Through the Grinder (10 page)

Joy fetched our coats, then shooed the rest of the customers away. I took Tucker’s arm and led him forward, making sure he stayed steady on his way out the door and toward the back of the police car.

“God, it’s freezing out here,” he complained in a nasally voice. “And this damned ice pack isn’t helping.”

“Keep it on there,” I insisted. “You’ll thank me in a few days when your nose
isn’t
swelled up like a balloon.”

Demetrios held the back door of the car open. I climbed in and slid across the cold, black vinyl seat. Then Demetrios helped Tucker settle in next to me.

After the car door slammed shut, Tucker sighed. “You know, Clare, I was going to thank you for sending Percy my way. But now I have to tell you, I’ve got mixed feelings.”

“I’m so sorry Tucker.”

“Not as sorry as I am…you know, this
really
smarts.”

Between the back seat and front was a metal grill. Through its wiry squares I watched Demetrios climb into the driver’s seat and Langley settle in next to him.

The air was so cold in the dark car, our breath was condensing into little clouds. In the front seat, the radio was flickering with lights and a voice was chattering through static to another unit about the address of a tripped burglar alarm.

“Thank God for that Good Samaritan who body-slammed that jerk,” I said quietly to Tucker as we pulled away from the curb.

“Who was he? Did you get his name?”

“Langley did. I saw him taking a statement. I only remember him by his Cappuccino Connection label.”

“Which was?”

“Mr. Mama’s Boy.”

“You’re kidding me?”

“Nope.”

“Well, dear, sounds to me like you were way wrong about that one.”

“No I wasn’t, Tucker. He lives with his mother.”

“Clare, living with one’s mother means nothing these days, especially in this city, rents being what they are. Repeat after me: a guy who body slams a violent attacker is
not
a mama’s boy.”

I hated being wrong about people. But Tucker was right. That was one mild mannered bank teller I’d definitely misjudged and mislabeled.

“We better tell these guys to talk to Percy,” I said, tipping my chin toward the front seat. “If they don’t catch up to that jerk who hit you on the streets tonight, then they can catch up with him at his home tomorrow. Percy should at least have the man’s name, if not his current address.”

Tucker sighed. “I guess.”

I shook my head. “I just can’t believe this happened.”

“Crime of passion, Clare. Crime of passion.”

We arrived at the hospital in something like six minutes. While the Emergency Room doctor was checking over Tucker, I chatted with Langley and Demetrios in the too-bright fluorescence of the ER’s waiting area.

“Your assistant manager’s lucky that dude didn’t have access to a gun,” said Langley, propping his hip.

I shuddered. “Don’t say that.”

“Sorry, Ms. Cosi,” said Demetrios, folding his arms across his chest, “but its true. You said this jerk was ready to take a few more swings at Tucker, and, quite frankly, head injuries can be fatal. He was obviously ready to go the distance.”

“No…it wasn’t that serious an attack,” I insisted. “The jerk was just jealous.”

Langley and Demetrios exchanged a look.

“What?” I asked, lowering myself into one of the chilly plastic seats. Suddenly, I felt totally exhausted. They obviously didn’t.
Ah, youth.

Looking down at me, Demetrios shrugged. “Jealousy’s a deadly motivator, Ms. Cosi.”

“Yeah,” said Langley, “You never heard of O.J. Simpson?”

“He was acquitted,” I pointed out, looking up at them.

The two officers exchanged another look.

I changed the subject. “So, have you two seen Detective Quinn around lately? I haven’t.”

“The guy’s been buried under his caseload as far as I know,” said Demetrios.

“Yeah, and the hottest one is that suicide over by the river. Lady took a dive off the roof of her new condo’s building. Only Quinn doesn’t think she jumped all by herself.”

Demetrios nodded.

“What’s he think?” I asked.

“Homicide,” said Langley with a shrug.

“A pusher,” clarified Demetrios. “And worse. He thinks the killer’s struck before—and might just strike again.”

O
H,
my, my…

The Genius was impressed. Sahara McNeil was quite the chameleon. Marc Jacobs last night, and Frederick’s of Hollywood this morning.

Given the transformation, the Genius almost didn’t recognize her. Almost.

The flaming red hair had been the signal flag—so scarlet she didn’t even have to color it to meet the fashion demands of her flamboyant colleagues. It was, the Genius recalled, the first thing he’d noticed about her.

Moving casually across the street, the Genius watched as Sahara pushed through the glass doors where she’d said goodnight to him just the other night.

It had seemed friendly. Catching up on old times, talking about friends and acquaintances, they’d left the coffeehouse, then went to a bar, and finally walked together to this apartment building on West Tenth Street. And there they’d said goodnight.

But the Genius knew that Sahara would not leave it at that. She’d taken his card. She’d be contacting him again—and soon.

That’s why the Genius had waited for over an hour the next morning, across the street from Sahara’s apartment building, scanning the faces of the professionals heading uptown and the stay-at-homes walking their dogs.

Any less vigilant and the Genius would have missed her.

If not for the flaming hair, the woman in the tailored slacks and tasteful makeup of last night could never have been matched with the cheap thing who’d just pushed through the glass doors of the West Tenth apartment building.

The too-short, too-jejune skirt. The mesh stockings. The shiny black dominatrix boots and animal print jacket made her look more like an exotic dancer than a legitimate art dealer.

Yet Sahara McNeil
was
a legitimate art dealer, as the Genius well knew. And was listed as an agent on a major six figure sale through Sotheby’s just last month.

Pretty. Successful. Yet oh so sad and alone.

The Genius knew her type well. New York City was full of Sahara McNeils.

The Genius followed—from a discrete distance—as the redhead started her long walk to the SoHo art gallery where she worked. Most likely she made this walk daily, weather permitting. Rain or snow might drive her into a cab. But today she was on foot—likely ready to appreciate any male attention she might attract in that trampy outfit.

Yes, the weather was perfect at the moment. Still clear. Unfortunately, precipitation was predicted sometime in the next week, a chance of icy rain or even snow. If it drove Sahara into a cab, that could be a problem. An umbrella, too, might become a weapon, and the Genius couldn’t risk that.

On her walk to work, Sahara crossed busy boulevards like the Avenue of the Americas and Houston. And she strolled along twisting, narrow Village streets lined with parked cars—a perfect place to await the coming of a distracted, fast-moving driver.

Why, there were so many opportunities for an accident.

It would be a challenge, but the Genius was up for it. One simply had to think creatively. Murder was an art, like any other.

No one knew that better than Sahara McNeil…

“You’re not fanatical about your cholesterol level, are you?” I asked as I approached Bruce Bowman with two glasses of Campari and soda.

Better to discover his position on butter now, I thought, than be forced to switch gravy recipes midway.

“Cholesterol and I are old friends,” Bruce replied, crouched in front of my living room’s hearth. He’d offered to start a fire and had done an admirable job. The flames were just starting to crackle, the heat filling the chilly room. “There are far worse ways to go than eating yourself to death.”

Great,
I thought, ready to press on with my original cholesterol-friendly, butter-happy menu.

It was early Sunday evening, the day after Cappuccino Connection night, and, true to his word, Bruce had called me around noon, telling me he’d made us dinner reservations at Babbo—a truly marvelous Washington Square gourmet restaurant, co-owned by celebrated chef Mario Batali, for which getting last-minute reservations was a trick of David Copperfield–level magic.

Unfortunately, Tucker was off for the next few days, tending to his nose (bruised but not broken, thank goodness), and I was worried about leaving the Blend solely in the hands of my part-timers for long. I had yet to promote or hire a second assistant manager, so I suggested instead that Bruce come to my place—that way, I’d literally be two floors away should any crisis come up downstairs. And with Joy agreeing to surreptitiously baby-sit the staff, I knew if they didn’t call me, she would.

“Really, Clare,” Bruce said, rising back up to his full six-foot height. “It’s very nice of you to go to all this trouble.”

“What trouble?” I said, handing him the Campari and soda. “This is strictly a meat and potatoes meal.”

Bruce shook his head. “Women don’t cook for me. Not New York women. Not ever. Especially not after I’ve asked them out to an outrageously expensive restaurant.”

I shrugged. “I like to cook.”

It was also a delight to show off Madame’s duplex to someone who actually appreciated it as much as I did—the antiques, the paintings, the furnishings were all of the finest quality, as was the restoration of the hearth and windows, and Bruce Bowman noticed immediately.

My ex-husband had always been blasé about such things, partly I think it was because he’d grown up with them, and partly because he saw it all as part of his “mother’s thing.”

“I’ve seen this somewhere before,” Bruce said, gently pulling a lyre-backed chair away from the wall and giving it the once over with a sophisticated eye. “I have a book on church restoration with a picture of this very chair.”

“Not
that
chair,” I replied. “Probably one of its cousins. That’s one of only thirty or so still in existence. It was fashioned for—”

“Saint Luke in the Field! I know,” said Bruce. “A colleague of mine is working on a restoration project for them. He’d love to see this.”

The living room was comfortable—especially with the hearth’s rising flames dispelling the brunt of the autumn chill—but we were never going to have dinner unless I got started.

“Follow me to the kitchen,” I said as I led him through the swinging door.

“Oh, very nice,” said Bruce.

I wondered what caught his eye: the brass fixtures, the granite sink, the woodwork, the restaurant quality appliances.

“You actually have three Griswold skillets?”

I smiled at the three cast-iron pans hanging over the counter.

“Actually we have five Griswolds. The other two we use for cooking, not decorations.”

“Tiffany lamps, Persian prayer rugs, a Chippendale dining room, that lyre-backed chair…I can see why you love this place. It’s a real treasure.”

“A cozy treasure,” I said as I hung a white apron around my neck to protect my cream-colored cashmere blend sweater, and tied the strings around the waist of my pressed black slacks. I lifted my arm, straining to bring down a hanging copper-bottomed pot.

“Here, let me reach that,” said Bruce. He smiled at me as he easily stretched his long arm high and pulled down the cooking pot.

“Thanks. That’s one of the drawbacks of being five-two.”

“No problem. It does my ego good to come in handy.”

I laughed. It actually felt a little strange to have a man in my kitchen. Well, strange to have a man other than my ex-husband.

Matteo and I were occasionally forced to share this kitchen during his mercifully infrequent layovers in New York, but the relationship wasn’t one I’d call cordial. Even when we were married and generally getting along, the kitchen was never a place where we felt comfortable together—it was more like a cramped ship with two captains constantly arguing over navigation.

“What can I do next, Clare?” Bruce asked. He draped his camel hair blazer over a chair and rolled up his sleeves.

“Well…” I blinked, trying not to openly admire the nicely muscled forearms. “Um…how about uncorking that amazing wine you brought?”

“Sure, but it’s nothing.”

Nothing to a millionaire, maybe, but a 1995 La Romanée-Conti wasn’t something I saw everyday. “You’re kidding, right?” I told him. “The last time I saw a Grand Cru Burgundy, it was at a function of Madame’s and royalty was present.”

Bruce laughed as he turned the corkscrew at the small kitchen table, the muscles of his forearm flexing very nicely indeed. “I have a case at home.”

“Oh, well,” I said, working at the sink, “if you have a
case,
then one bottle of a wildly extravagant wine is nothing…sure!”

He laughed again. “Give me a wine glass.”

I did, and he poured out a small amount.

“Taste,” he commanded, holding the glass out to me.

I did and nearly swooned. “Whoa, that’s good wine.”

“It’s an Echezeaux. There’s layer after layer of complexity. Close your eyes and take another sip.”

I did.

“Tell me what you taste.”

“Blackberries?”

“Yes,” he said. “What else?”

“Violets…and there’s an oakiness…and something else…ohmygod…coffee!”

“Yes.”

“It’s really amazing, Bruce.”

“I’m glad you like it.” He came up behind me at the sink. “Okay, the wine’s uncorked—and tasted. Now what?”

He stood so close the heat from his body was truly distracting. I felt my hands becoming moist, the paring knife in my fingers slipping.

“I think its safe to give you a knife,” I said, clearing my suddenly dry throat. “What do you say, sailor? Peel these potatoes?”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

I handed him five plump Yukon golds. He peeled while I knocked five cloves of garlic from a large head and stripped the dry white skin. Then I helped Bruce cut up his peeled potatoes into manageable cubes.

“I talked to your daughter downstairs before I came up,” he mentioned in passing. “She’s a good kid.”

“Very. She’s actually watching over the part-timers for me while we have dinner.”

“Oh, so she gets a reprieve as soon as I leave?”

“Something like that.”

“And what if I don’t leave…right away?”

“That’s a loaded question, Mr. Bowman. Keep your mind on the cooking, please.”

He laughed. “She’s a lot like you.”

“She’s stubborn like her father.”

“She’s got your features—the chestnut hair, the green eyes. You two look a lot alike.”

I stopped cutting and looked up at him. “Don’t say like sisters. I’m not that gullible.”

Holding my gaze, he smiled. “No, I can see you’re not.”

When we finished cutting the potatoes, we both tossed them into boiling water, adding one smashed clove of garlic per spud. Then I pulled a pan from the stainless steel Sub Zero and removed the foil from the marinating meat. A powerful aroma filled the kitchen.

“What’s that smell? Coffee?” Bruce asked, surprised. “You marinated the meat in
coffee?
”

I nodded. “One bite and all doubts will be dispelled.”

“Okay, I’m game. I think.”

“You better be—your wine has coffee overtones.”

“True.” He looked closer. “So what exactly have you got there?”

“Four thick, gorgeously marbled T-bones, courtesy of Ron, our local butcher. They’ve been marinating overnight in enough brewed and cooled coffee to cover them completely.”

“Nothing else?” Bruce raised his eyebrow.

“Oh, ye of little faith.”

He laughed. “It’s just that I’ve never seen it done before.”

“Actually, a chef who specializes in Southwestern cuisine told me he believed coffee was a fairly common ingredient in frontier cooking. There was a limited amount of spices available on the plains, and some of the gamier meats like horse and boar needed both flavoring and tenderizing.”

“I’ve heard of using
beer
as a tenderizer.”

“You’re thinking of Kobe beef. In Japan they ply live cattle with malt liquor daily. It results in fatty, well-marbled meat. This is different.”

“Okay, but I’m sure I remember hearing the Japanese do
something
odd with coffee.”

“There’s a Japanese beauty treatment that uses coffee grounds fermented with pineapple pulp. The citric acid from the pineapple cleanses, and the caffeine firms and tightens the skin—smoothes out wrinkles.”

“Oh, I see…” His brown eyes fixed on me. With the backs of his slightly callused fingers he gently touched my cheek. “Is that your secret?”

I blushed. “What am I supposed to say to that?”

“You’re beautiful.”

“I’m cooking,” I said, determined to keep my head.

We barely knew each other, and even though the man’s proximity was having an embarrassingly unnerving effect on my state of mind, I resolved to maintain control of this situation. A public restaurant may have been a better bet for that reason—but it was too late now.

Disregarding his irresistible smile, I pressed on.

Using a cool, professional, pre-trial Martha Stewart tone, I explained that a carefully chosen coffee brewed strong not only imparts a nutty, earthy flavor to the meat, but tenderizes it as well. “You want an acidic bean, because it’s the acidity that does the tenderizing. Most Latin American beans will give you enough acidity for this recipe, but I usually go with a Kenya AA.”

Bruce raised an eyebrow. “I’m not yet convinced,” he teased.

“The only way these steaks could be better is if I grilled them over mesquite—though I do love them with eggs in the morning. Nothing like a coffee-marinated steak to really jolt you awake. You’ll see.”