Клео Коул - Holiday Grind

I blinked, still absorbing this revelation. “I remember when you first applied to work here, Vicki. You told me you had hostess and barista experience, but you never said your dad owned the place.”

She shrugged. “I thought it would look better if I didn’t mention that Daddy gave me a job seating guests and making espressos. I mean, it worked, didn’t it? You hired me.”

And very nearly fired you , I thought but didn’t say.

That’s when I remembered checking Vicki’s references—an older woman at a Staten Island number had sung her praises over the phone. Had that been her mother? Well, it didn’t matter now. I remembered Alf telling me that he was a reformed alcoholic. He’d confessed he’d had to live in the New York shelter system for a few weeks earlier this year. But the only thing he’d told me about his old life was that his marriage failed after he lost his income and life savings.

“So you see now, Ms. Cosi? That’s why Omar Linford had my dad killed,” Vicki declared, staring at me as if I were supposed to follow her logic.

I shook my head.

“Dad never paid Linford back. Not one red cent.”

I took a breath. “Listen, I understand how upset you are, but it’s common knowledge that restaurants are a risky business venture. More of them fail than succeed. Bankruptcy isn’t uncommon. This next-door neighbor of yours—this Linford—he had to be aware of the risk going in.”

“Linford isn’t some bank. He operates outside the law.”

“Is he a loan shark, Vicki? Is that what you’re saying? Because if this man is involved with organized crime, we should contact the FBI.”

“No. He’s not a gangster, Ms. Cosi, at least not the kind the FBI bug and take photos of and stuff. The loan looked legit. It was drawn up by Linford’s lawyer—but it was made through one of his business accounts in the Cayman Islands.”

“So?”

“The Cayman Islands! Hello! Tax cheat heaven. Home of crooked investment bankers and laundered drug money. Linford even lives there for part of the year!”

“That still doesn’t mean Mr. Linford is a killer. Your dad never mentioned any of these things to me. Did this man Linford ever actually threaten your father—with a phone call or note, anything like that?”

“Nothing I can prove. But I’m sure Linford is involved in my father’s murder—” Tears sprang into her eyes and the pitch of her voice turned almost heartbreakingly desperate. “I’m afraid he’s going to go to my mother next, force her to sell our house or something, you know? Pay up or the same thing will happen to her.”

I exchanged worried glances with Esther. “Has this man contacted your mother? Threatened her?”

“No, but he might. He might even come after me, use me in some way to force her to pay the debt!”

“You told Detective Franco all this?”

“He said he’d ‘follow up’ on it,” she said, again using air quotes. “But I could tell he thought I was just paranoid, that Dad’s killer was just some random mugger, not part of a conspiracy or something. He kept looking over at that other guy—the Chinese cop, Detective Kong.”

“Hong,” I corrected.

“Whatever.” She threw up her hands. “Look, they were both nice and polite and everything on the surface, but I could tell they thought what I was saying was dubious. That’s why I need you, Ms. Cosi. You and Daddy were friends. I need someone to help who actually cares.”

I checked my watch, remembering that Mike had mentioned he was going to speak with Franco’s partner and give me an update on the case. But I hadn’t heard from him since we’d parted this morning. Alf’s case was an NYPD matter now; the next move on solving it was really Sergeant Franco’s and Detective Hong’s.

Sergeant Franco , I muttered to myself, recalling the man’s insufferably condescending attitude. Sergeant Franco...

By rights, I should have been fine with letting the professionals handle this and persuading Vicki to do the same. If nothing else, the conventions of modern life—from pushbutton pod coffeemakers to the 24/7 media—wanted us all to act like nothing more than passive observers. After leaving my fine arts program to have a baby, however, I never considered myself a passive anything.

“These cops will never catch Daddy’s killer,” she said, taking hold of my arm. “I’m begging you, Ms. Cosi. Check out this Linford guy. Please. Do it for my dad—”

“Okay, Vicki,” I said, quieting the nerve-racked girl. “I’ll look into it. I will. I’ll see if I can find something that will get the NYPD to take you seriously—”

Or else get you to calm down and see that you’re wrong.

Vicki nodded enthusiastically. I didn’t know yet what I was going to do, but seeing the relief on the girl’s face made me believe I’d at least said the right thing.

As I gave her another hug, I glanced at the occupied tables around us. Professional journalists regularly canoodled with their laptops in coffeehouses all over this city, and mine was no exception. The accusations Vicki made—naming Linford so loudly as her dad’s killer, pleading with me so emotionally to get involved—weren’t exactly the kind of thing I’d want to read about in tomorrow’s tabloids.

But the few people with laptops were absorbed in their work, and I knew them as regulars—two NYU undergrads, a young lawyer from a nearby firm, and a doctor from St. Vincent’s Hospital up the street. There was only one person looking our way: that gorgeous thirtysomething redhead who’d nearly run me over the previous night at the Blend’s front door.

She was sitting alone, a few tables away, nursing a latte, her scarlet curls framing high cheekbones draped in porcelain, her doll-like eyes staring openly at me. She was studying me with such intense interest that I wondered if she wanted to talk.

Maybe she actually wants to apologize for her rude behavior?

I deliberately met the woman’s eyes to see if she would gesture me over—but she immediately looked away.

I let it go.

I doubted very much that she was any kind of writer or reporter. The previous times I’d seen her in here it was never with a laptop, PDA, or work of any kind. Travel brochures, exclusive catalogs, and high-end fashion magazines were all I’d ever seen her paging through as she nursed a drink.

Socialite. Trust fund baby. Trophy wife —any or all of these ungenerous labels were what I affixed to the woman in the banks of my memory, and I dismissed her interest as either boredom or some sort of imagined vendetta she now had against me for our momentary confrontation the night before.

Great, that’s all I need in my life: an aging Paris Hilton with a sociopathic grudge.

Meanwhile, Vicki was explaining to me that she had to leave. “I have to meet with Brother Dominick about Dad.”

“Alf had a brother in the city?”

“Not that kind of brother. My dad didn’t have any siblings. His parents are dead, too. Brother Dominick was Dad’s boss at the Traveling Santa headquarters—”

“He’s a Catholic monk?”

“He used to be. His first name’s really Pete, but all the guys playing Santa call him ‘Brother,’ even though he left the order years ago. Anyway, Brother Dom is the one making arrangements for my dad’s funeral.”

“Why isn’t your mom doing that?”

“Mom doesn’t want any part of it,” Vicki said, a little bitterly. “I doubt she’ll even show.”

“Oh,” I said, pausing as that sank in. “Well, don’t be too hard on her, Vicki. When a marriage breaks up, it can be painful. Your mom’s probably still focused on her anger, and she may even be in denial. The grief for your dad will come in time.”