French Pressed

Twenty-Three

Purple light illuminated the granite walls of the former Fourth Avenue Episcopal Church. The cathedral was no longer a house of worship. The stained glass windows with religious scenes had been replaced by massive laser light displays that morphed and shifted with the relentless rhythms that filled the century-old sanctuary.

A winding sidewalk outside the entrance to the Gothic structure had once been the path to Sunday services. Now those same stones were buried under the spiked heels and polished loafers of at least one hundred flashily dressed revelers, waiting to be admitted to the club’s inner sanctum.

In recent weeks, this gray stone structure had been rechristened Club Flux. Now there was a new breed of faithful flocking here, the type that willingly followed the leaders of the hip, the trendy, the terminally chic. If this brand-new nightspot was the location of the season, these dedicated pilgrims would line up to adulate.

I, on the other hand, just wanted to get in and out of the darn place as quickly as possible, but the length of the line at the door was irritating beyond belief. Moving past the crowd, I approached the velvet rope. Three bouncers guarded this draping gate, each bigger and tougher-looking than the last.

Seeing them here, it occurred to me that if you put Armani on a trio of football thugs, they still looked like football thugs, only dressed in Armani. I approached the least intimidating linebacker in the group—least intimidating because his shoulders were only broad enough to rival the span of the Brooklyn Bridge, his neck thicker than my waist.

“Hi,” I said, loud enough to be heard over the music. “Could you tell me how long I’ll have to wait on this line? I’m guessing at least an hour?”

I’d just exited a too-warm taxi, and my long gray coat was still unbuttoned. The big man eyed me from the top of my French twist to my green silk heels. The Valentino suit screamed class, and his gaze lingered a long moment on the exquisite emerald necklace, which shouted, “Money, honey!”

If any dame was going to buy up all those four hundred dollar bottles of Cristal inside, it was going to be the one wearing this necklace.

The bouncer winked at me and unlocked the velvet rope, which was exactly what I was banking on. People on the line booed, but not too loudly, since no one wanted to risk being shunned by the Gatekeepers of Gargantua.

After the rope guy moved aside, I strode up to the club’s door, where another WrestleMania candidate held open the slab of heavy oak.

I stepped over the threshold, took off my overcoat, and tried to speak with the woman staffing the coat check, but she cupped her ear and shook her head, pretending not to hear me over the pulsing electronica flowing off the club’s dance floor.

With Madame’s green beaded clutch in my hand, I entered Flux’s massive interior. It appeared exactly as I’d expected: flashing lights and jam-packed bodies writhing to a pounding, relentless beat.

I moved through the crowd, avoiding the central dance floor. A young man jostled me, excused himself, and I realized—as he flashed a toothy Hollywood smile—that this dude was a fairly famous television actor. I searched for other familiar faces, half expecting to see Madame here with her new, “younger” flame (she did say they were going clubbing Saturday. Maybe they’d come out Sunday night, too?).

But the only familiar face I noticed was on the crowded dance floor: Anton Wright, Solange’s owner. He was clad in the same outfit he’d been wearing at the funeral home: a tailored black jacket over a black, open-necked shirt. And he wasn’t alone. The man was dancing with a young woman in a daring red dress.

Oh, damn…another theory shot to hell…

Earlier in the evening, at Keitel’s viewing, I’d suspected Anton was getting a bit too cozy with Faye, but now I could see I’d been wrong. Anton was dancing with this young woman, but he was also touching her suggestively, occasionally kissing her. Clearly, he was interested.

Wright hadn’t seen me in the packed room and probably wouldn’t have recognized me if he had. Nevertheless, I moved quickly along to the largest bar, which was located in approximately the same spot that the church’s altar once stood. It took me a few minutes to push through the milling, thirsty mob and get the attention of a bartender.

“Where can I find Billy Benedetto?” I yelled. “I believe he’s the beverage manager.”

The man nodded. “Billy’s expecting you.”

I frowned. How can he be expecting me? Because of the loud music, it took me a moment to register the fact that the bartender hadn’t asked my name. Obviously, Benedetto was expecting someone else to ask for him. Oh, well. Too bad. I’m in.

“It’s through that door there. It’s unlocked,” the bartender said, pointing to a section of the mirrored wall next to the bar. I saw a knob and turned it; a door swung inward.

“Go to the top of the stairs. Billy’s office is the first door on the left. If you walk into the control booth, you’ve passed it.”

“Got it.” I stepped through the opening, and the door closed behind me.

The dark space was soundproofed, the music muffled to a muted throb. The narrow corridor and the staircase beyond were surreally illuminated by ultraviolet lights, the black walls covered in psychedelic patterns reminiscent of retro sixties pop art.

At the top of the stairs I saw several doors, including the door to the control booth at the end of the dark hall. It was open, and I could see banks of dials and switches for the laser lights and sound system. I found Benedetto’s office easily enough; his name was displayed on the door. I knocked, and a voice boomed.

“Come in!”

I pushed through the door.

The beverage manager’s office was small: a desk and computer, a couple of chairs. One wall held shelves crammed with bottles of all shapes and sizes, many tagged with labels that read Sample Only: Not for Resale. The wall behind the desk was dominated by six full-color monitors, each displaying live security-camera footage from each of the club’s serving stations.

Crowded and tight, the office was further reduced by the impressive girth of its occupant. Billy Benedetto was a large man—at least as large as one of the linebackers outside the club and much bulkier than the lithe Russian bodybuilders at Pedechenko’s banya.

I guessed he was over sixty, but the age thing was iffy. Judging from his bloodshot, sad-sack eyes and the deep lines on his puffy face, Benedetto could easily be a hard-living fiftysomething. Tonight he was swathed in a loose-fitting Hawaiian shirt, decorated with little art deco rocket ships. His gray hair was worn long and tied back in a ponytail. One ear was pierced with a diamond stud.

The second he saw me, Benedetto scowled. But then the man was expecting someone else.

“Who the hell are you?”

Charmed. “I’m Roman Brio’s collaborator.”

The scowl immediately vanished. “Roman Brio, the food writer and restaurant critic?”

“The same. Roman and I are working on a lengthy piece exposing the peccadilloes of Chef Tommy Keitel. You’ve heard, haven’t you, that he—

“Kicked? Bought the farm?” Benedetto’s sad-sack eyes brightened, and his face actually broke into a grin. “Yeah, honey. I heard.”

I noticed the man had been writing on something when I walked into the room. Now Benedetto lifted the item. It was a white label. I watched him affix it to a glossy black envelope, the same size and shape of the envelope I’d seen Tommy open the day he was murdered.

So, I thought, Dornier told me the truth… I was relieved to be on the right track, but a part of me tensed, knowing full well that I might have just placed myself in a room with Keitel’s murderer. But he had a motive to kill Tommy. He’s not going to kill an associate of Roman Brio’s, so just keep up the act, Clare…

“You don’t seem too broken up about the news of Chef Keitel’s demise,” I noted carefully.

Benedetto laughed. “That’s because you didn’t know Tommy like I knew Tommy. Consider yourself lucky. The great chef didn’t live long enough to stab you in the back.”

Benedetto tossed the black envelope aside, leaned back in his chair, and sighed heavily. “So who are you? You work with Brio, but what’s your name?”

“Clare Cosi. I’m here looking for background so Roman can write his piece. He may want to call you, even take you out to dinner. Would that be all right with you?”

Judging from the man’s girth, I figured that was a pretty good carrot. And I wasn’t wrong.

“Well, now,” Benedetto said, lacing his hands over his belly, “this is turning out to be one pleasant weekend. Tommy Keitel gets sliced up like red meat, and I get offered a plate of it. That’s rich!” He tossed his head back and laughed; then his gaze came back to me. “Okay, I’ll bite…What do you want to know about Keitel? I’ve got lots to tell you.”

Benedetto gestured to a chair opposite his desk. I sat down and crossed my legs. Motive. I need the motive…

He regarded me. “Don’t you have a notebook or tape recorder?”

I did my best to channel the amazing BB Gun—“I keep it all up here,” I said, tapping my temple.

The man’s bushy, gray eyebrows rose. “You have that good a memory, eh? Well, all right, here’s something to remember. Tommy Keitel is a son of a bitch who ruined me and my whole family. How do you like that for something to remember?”

“Good. Very good. Please go on…”

“The restaurant he ruined was more than a business. It was three generations of my family’s blood, sweat, and tears.” He held up three sausage fingers to make his point.

“I was born in the apartment above the place. My father died in his bedroom. Now it belongs to a damn health club chain—the house my grandfather built with his own hands.”

He shook his large gray head; the ponytail swayed. “That place was everything to me. When my grandfather died, we needed a new chef. Keitel was that man. We paid his asking price, put a fortune into renovating the place, and it worked. Keitel’s new menus were the talk of the town. People waited for weeks to eat his food. Then one day that arrogant prick woke up and said he was ‘bored’ with cooking Italian and wanted to learn French cuisine instead. On nothing more than a whim, he left me and my family high and dry. What a complete and total asshole. I watched the business my grandfather built wither and die right in front of my eyes. Tommy wouldn’t even sell us his recipes. His contract was ironclad. He owned the recipes. So he took them with him, and the prick never even used them again!”

Benedetto locked his sad eyes onto mine. “The heartbreak killed my mother, God rest her soul. The pressure ruined my marriage, too. I lost everything because of that egomaniac. All I ever wanted out of Tommy was some amends. But do you think he’d give it to me?”

“Give it to you?” Okay, now we’re getting somewhere… “I don’t understand. You weren’t threatening Chef Keitel in some manner, were you?”

“Threaten him!” Benedetto bellowed so loudly I flinched. “You’re damn right, I threatened him!”

I tensed in my chair. Uh-oh. I’d obviously pressed the anger button.

“That son of a bitch was a millionaire! Solange made him famous! All I wanted was a loan, or even just for Tommy to lend his name to a new restaurant I’m trying to open. It was the least he could do. But the prick wouldn’t even answer the phone when I called, had me thrown out by that prissy little maître d’ of his when I paid him a visit.”

I cleared my throat, tried to appear completely calm and cool and unperturbed, which wasn’t easy. This man was shaping up to be the killer—of Keitel, maybe Vinny, too, although I couldn’t imagine the motive there, but if I could keep him talking, who knew what I could get? I was so close now. I didn’t want to blow this.

Just stay on his good side, Clare. He thinks you’re in his corner. Just keep him thinking that.

“Everything you’ve told me is heartbreaking,” I said, shaking my head in sympathy, not unlike Detective Lippert had done with me. “It’s awful what Keitel did to you and your family…”

“Your damn right it’s awful.”

“Roman will be very interested in these details, Mr. Benedetto, but…I must ask. You don’t strike me as the kind of man who would dare take no for an answer, especially from a man as arrogant as Chef Keitel. Didn’t you do anything to drive your point home with him?” Like the point of a knife maybe?

“You have me there, Miss…Cosi, was it?”

I nodded.

“I did something, all right. I wrote to the man.”

“You wrote to him? Is that all? Doesn’t sound like much.”

“What do you mean by that?”

I shrugged. “Just one measly letter?”

Benedetto threw back his head and laughed. “Try twenty-one—at least. I sent the man bills for exactly what he owed me.”

“And did he ever pay up?”

Benedetto grinned, displaying an uneven row of sharp yellow teeth. “He’s dead now. I’d say he’s paid in full.”

My mouth went dry. “Did you kill him?”

“What?”

I leaned forward, put a finger to my lips. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell, but did you…you know…do the deed?”

“What kind of a question is that?” He eyed me warily now. “Are you a cop?”

“No.”

“Well, I don’t like the look in those cat green eyes of yours. I think you should get out of here. Roman Brio can call me if he wants a story. If you really work with him, you tell him to contact me himself. And another thing, nobody gets something for nothing in this world. If Brio wants my Keitel story, then he’s going to have to pay.”

“Pay?”

“Yes. I just got a backer for my restaurant. And when it opens, I expect Brio to be there reviewing it. And I expect a rave.”

“I see.” Brother, this guy’s whole life is about extortion.

“What’s ‘I see’ mean, missy? Do you agree?”

“Sure. What’s the restaurant?”

“You’ll find out soon enough. My backer’s coming up here tonight to finalize the plan.” He glanced at his watch.

“And who is this backer? Does he own other restaurants? Does Roman know him?”

“It’s someone with deep pockets. That’s all you need to know.”

I could tell he wanted me to leave, but this mysterious “backer” story had me intrigued. Benedetto was so open about his past with Keitel. Why clam up now?

“How can you be sure your backer isn’t going to back out?” I pressed.

“Oh, he’s not backing out, missy. This one has to come through for me, or he’s in big trouble. I’ve got something on him. Something big. Something bad. And there’s no way in hell he can afford to cross me now.”

“What do you mean by that exactly? That you have something on him? Because it sounds a little like blackmail.”

Benedetto scowled at me and pointed to the door. “I want you gone right now.”

“But—”

“Do you want me to call my security team?”

I flashed on the linebackers in Armani guarding the velvet gate. “No. I’m going.”

I left the man’s office and descended the stairs.

If anyone was bitter and angry enough to kill Tommy Keitel, I’d just met him. The only thing that niggled at me was the murder of Vincent Buccelli. It didn’t make sense. Yet.

I resolved right then to wait at the bar and watch the mirrored door. If Bendetto’s mysterious backer was going to show, then I was going to wait and see who it was.

I didn’t expect to recognize the person on sight. But my gut told me that if Benedetto wanted Keitel dead, and Keitel ended up that way, then he may have hired someone to do it. And in that case, I wanted to know what this “backer” looked like, if only to be able to recognize him out of a mug shot book.

When I opened the soundproof mirrored door at the bottom of the stairs, the wall of pulse-pounding noise smacked me in the face. Despite the din, I collared the bartender, pointed at a pale blue drink a young woman was dangling in her manicured hand.

“One of those…” I didn’t know what the heck it was, but I liked the color.

The drink came, I paid for my eleven-dollar cocktail, and snagged a stool at the bar, watching and waiting for Billy Benedetto’s mysterious backer to arrive.

Five minutes passed. Then ten. Then fifteen. But not one soul entered that room. While I kept watching the door, I’d been nursing what turned out to be a blueberry martini. After twenty minutes of very slow sips, my tapered glass was finally empty. I was about to order again when a sweet, male voice spoke close to my ear.

“I’d like to buy you another, if I could.”

I turned. Beside me at the bar, a fashionably dressed man at least fifteen years my junior smiled down at me. He was model handsome, far more striking than the Hollywood celebrity I’d collided with earlier. He was tall and tanned with black hair worn slicked back like Wall Street’s Gordon Gekko, only this guy was closer in age to Gekko’s son.

“Simon Ward,” he said, offering me his right hand. I shook it, and he rested his left hand on top of mine. I got the distinct impression he’d done that so I could see the Rolex on his wrist.

“My name’s Clare,” I said.

“Clare.” His smile broadened. “Clare. I like that name.”

Upon second glance, I decided that the man’s tailored suit was much too trendy for a stodgy brokerage house, and he was far too young to be a power player in the financial world, anyway. I figured him for a scion of a wealthy family, some trust fund baby who’d come to the new Club Flux on a lark. New York City was full of that type: young, well-educated, sophisticated urbanites who never had to do a lick of work, unless boredom with partying set in. Why? Because they were smart enough to come out of the right birth canal.

“Now, how about that drink?” he asked.

“I think I may have had enough,” I replied, charmed and somewhat bemused by this too-young man’s attention but also aware that my thoughts were turning edgy. Probably a result of this relentless dance music pounding through my head.

Simon Ward frowned, but the expression of eagerness never left his bright eyes. “Come on, the night is young! Have another drink, on me.”

I sighed. There was still no sign of Benedetto’s backer.

Clearly, I had a stakeout on my hands, and I could almost hear Mike Quinn’s voice: You’re not going anywhere at the moment, anyway, Cosi. So talk to this guy. He’s a good cover. And this bar’s not exactly democratizing its luxury, so let the man pay.

I glanced up at Simon. “Sure. If you’d really like to treat me, why not?”

“That’s the spirit.” He took my nearly empty glass, slid it across the bar, and ordered another.

I managed to avoid his unwavering gaze while we made polite conversation. At one point, I spied a woman at least my age, in a too-daring banana-yellow tank dress with a short skirt and plunging neckline. She was fairly tall and strongly built with severe features, and her ebony hair was slicked back into a tight ponytail. To my surprise, the woman was openly glaring at me.

Whoa, what is her problem? She can’t possibly be jealous. This kid’s not much older than my daughter!

That’s when I remembered Tucker giving me the lowdown on a recent social trend. Tadpoling, he’d called it, insisting older women were hooking up with young men all the time now.

Simon passed me the drink, and our fingers touched. I looked up and met his gaze. His eyes widened, and he took a breath.

“Sorry,” he said, seemingly embarrassed.

“What are you apologizing for?”

“I was struck a little speechless, that’s all,” he replied sheepishly. “Yeah, I know it sounds corny to someone as sophisticated as you obviously are.”

“Excuse me?”

He nodded. “Your beautiful hair, your wonderful clothes…I’m a fashion designer, and I knew from just one look at you that you possessed an impeccable taste—”

I nearly choked on my martini. The irony was hilarious. It wasn’t my taste he was admiring. It was Madame’s. And I had to agree with him on that score. Her taste always had been impeccable.

“Just look at those green emeralds around your neck. See how they shimmer. Do you realize those gems are an exact match for the gorgeous green shade of your bright eyes?”

I gulped a hit of my martini. This guy’s really pouring it on. Has he been drinking excessively?

That’s when I noticed a man finally going through the mirrored doors next to the bar. It wasn’t an employee. And it wasn’t an unknown. The man going in to see Billy Benedetto was Anton Wright.

Anton Wright is Benedetto’s backer.

My God. I’d scored big coming here. Huge. I was now absolutely sure I’d found Keitel’s killer. Benedetto wanted Keitel dead, but I was willing to bet that Anton Wright was in on it somehow, too. What else could Benedetto possibly have on Anton?

I’ll talk to Mike first thing tomorrow, I decided. With his help, I’m sure we can come up with a plan to collar Billy Benedetto and free my baby girl!

A grin split my face, and I felt like celebrating. Simon glanced over, saw my expression. “Hey, now,” he said. “Look at that beautiful smile—”

Just then, someone tapped me hard. I turned. An Amazon of a woman in a dress covered in red rhinestones placed a manicured hand on my shoulder.

“There you are, girlfriend!” she gushed. “I see you’ve hooked up. So have I. But before I go home, I want you to join me in the powder room.”

I blinked, baffled. Did I know her? Was she a customer from the Blend?

I took a closer look at the woman. My goodness, she was large. Was there a WWF for women? If there was, she’d have mopped the floor with every opponent. In her late thirties, she had a longish, slightly horsey oval face, and she wore her very short blond hair in tight curls against her scalp. I didn’t recall seeing her at the Blend, and I certainly would have remembered this Wonder Woman stand-in.

She smiled, batted her heavily made-up eyes.

“Look!” she cried, acting a little tipsy. “There’s my guy, over there.” She clutched my shoulder and pointed insistently.

I looked in the direction of her gesture, and my body froze. The man she’d pointed to was Mike Quinn. The lieutenant was waving at me from across the room.

Mike? I blinked, more than a little confused. What in heaven’s name is going on?