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.”
Ten
Oh, 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.