuilder through one squinting eye. “I don’t know, Coffee Lady. That picture in your purse is pretty unspecific where it counts.”

“Open
both
eyes and take a good look. It’s him, I’m sure of it.”

Reluctantly, Franco obeyed. Meanwhile, I unfolded the picture and discreetly displayed it to him.

“Okay, I can see the resemblance around those skinny muttonchops,” he said. “But you don’t have anything near as good as a mug shot so...”

While we debated, the Thor of Triceps disposed of his mighty prop hammer, picked up his bag of sample goodies, and headed for the excited women. The Beowulf of Biceps put down his floppy sword, picked up another goodie bag, and did the same. Both were mobbed in seconds.

“Come on.”

I pulled the detective up onto the low stage, and we quickly approached the Apollo of Abs just as he was picking up his bag of goodies.

“Let me do the talking,” I told Franco.

“Mr. Apollo,” I said. “My associate and I would like a word with you?”

The Sun God took one look at the shining gold shield dangling around Franco’s neck, dropped his goodie bag, and leaped off the stage.

“Stop! Police!” Franco yelled, turning more than a few heads.

So much for your low profile,
I thought.

Of course, the Apollo of Abs kept right on going. The yellow velvet bodysuit with golden tassels elbowed its way through the audience and vanished in the convention floor crowd.

Franco took off after him—and I took off, too.

“Hey, honey!” Vince’s amplified voice bellowed. “Where’s that cop going with my Sun God?”

Franco pulled ahead of me fast, and I lost sight of him. A moment later I heard a familiar cry, this time cut violently short.

Yodel—AAY-eee—YOWWWWLLL!”

Lederhosen pinwheeled over the crowd, then the yodeler crashed into a gourmet jelly bean table. Apollo’s plastic crown rolled along the floor and came to rest on a pixilated rainbow of sugar.

Now I knew how to locate Franco. Follow the chaos!

“So sorry!” I called, racing by the jelly bean–covered Bavarian.

I heard another crash and saw a tray of chocolate-chunk cookies fly into the air. Finally, I spotted Franco, taking a hard right into a big enclosed booth. I followed him, passing under a
Sparta’s Greek-Style Sweets and Snacks, 300 Varieties
(of course) banner. Their logo was even a bearded Leonidas grinning behind his Spartan helmet.

I moved through an aisle displaying boxes of Baklava Bites and Greek yogurt candies when Apollo grabbed me from behind.

The man’s rocklike forearm slammed my face as it hooked around my neck. My nose stinging, I tried to scream, but he couldn’t have that, so he tightened his hold to cut off my air, pulling me back so quickly he nearly gave me whiplash.

As the pressure on my throat increased, my vision began to redden. I could no longer breathe. I tried not to panic, but my fate was terrifyingly clear: if I didn’t do something fast, the Sun God was going to put my lights out.

TWENTY-SEVEN

M
Y arms flailed, clawing at Apollo’s eyes, but he bent backward, just out of reach, lifting short little me in the process.

Great! Now my feet are off the floor!

Trying to break free, I banged my elbows into my captor’s guts, bruising little more than myself (the Sun God really did have incredibly hard abs). When the pressure eased a bit, I realized my backup had backtracked and finally spotted us. I sucked in air when my toes touched the floor. As my vision cleared, I recognized the expression on Detective Franco’s face—pure rage. But the detective quickly masked his anger, approaching us with a calming voice.

“Hey, dude. Stay cool now. The lady and I just want to ask you a few questions...”

Apollo reared backward, lifting me again. “Don’t come any closer!”

Franco stopped midstride. “Easy. Take it easy, okay?” He raised one peaceable hand, spread his fingers wide, showing it was empty while slowly moving the other into his jacket. He was going for the handgun in his shoulder holster!

No!
I thought.
I don’t want anyone shot!

Desperate times, desperate measures! I bent one knee back, bringing the heel of my shoe up as hard as I could. I was aiming to kick Apollo’s shin but missed, connecting instead to a place where the Sun God never shines.

The strongman howled and released me. I dropped to the ground limp as a melted Milk Dud. Maneuvering into a sitting position, I rubbed my bruised nose. My hand came away red.

That bastard gave me a bloody nose! Okay, now I’m pissed!

While Apollo danced away, clutching his groin, Franco jumped over me, body-slamming the bodybuilder.

Thank you, Detective!

Both men stumbled backward and crashed into a huge plastic bin of yogurt-covered pita chips, which scattered like ice-covered leaves. Apollo got back to his feet and threw the first punch.
Big mistake.
Franco easily dodged the telegraphed blow, grabbed Apollo’s wrist, and used the man’s momentum to slam him down into the carpet of white pita chips. The bodybuilder hit the floor with a deliciously satisfying crunch.

Still gripping Apollo’s fingers, Franco straddled the big man and twisted his arm behind his back, punishing the fingers until Apollo howled again.

“Leave me alone!” the Sun God bellowed. “I didn’t do anything!”

“You ran from an officer of the law,” Franco calmly replied, “and then you put your big yellow hands on this nice Coffee Lady, which hasn’t exactly put the officer in a
sunny
frame of mind.”

Franco ground the bodybuilder’s nose into the crunchy white chip carpet. The smell of sugary yogurt rising from the floor became cloying. Apollo seemed to go limp in surrender, but when Franco reached for his handcuffs, the Sun God started struggling again. In response, the detective bent Apollo’s fingers until the man with perfect abs screamed like a little girl.

“Don’t hurt him!” yelled an actual girl.

I recognized the voice. It belonged to my long-lost Blond in Black—and her familiar deer-in-the-headlights expression was back on full display.

Apollo spit pita. “Get—PHAAACK—out of here, Vanessa!”

But the woman did not budge, even when I got to my feet and stepped up to her. Despite my bloody nose, she recognized me instantly.

“I know you!” she cried, pointing.

“Right back at ya,” I said, ignoring the throbbing bruise that was my face. Pulling up the bottom of my henley, I tried to staunch the bleeding.

Apollo lifted his head, his face half coated with the clownish white of crushed yogurt.

“Don’t talk to them,” he warned the blonde.

“That wouldn’t be polite,” Franco said, pulling the man to his knees. “Not after all the trouble we went through to meet you.”

Several members of the Javits Convention Center’s security team moved in, Taser guns at the ready. When Franco flashed his shield, I could see the relief on their faces. One guard informed Franco that an NYPD sector car was on the way. Then they retreated a respectable distance to execute “crowd control.”

“We can share here or at the precinct,” Franco told the bodybuilder. “Let’s start with your name, Dennis—”

“Who’s Dennis? I don’t know who you’re talking about—”

Franco interrupted with a loud, theatrical sigh, eyes directed at the heavens. “No cooperation. What’s a Boy Scout to do?” With his free hand, Franco patted Apollo down and found a wallet tucked into his velvet bodysuit.

“Hey!” Apollo protested.

“Oops, looks like your wallet fell during our scuffle, Mr. St. Julian,” Franco said innocently. “Let me retrieve it for you.”

“My name is Talos, Troy Talos. I don’t know anyone named Dennis!”

“Well Mr. Talos, Troy Talos, you’ve got a whole lot of business cards with the name ‘Dennis St. Julian’ printed on them.” Franco continued rifling the wallet. “Ho, ho! And what’s this? A parole card from the state of California. Wonder if the board knows you’ve traveled out of state? And did you stop by the NYPD and declare your status as a parolee?”

Troy cursed.

Franco shook his head. “Nah, I didn’t think so.” He glanced at Vanessa. “Are you a parolee, too?”