Клео Коул - French Pressed

“Does that mean this gang’s operating beyond the Sixth Precinct?”

Mike nodded. “Lower East Side, Soho, and here in the Village.”

“I guess that makes sense…I mean, those are the hot spots for nightlife.”

“Three clubs seem to be favorite locations for this gang,” Mike said. “We’ve got personnel undercover, posing as nightclub customers.”

“You have them well-dressed, I assume. Flashing cash and jewelry? Looking clumsy and drunk, like easy marks?”

“You got it, Cosi.” Mike smiled. “Didn’t I tell you to sign up for the Police Academy?”

“You know I’m way too old for that, Detective. I may be a long way from December, but I’m definitely pushing September. Are women getting hit on as victims in these nightclubs or just men?”

“Women and men. Both have been targets.”

“But you haven’t had any bites yet?”

The smile left Mike’s eyes; he glanced into his cup. “Nothing.”

“That’s not unusual, is it? I mean, you just started your operation…”

“The robberies are getting more violent: pistol whipping, choking to unconsciousness.” He frowned, looked away, sipped more coffee. “If we don’t tag a lead quickly, I’m concerned we’ll be looking at homicides.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Maybe you should use me as a decoy.”

“I have a lot of plans for using you, Cosi. None involve setting you up as bait for a confidence sting.”

“Okay, fine…as long as one of your plans involves those handcuffs of yours.” I put my wrists together in front of me, hoping to lighten his mood again. “Did I mention the bed upstairs is a four-poster?”

My little joke seemed to perk up Mike faster than another hit of Sunshine. He smiled, rubbing his chin, but he wasn’t taking the bait where the handcuffs were concerned.

“So tell me how your little investigation ran?” he asked, pointedly changing the subject, which was probably smart, considering we had zero time to act on the other subject.

“My investigation?” I knocked back more coffee, refilled my mug.

“Come on, Clare. You mentioned going to Joy’s restaurant tonight, and I know you didn’t choose it for the ambiance. You went to check up on your daughter, right?”

“Right. I admit it. Wasn’t that easy? And you didn’t even have to beat it out of me.”

“Well? How did it go?”

“Not very well, I’m sorry to tell you.”

“Why not?”

Mike’s brow knitted as I recounted my evening, from the schizoid dinner of perfect food and lousy coffee to my daughter being threatened by a knife-wielding, probably drug-addled sous-chef. When I finally finished, he leaned forward, his mouth tight.

“And where was the great Tommy Keitel during all of this?”

“He was missing in action. Joy says he’s been disappearing a lot lately, and tonight I saw it for myself. This executive chef came in after dinner service was over—and with this creepy guy named Nick in tow.”

“Creepy how?”

“His demeanor, I guess. I mean, I’ve seen all types in the Village, believe me, but this guy was hard-core intense. His skin was extremely pale, and his brown hair was longish, but not in a trendy way. It just hung there, you know? And he was dressed all in black—which, again, isn’t exactly atypical for New York. But these clothes weren’t in the least fashionable. He didn’t utter a word to me, even after we were introduced, and he wore these pointy boots and a black leather blazer, the kind the outer-boroughs guys wear.”

I suddenly thought of Esther’s boyfriend. BB Gun had been wearing a black leather blazer that was a lot like Nick’s.

“Anything else you remember?” Mike asked.

“Yeah. When Tommy introduced me to Nick, he said the man was from Brighton Beach.”

“Brighton Beach, huh? That area of Brooklyn is full of Russians.”

“So?”

“So it’s a long way from Manhattan. Why’s Keitel hanging with a guy like that?”

“I can’t imagine.”

“Yes, you can, Clare. The black leather blazer’s a popular rag with the wiseguys. Do you know if Keitel owns his restaurant?”

“He doesn’t.” I related what I’d overheard during Brigitte’s meltdown. “One of the men on the staff loudly reminded Brigitte that she was under contract just like Tommy Keitel.”

“So.” Mike paused, put down his cup. “Tommy doesn’t own the restaurant. Which means he answers to an owner—or owners. And restaurants like Solange aren’t cheap. Starting a place like that must cost a cool million—”

“Six.”

“No.”

“Yeah. David Mintzer told me it costs around six million to get a-two-hundred seat restaurant off the ground in midtown Manhattan. And to maintain it, the cost is something like five to eight hundred dollars per square foot per month, just for rent.”

Mike whistled. “I guess that’s why a martini in those joints costs eighteen bucks.”

“And a lamb chop is forty-four. Yeah, that’s why.”

“Well, there you go,” Mike said. “The picture seems clear enough to me.”

“What picture?”

“Put the pieces together, Clare. Somebody with big money is backing Tommy’s restaurant. Tommy goes missing from dinner service. Nobody knows why or where he’s gone. Then he shows up late with some creepy guy in wiseguy rags from Brighton Beach—”

“You’re saying Nick’s attached to the Russian mob? That Tommy got his financing by way of some corrupt gangsters from the eastern bloc?”

Mike leaned back, folded his arms. “You know and I know the Italian mob has a long history of funding food-related businesses in New York. They practically owned the Fulton Fish Market before Giuliani cleaned it up. And where the Italians have lost ground, the Russians have been moving in to take it up.”

“I don’t know…” I shook my head. “Mob or no mob, the problem from my point of view isn’t Tommy and his backers. I mean, factoring out the man’s recent neglect of his responsibilities, the real danger to my daughter is Brigitte Rouille, and that’s all I care about…”

I stood up and began to pace the small kitchen. “If I could just find some way into that restaurant, I could keep an eye on things, make sure Brigitte doesn’t freak on my daughter again…Maybe I could even help the woman…get her to admit she has a drug problem…”

Mike cleared his throat. “Uh, Clare…” He lifted his coffee cup and pointed to it.

“What?” I stopped pacing. “You want a refill?”

“No.” He laughed. “I mean… yes , I’d love more. But that wasn’t my meaning.”

“Excuse me?”

“Didn’t you tell me Solange’s coffee was abysmal? You said it tasted like…What was it?”

“Mississippi swamp mud. Although I’ve never actually tasted mud from the mighty Mississippi, so it’s technically an unfair comparison.”

“And didn’t you help out David Mintzer this past summer? Setting up the coffee service at his new Hamptons restaurant?”

“Yeah, sure.” I shrugged. “I roasted blends especially for his place, created a coffee and dessert pairings menu, and—Oh, yes! I see where you’re going! I can do the same thing for Solange!” I started pacing again. “Tomorrow, I can go back. I can make a sales pitch to Keitel and Dornier!”

“Dornier? Who’s Dornier?”

“Napoleon Dornier is Solange’s maître d’ and wine steward.” I folded my arms and tapped my chin, thinking aloud. “Since he’s responsible for the front of the house, he’s got as much say in the beverage service as Keitel, so if I can’t persuade Tommy, I’ll work on Nappy. He struck me as a prideful man. I can’t imagine he thinks it’s a good idea to poison a customer’s palate at the end of a meal with crap coffee.”