Клео Коул - French Pressed

“What’s up?”

“My guys couldn’t find Benedetto at his apartment, so they started checking the clubs where he worked. They finally found the man about thirty minutes ago—or his corpse, anyway.”

“What do you mean his corpse ?”

“He’s dead, Clare.”

“Benedetto’s dead?” I rose from the table, paced the room, tried to process this. “Benedetto’s dead? Benedetto’s dead!” Finally, I stopped pacing and faced Mike. “Where was he killed? Which club?”

“Club Flux. They found him in his upstairs office.”

“And how was he killed, Mike?”

“That’s the bizarre part. Someone slipped the man a Mickey. They found a half-empty bottle of champagne with two glasses. There are traces of the drug in Benedetto’s glass. They’re dusting for prints now.”

“The drug killed him?”

Mike shook his head. “When Benedetto passed out, the killer slit his throat.”

“Another murder with a knife ?”

“Listen, Clare, I want you to think about your meeting with this guy. Did you pick up anything from Benedetto, any lead on who might have wanted him dead?”

“Billy Benedetto said he was expecting a backer. This mysterious backer was going to put up money for Benedetto’s new restaurant. The reason, according to Billy, was that he had something on this guy—and it sounded to me like—”

“Blackmail?” Mike said.

“Anton Wright!”

“What?”

“The owner of Solange! That’s who I saw go up to see Benedetto after I left him, which means Benedetto had something incriminating on Anton Wright. ‘Something big. Something bad.’ Those were his very words.”

“What did he have, Clare? What’s your theory?”

“I believe Billy and Anton conspired to kill Tommy Keitel. Anton’s a polished entrepreneur now, but Keitel told me the man started out in life as the son of a butcher—so he must have had knife skills.”

“You think Anton was the one who stabbed Tommy Keitel to death. And he did this for or with Billy Benedetto—”

“Yes, Billy had a very strong motive to want Tommy dead. But then Billy must have turned on Anton and blackmailed him. Anton obviously decided to get rid of blackmailing Billy by drugging him and slashing his throat. I can’t prove it yet, but I’m sure I’m right.”

“Murder needs a motive, Clare. And while your scenario gives a motive to Anton Wright for killing Benedetto—if he was in fact blackmailing Anton for some reason—it doesn’t answer the motive in the murder of Tommy Keitel. It comes down to a simple question. Why would Anton Wright want to kill Tommy Keitel?”

“Motive, motive…” I drummed my fingers on the tabletop. “Why would Anton kill Tommy?”

“He wouldn’t. Tommy was the jewel in the Solange crown. No sane man throws away a jewel, Clare. He goes to great lengths to hold on to it.”

Mike paused just then; his blue eyes met my green ones, held them for a long, sweet, unnervingly suggestive moment, and I got the distinct impression that he wanted us to remember the emeralds from last night, the one’s I’d worn naked while we—

I cleared my throat. Any thoughts in that direction weren’t going to solve Tommy’s murder and free my daughter.

“I’ve got no answer for Anton Wright’s motive, Mike. I’ll grant you that. But Anton and Tommy were feuding about something. So I’m not clearing him off my suspect list. Not yet.”

Mike nodded, sipped his coffee, and smiled inappropriately—probably at my use of the term suspect list .

“What’s with you, Lieutenant? Half the time when I talk to you about my theories, I catch this little smile on your face. Do I amuse you?”

Mike leaned back. “You really want me to answer that?”

“No.” I rolled my eyes, glanced at the clock. “Listen, I better get dressed and get out of here. I want to shower and change back at the Blend. Then I have to go up to Joy’s apartment, pick up some of her clothes and personal items. She should be out of jail today, and she’ll be coming back to the Blend to stay with Matt and me until her trial. Even if the judge doesn’t put her under house arrest, I’m guessing she’ll just want to crash with us for the moral support.”

“I’ll go with you,” Mike said, rising from the table. “You can use the help carrying her stuff, right?”

“I’d love you to help me. But don’t you have to go in to work?”

“I do. But there’s no hurry.” He shrugged. “The ME’s office won’t get back to us for a few more hours, and it’s not like I have to rush in to interrogate Benedetto. The only investigator getting info from that scumbag now is the doc who’s performing his autopsy.”

“Where are we going, exactly?” Mike asked.

“Tenth Street and fifty-second.”

“Hell’s Kitchen?”

I nodded. “Joy moved into the two-bedroom about six months ago. It’s not too far from Restaurant Row—a prime location for two aspiring chefs.”

Mike laughed. “Two chefs living in Hell’s Kitchen. Funny.”

“Believe me, the irony was not lost on Joy’s roommate. Yvette’s family owns the Ice Castle ice cream franchise, and they subsidize her lifestyle here in New York and in Paris, where she’s interning now.”

Outside, the sun was bright, and the air was crisp but thankfully not too cold. It was Monday morning rush hour pretty much everywhere on Manhattan Island, but once we were in the car, the trip wasn’t too heinous, owing to the fact that Mike seemed to know exactly how to get around most traffic snarls. The man had skills. And apparently a penchant for conjuring parking spaces because, miraculously, we found a spot right in front of Joy’s building.

I paused in the large lobby to pick up my daughter’s mail, which had piled up in her box since Friday. I noticed a large envelope in the mix. The return address was Solange. A rubber-stamped note indicated the missive was hand-delivered by messenger service this morning. I tore into the envelope and found an invitation inside.

Mike peered over my shoulder. “What’s it say?”

“‘Dear employee or vendor of Solange,’” I read. “‘You are cordially invited to a memorial dinner to celebrate the life and legacy of Chef Thomas Keitel. A four-course meal will be prepared by Chef Robbie Gray and his staff. As part of this celebration, hosts Faye Murray Keitel and Anton Wright will make an exciting announcement concerning the bright new future of Solange, New York, and its sister restaurants.’”

“Sister restaurants?” Mike said.

“There are no sister restaurants. And since when has Solange been called Solange, New York ?” I faced Mike. “This is it! “This is why Tommy Keitel was murdered! Anton Wright and Faye Keitel are going to franchise Solange. That must have been their plan all along—”

“Whoa, Clare. Slow down.”

But I was too pumped to slow down. “Don’t you see, Mike? Wright spent millions opening three restaurants, but Solange was his only success. Naturally he’d want to capitalize on it. He probably told Chef Keitel his plan, and Tommy went ballistic. He wasn’t interested in French cuisine anymore. Tommy wanted out. He wanted to move to Russia. He just wanted to be free again.”

“But other chefs can cook Keitel’s dishes, right? Why did Anton even need Keitel?”

“They’re signature dishes. According to Tommy’s contract, he owned all of Solange’s recipes, not Anton.”

“Why couldn’t Anton buy them?”

“Because Tommy was too much of an egomaniac to sell! Billy Benedetto told me that Tommy refused to sell him the Italian recipes he’d invented for his eatery, even though Chef Keitel never used them again.” I shook my head. “If Tommy wasn’t attached to a restaurant any longer, he simply didn’t want them serving his dishes. Period.”