Клео Коул - Through The Grinder

“Try the coffeehouse,” suggested Matt.

The phone picked up after five rings.

“Village Blend. Hello.” It was Esther Best’s voice.

“Esther, this is Clare — ”

“It’s Clare!” called Esther, obviously yelling it to someone nearby.

“Esther!” I yelled. “Esther!”

A second later, Esther came back on. “Are you coming back anytime tonight? That’s what Tucker wants to know. It’s pretty busy here.”

“Esther, listen to me, you two will have to hold down the fort a little longer, okay? I’m calling because I need to find Joy as soon as possible. It’s an emergency.”

“Oh, wow. Well, she’s not here. She was. But she left with some guy.”

“What guy?”

“He was an NYU student. Hot, too. Had short blonde hair and a goatee. I actually think I’ve seen him around school. Buffed dude with combat pants and a peacoat. She said he saved her life on Seventh Avenue South.”

“What! What do you mean he saved Joy’s life?”

“What!” cried Matt beside me. “Clare, what’s going on?”

“Shhhh! Stay calm,” I told my ex-husband. “Esther, what happened?”

“Oh, Joy said there was this big drunken crowd in front of a bar on Seventh Avenue and she got shoved off the curb in front of an oncoming bus.”

“Jesus.” I closed my eyes.

“She’s okay, though,” Esther continued, “because this NYU guy sort of flirted with her for a second before it happened, so he was watching her when she went over the curb. He lunged forward and grabbed her by the hood of her new coat. Nice coat, too. That hood and that dude really saved her life. But she was pretty freaked out about it, so he brought her back here, and she told me and Tucker about it. Then they had some coffee and were laughing, and then she said the guy was gonna make sure she got to the Puck Building for her catering thing okay, and they left. That’s all I know.”

I nodded, my eyes meeting Matteo’s. I put my hand over the cell’s mouthpiece.

“It’s okay. Joy’s okay. Some boy escorted her to the Puck Building.”

“ What boy?” Matt’s jaw clenched.

“A nice college kid, according to Esther. Take it easy.”

But he didn’t. Instead, he leaned forward, poked his head through the plastic partition in the cab, and yelled, “Get this damn cab moving faster. Now!”

The cabbie threw a disgusted look over his shoulder at Matt, muttered something in Russian, then returned his attention to the road, without increasing his leisurely speed one iota.

I sighed. Sometimes Matt didn’t act like he remembered a thing about living in New York City.

“There’s an extra ten in it for you,” I called sweetly.

The cabbie immediately put the pedal to the metal. As we zoomed down Broadway, I punched a stored number on my speed dial.

“Who are you calling now?” asked Matt.

“Mike Quinn’s cell.” But he didn’t answer. I got his voice mail. “Mike, this is Clare,” I said the second I heard the beep. “Meet me as soon as you possibly can at the Puck Building. It’s an emergency. I’m certain I’ve found the killer of Valerie Lathem, Inga Berg, and Sahara McNeil, and right now I’m worried he’s after Joy — ”

The beep blared in one ear as a curse sounded in the other. Matteo was reacting to the jam just up ahead. After turning onto West Houston, the cab had slowed to a crawl, then came to a dead stop.

“Matt, I don’t think we have to worry. It’s not like Brooks is going to do anything to Joy right there, in public. She’s okay, I’m sure of it,” I lied. Matt was steaming, and I didn’t want him to blow.

The cab lurched forward, then stopped again. The traffic signal had suddenly turned red. Matteo cursed.

Traffic in New York can be as dicey as a freak storm, and, like unpredictable weather patterns, New York traffic has a way of changing when you least expect it — and, for me, usually at the least opportune moment.

“Sum-zing iz goin on,” grunted our middle-aged Russian driver.

Indeed there was. The intersection of Houston and Lafayette, where West Houston becomes East Houston, was a roach nest of crawling black limousines all trying to scurry to the same place at the same time.

“Do you think those limos are going to the Puck Building?” I asked.

“I don’t think they’re flocking to the sale at Dean and DeLuca,” Matt replied.

“At eight fifty for a jar of pasta sauce, I doubt there’s ever a sale at Dean and DeLuca.”

“My point exactly.”

We waited as the traffic light went from green to yellow to red. The cab never moved. Matt’s leg began pumping like a piston, and I knew from experience that the explosion was coming.

“Come on,” I said, popping the door to release the pressure. “It’s only two blocks away.”

Matt climbed out and I tossed the driver my last twenty.

As we walked down West Houston we got a better look at the passengers of all those limousines.

“This thing is black tie, and invitation only,” I said. “How are we going to get inside there and find Joy?”

“The same way we saw Trent and Granger,” said Matt, striding forward.

“No, Matt, listen — ” I tugged his arm. “This isn’t a public seminar. We can’t just walk in. Since 9/11, security at these sorts of things is tighter than ever, especially when celebrities, politicians, and media people are attending. We could give any song and dance we wanted to the people at the door about Joy or anything else, but unless we have real credentials, or an official invitation, they’ll call security and boot us out.”

“What do we do then? I’m not waiting around for that flatfoot.”

“I could try Mike’s cell again, but if he isn’t picking up it’s probably because he’s in the middle of something. And Joy’s cell is probably in her bag, which is in a locker or back room while she’s working.”

“Well, if you’re out of ideas, I’m going to take my chances with shouting my way into this thing.”

“Matt, it won’t work.”

Just then, I heard a young woman’s voice, loud and vacuous, and right in front of us.

“Oh,” she giggled on the sidewalk to a passerby. “It’s not an F at all. It’s really a P! I thought that was a funny name for a building.”

I turned to see a tall, reed-thin blonde with long straight hair and enough black eyeliner to please an Egyptian pharaoh wobbling on super high heels. Though she was wearing an overcoat, her naked legs and strappy shoes looked totally inappropriate for a cold late autumn night.

The passerby, a Hispanic man in a delivery uniform, eyed her with a mixture of interest and bemusement. Then her wide blue eyes met mine and I smiled sweetly.

“Do you need help?” I asked. She looked at me and Matteo at my side and nodded enthusiastically.

“I just got out of a cab and walked two blocks. I’m looking for the Puck Building,” she said breathlessly.

“That’s where we’re going. It’s just up the street,” said Matteo. “Are you a model?”

“Yeah,” the girl said, pushing hair away from her face and offering us a profile.

“Him, too,” I decided.

Surprised, Matt opened his mouth to speak. I elbowed him before he could utter a sound.

“Yes,” I continued. “Brooks Newman hired Fuego here to model some skimpy little thing.”

“Fuego!” Matt cried.

I elbowed him again. “I’m Fuego’s agent. My name is Clare.”

“Pleased to meet you, Clare. And you too, Fuego,” said the woman. “I’m Tandi Page. That’s Tandi, with an I . My agent told me to make sure people always got my name right.”

“Did Brooks get your name right?” I asked.