Once Upon a Grind (37 page)

A
FTER
splashing water on my face and grabbing a bottle of orange juice from the lab fridge, I asked to borrow Dr. Pepper's office. There I looked up a single fact on the Internet. It confirmed my theory, and I called Mike Quinn.

He answered on the third ring. (I'd forgotten he was in Los Angeles, where it was two in the morning.) “Hey, sweetheart, is something wrong? Isn't it too early for you to be opening the shop?”

“This may sound like a crazy line of questioning—”

“From you?” Quinn yawned. “Nah.”

“Sarcasm noted. Now please listen. In the last month or so, has Leila asked you what sort of evidence police looked for in a sexual assault case?”

“Yeah . . .” He paused and I heard him moving to sit up. “She asked exactly that question. It was about two months ago. After we brought Molly and Jeremy home from our camping trip.”

“What did you tell her?”

“
Physical evidence.
DNA is the trump card. It establishes whatever happened was beyond casual contact.”

“You're talking bodily excretions, right?”

“Ideally, yes.”

“Now why would Leila grill you about something like that? You told me she couldn't stand hearing about your police work. When you two were married, she asked you not to bring it home—or even talk about it.”

“She was vague, claimed she was curious, something she saw in the news.” Mike paused. When he spoke again, his tone was wary. “Where are you going with this?”

I took a breath, not sure how he was going to take this development. But when I laid out my theory, he agreed with my conclusions.

“Clare, you have to go to Franco with this. He'll see it to the end”—Mike took a difficult breath—“no matter where it leads . . .”

I knew this wasn't easy for him, but lives were on the line, and we both knew it. We said our good-byes and I rang Sergeant Franco. He didn't answer right away, but at least he was awake. I heard the shower running in the background.

“Yeah?”

“It's Clare.
Do not
press assault charges against Matt!”

Even without the huff and puff, Emmanuel Franco's sigh of relief could have blown a house down. “Understood,” he said. “But we still don't know who the killer is.”

“Yes. We do . . .” I laid out the facts and told Franco my plan. “We're going to put Wilson's idea in play, but we'll do it right. We'll use Matt as bait with the full backing of the NYPD. If you and Quinn can sell my theory to Endicott's superiors, he'll have to go along.”

“He will,” Franco assured me. “The ADA is already nervous about the lack of physical evidence. And Endicott and Plesky were so certain that Matt was a drug addict, they practically promised a confession under pressure.”

“And?”

“And all they got was an overcaffeinated prime suspect—and a protracted lecture on the proper maintenance of the precinct's coffee machine. Matt's warning about mold got the night guys so rattled they sent out for vinegar.”

M
Y
conversations with Mike and Franco left me feeling hopeful for the first time in days.

After thanking Dr. Pepper, I left the lab and grabbed a cab back to my coffeehouse, where I pulled myself a double espresso (with
non
magical beans, thank you very much), found a chair by the French doors, and watched the predawn sky for signs of sunrise.

Over the next few hours, I dealt with the bakery delivery, opened the shop with Dante, and pulled espressos like a machine through the
AM
crush. By ten thirty, the October morning was cloudy with a chance of rain.

The sun looked weak and so did I.

“Boss, you okay?” Dante asked. “You seem a little wobbly.”

“More than a little,” Nancy seconded, tying on her apron. She put a hand on my shoulder. “Go upstairs and take a rest. Dante and I can handle lunch rush.”

I smiled as I hung up my apron, grateful for my great staff. As I started for the back staircase, my cell phone vibrated. It was Franco giving me one more thing to be thankful for: Matt would be released from police custody by noon.
Yes!

Quinn's early morning call to Endicott's lieutenant—laying out my theory and Wilson's involvement—worked magic.

Now Franco, Wilson, and members of Quinn's OD Squad would put together an operation using a wired-up Matt as bait to entrap our murderer. There would be plenty of safeguards, according to Franco, including officers ready to shoot to kill, if necessary.

“Can I be there?” I pleaded.

“I don't know, Coffee Lady. There's loads of prep work ahead. I'll call you back.”

“Okay but
please
keep me informed.”

“Will do . . .”

Unfortunately, the higher I moved up the service stairs, the lower my spirits sank. The sting operation sounded like a good idea, but things could still go wrong. Whether I wanted to face it or not, Matt's life remained in jeopardy—and it was me who'd put it there.

When my cell phone vibrated again, thirty minutes later, I thought it was Franco or even Mike Quinn. Instead, it was
Jeremy
Quinn texting me.

Home sick from school. Found something in Mom's room. Belongs to Anya. It's bad, Aunt Clare. Please come. Come right away!

I read and reread the cell phone screen.
What could he have found?

The last time Jeremy contacted me, Penny had dug up Anya's golden key. Now he'd found something else, something in Leila's bedroom. But what?

Could it be something that would nail our killer? Something that would save Matt from having to risk his safety, maybe even his life?

With hope, I texted back—

Coming right now. Don't leave the apartment. And don't tell your mother!

Jeremy's reply was immediate—

Mom shopping. Will leave front door unlocked. Hurry!

*   *   *

M
Y
body was still bone-tired, my nerves frayed, but I was on the edge of the cab seat all the way uptown.

Thunder cracked open the sky as I raced into Leila's Park Avenue lobby. Shaking off the rain, I greeted the doorman, and hurried into the elevator.

Upstairs, I found the apartment door unlocked, as Jeremy promised. I closed it behind me and moved quietly down the hall. But as I approached the keyhole archway, I froze.

Leila was back.

I heard her voice speaking at length about a pair of shoes she was “lusting after.” I waited but no other voices spoke.

Is she on the phone?

With a few more steps, I peered carefully beyond the archway.

As usual, Leila's prized vanity mirror stood on its pedestal, the ornate gold-and-silver frame reflecting part of the fashionably sparse beige room and wall of rain-streaked windows. Inside the mirror's polished glass, I saw Leila's reflection but no one else's.

Moving all the way into the room, I realized my mistake.

Samantha Peel sat in a far corner chair, back to the wall, with an imperious view of the rectangular space. She wasn't dressed for a safari today. The long-legged brunette was clad in a somber black pantsuit, flowing hair in a tight bun, her only jewelry a chunky ring. She looked ready for a funeral, and I feared it was going to be mine.

The socialite's smile seemed inviting, but that warmth did not thaw her icy stare. “Hello, Clare,” she said.

Our eyes met and the charade was over.

Not so for clueless Leila. “Clare?” she spat as if the word were a vulgarity. “What in the world are
you
doing here?”

“Where are the children?” I quickly asked.

“Why?” Leila snapped. “Do you want to take them to the park and
lose
them again?”

“Answer me!”

“For heaven's sake, Molly's downstairs visiting a friend. She doesn't have school today, but Jeremy does and that's where he is—”

Which means his mobile phone is right here in this apartment because his school doesn't allow them. And that's how Samantha lured me up here.

“Leila, I need you to come with me,” I said. “You have to hurry. Where's Penny?”

“At the dog groomers—” Leila began to rise.

“Sit down. You're not going anywhere. Either of you.”

From her corner throne, Samantha Peel had already pulled the gun from her handbag. As lighting flashed across the New York skyline, she pointed the barrel directly at me.

L
EILA
laughed at the sight of a gun pointed in my direction. “What are you trying to do, Sam, solve all of my headaches with one bullet?”

“Shut up.” Samantha rose and gestured to the sofa. “Sit down, Clare. Beside Leila.”

“Sam, really.” Leila's hands went to her hips. “Stop joking around.”

“Did I not tell you to SHUT UP!”

“But we're friends!” Leila's tone was confused, almost plaintive. “You told me if I hired Anya, you would help me!”

That statement certainly fit in with my theory. But there was one thing I didn't know. “Tell me the truth, Leila, were you in on this, too?”

Mike's ex-wife gawked at me. “In on what?”

“On putting Anya in a coma and framing Matt for it?”

Leila's jaw dropped. “Clare, what are you talking about?! Sam told me Dwayne Galloway slipped Anya a date rape drug. She said the police were protecting him!” Leila turned to Sam. “Right?”

Sam shook her head. “Leila, you are just too stupid to live.”

Eyeing the gun, I swallowed my panic and gave reasoning a try. “You can't get away with this, Samantha. The doorman saw me come in.”

“Of course he did!” Sam laughed. “That's part of my narrative. You see, Clare,
you
figured out that
Leila
was the killer. You came to confront her. You fought and in the struggle you killed each other.”

“Except the doorman saw you come up here, too,” I snapped back. “So the police will know you did it!”

“No, they won't, because the doorman didn't see me. What he saw was a blond maid go to another floor, the same maid who established that pattern for the last two weeks. My uniform, wig, and glasses are sitting in the stairwell. I'll be putting them on before I leave through the back service exit. And any physical evidence they find of me in this apartment can be explained quite easily because”—she smirked—“I'm such a
good friend
of Leila's.”

Leila stepped toward her. “Stop this! Right now—”

Samantha's hard kick slammed Leila's stomach. With a cry of shock and pain, she doubled over and fell back onto the couch.

“Killing us won't help,” I cried, shielding Leila. “The police know.”

Sam's eyes narrowed. “And how do they know?”

“Because I know,” I assured her. “I know
everything
.”

Sam shook her head. “Bluffing won't work, Clare, you don't know shit.”

“I know Stuart Packer, the Wall Street Wolf, is your ex-husband—easy enough to discover on the Internet, once I actually looked it up. I know you made a deal with Anya to entrap your ex-husband in a bogus sexual assault lawsuit. I assume, like Leila here, you had a prenuptial agreement that stuck in your craw?”

I turned to Leila. “Isn't that what Samantha promised you? If you hired Anya and made her look like a legit mother's helper, she'd help you run the same kind of sexual assault scam on your rich, soon-to-be ex-husband?”

“Yes.” Leila avoided my eyes. “That's why I hired Anya. I wanted to learn from what they were doing. I wanted to do the same thing to Humphrey.”

I met Samantha's stare. “But your plan wasn't working, was it? Not after your ex-husband's bodyguard terrorized Anya. He spoke fluent Russian, which made it all very convincing when he threatened to have her mother killed. So Anya went to you in tears and said she wanted out of the bogus lawsuit.”

Sam's eyes flashed with the lightning outside. “Anya was weak and stupid.”

“But you couldn't kill her, right? If you killed Anya, the lawsuit would disappear. And I assume you provided her with some kind of incriminating physical evidence?”

“That's right,” Sam smugly admitted. “Stuart forgot about a specimen we'd stashed in a fertility center. He stopped paying the bills from the clinic, but I didn't. I bribed a worker to get me his specimen without any paperwork, and then I closed the account to avoid scrutiny. That stupid Russian bitch used all I had!”

“Which is why Anya's backing out was devastating,” I went on. “All your hard work and planning would come to nothing, until you came up with the perfect solution—the
Goldilocks
solution. You knew Anya's height and weight because you hired the models for the Central Park Festival. With that information you created a ‘Goldilocks' dose of your sleeping drug. You injected Anya in the Ramble. That's why you arranged to have Matt Allegro be her Prince Charming. You needed someone to take the fall.”

“With his drug history, Allegro fit the frame perfectly,” Sam admitted, almost proudly. “I thought my plan was perfect, too—until you started sniffing around like a mongrel dog.”

“I wasn't the only one sniffing,” I told her. “A CIA agent thought it was worth his time, too.”

Sam's confident expression faltered. “What do you know about that?”

“The drug you used on Anya was also used to assassinate a CIA agent named Faith years ago—and then
frame
a KGB operative named Vasily Petrovus for her murder.”

“
Who
told you that?!” she demanded.

I ignored the question. “And let's not forget, you killed Red because she knew too much. You needed drugs to remix that potion Petrovus taught you to synthesize all those years ago. So you paid Red to provide your chemistry set. Since her parents own a pharmacy, it was easy. But when Anya turned vegetable, Red figured out who did it and how—”

“Don't talk to me about that stupid Russian whore!” Sam cried. “She didn't even try to blackmail me. She just wanted the antidote so she could wake her friend. Red learned the hard way, there
is
no antidote.”

“But there is
the truth
,” I said evenly. “And the true narrative is out there. The police know it. The CIA knows it. So you might as well give yourself up. Killing us will only add two more murders onto your sentence.”

“We'll see what the
‘true narrative'
is once both of your bodies are discovered,” Sam said.

That's when I saw it, the Predatory smile.

As the clouds around us rumbled their threats, I saw exactly what kind of monster lived within Sam's slick façade—the She-Wolf, a killer who relished the planning and stalking as much as she did the striking down.

“You see, Clare, I learned my tradecraft well.
Always have a backup plan.
The charges aren't sticking to Allegro? Fine. Here's another fairy tale: ‘Once upon a time,' many years ago, a pretty teenaged model named Leila Carver became a member of the underground club. The authorities will declare her the killer once they find your bodies, along with more of the drug I've already hidden in Leila's bedroom and key pieces of evidence linking her to all of my crimes.”

“Now . . .” Samantha waved impatiently. “Let's end this, because if one of Leila's brats comes through that door, they're dead, too—and you wouldn't want that, would you?”

I cast about looking for a weapon,
something
to fight back with. I considered rushing her, but Samantha was too far away. The second she saw me moving, I'd be eating bullets.

“You first, Clare. Hold out your arm. I promise, the drug is a less painful way to die than five bullets to the stomach—”

Suddenly, a door slammed shut and we all froze.

Someone had entered the apartment. A moment later, I heard little feet pounding down the hallway as a young voice called out—

“Mom! I need an umbrella!” Then Mike's daughter burst happily into the living room. “Becky's mother is taking us to the museum, and I want to—”

Eyes wide, the child stopped dead as Samantha swung the handgun toward her.