Once Upon a Grind (24 page)

I
N
the dim light of the parked Town Car—borrowed from one of Franco's informants—I put on the first earring and examined the short, thin wires and tiny earbud attached to the back of the other.

“Did you get these from the police equipment locker?”

“Naw,” Franco said, “that means paperwork. I bought this stuff at the Spy Shop in Queens. Nice and discreet, no questions asked.”

We were a few blocks from the Prince Charming Club, making final preparations for my attempt to enter with Anya's key.

“They look kind of cheap,” I pointed out, “and they don't go very well with the dress.”

“Style should be the least of your concerns tonight, Coffee Lady. If you get caught in that private club wearing this transmitter, they won't care whether the gold is real. But they will care about your snooping—and who knows what they'll do to you.”

“I'm going in, okay? You can't scare me, so stop trying.”

“Right. Then let's get you ready . . .”

Leaning across the front seat, Franco held the second earring next to my lobe while I slipped the listening bud firmly into my ear canal. Then I slipped on the earring with the transmitter and checked my reflection in the rearview mirror.

The cheap earrings looked fine—
after
I unclipped my hair to partially cover them. At least the electric blue Fen gown was top quality, a gift from Madame for a charity event at Otto Visser's gallery. The neckline was perfect, daring enough for me to pass for one of the women who frequented the club, but not so risqué that I'd draw too much male attention. The gown itself was exquisitely forgiving, hugging my curves attractively.

Matt had taken care of the shop all day—thank goodness—which gave me the time to get ready. Like Leila, I'd gone to a salon for highlights and a mani-pedi, and bought a sturdy pair of Spanx. (Okay, so
she
didn't need the Spanx.)

What I was about to do was risky, but Franco's update a few hours ago had made up my mind.

Red's death hadn't dissuaded Endicott and his partner from focusing on Matt as their favorite suspect. In fact, the data they retrieved from Red's smartphone provided a gold mine of circumstantial evidence, and they were determined to use it.

“I tried to talk them out of their theory,” Franco had explained, “but the evidence, I'm sorry to say, is pretty damning . . .”

There were text messages about Red's plan to meet Matt the night before she died. And the cops canvassing her neighborhood found witnesses who stated Matt was aggressively asking for Red at several Astoria nightclubs.

In other words, my ex-husband's earnest desire to make sure our distraught barista was safe would be used against him in the worst possible way. As early as tomorrow, he could be charged with murder.

The least I could do was a little undercover work tonight.

With luck, I'd find a lead on the real killer, hand the evidence over to Franco, and bury Endicott's plan to destroy Matt, break my daughter's heart, and devastate my beloved employer.

I was about to test my earring transmitter when my smartphone vibrated. I checked the caller ID.

“It's Esther's sister. I better take this . . .”

Hattie Best-Margolis spoke as fast and loud as her little sister: “Clare, I'm sorry I didn't call you back earlier, but Esther is beside herself—”

“Then she's in Westchester? With you?”

“Yes, but she wouldn't let me call you back! She doesn't want Boris to know where she is. She told me all about what happened with that awful public marriage proposal—”

“It wasn't awful. Boris took great pains to make it special. He simply didn't realize what was going on in Esther's head. But listen, Hattie, I really do need to speak with Esther—”

“When I
think
of the men I've served up to that girl over the years! Doctors. Lawyers. College professors. Accountants. Even a city planner. And who does she pick? A Brooklyn rapper who bakes bread!”

“She hasn't picked him yet,” I pointed out.

“True. And I hate to admit it, but those two belong together.”

“I agree.”

“I'll work on my sister at this end, try to straighten her out—not that she's ever taken my advice, mind you. But you better tell Boris to stay away. If he comes up here, she'll feel pressured and you know what happens to things under pressure. They blow!”

“I'll make Boris understand. But I
still need to speak with your sister
. It's imperative, and it's not about Boris.”

“Esther's not here. She took my kids to the Cheesecake Factory, something about drowning her sorrows in Oreo cheesecake.”

I closed my eyes.
Do I call the restaurant?
“Wait. Your teenage daughter must have a cell phone. Give me her number. I'll ask her to hand the phone to Esther.”

“Okay,” Hattie said, “but don't blame me if my sister hangs up on you!”

A few minutes later, I was finally speaking with Esther—and yes, like her sister, it took some fast talking to get her to
listen
.

“I'm sorry to break this to you over the phone, Esther, but . . .”

I explained the very bad news about Red. Esther was shocked and promised to come back to the city tomorrow. Unfortunately, nothing she said exonerated Matt or nailed another killer.

“I left Red a little after midnight. She gave me plenty of money for the trip. I caught a green boro taxi and went to Grand Central. That's all I know. And BTW, she didn't sound like she planned on any company . . .”

I ended the call and turned to Franco. “Esther doesn't know anything. She can't help our case, which means I've
got
to go in there.”

He tapped the phone's top. “Then you shouldn't have anything on you that identifies you. Hand it over.”

“Here.”

“Now pay attention.” He took my hand and placed the tip of my index finger on the cubic zirconia in the center of the right earring. “That's the on-off switch. Try it . . .”

I pressed, and the next voice I heard was coming from inside my head.

“Say something—nice and low so I can test the amplifier.”

“I'm hungry. I can't stop thinking about Oreo cheesecake. And these Spanx are too tight.”

“Good, it's working. Now turn the transmitter off and keep it off until you get past front door security.”

Franco paused, fingers gripping the steering wheel. “You're
really
sure you want to go through with this?”

“What choice do I have? You said yourself, the only theory Endicott will entertain is the one that says Matt's guilty. The person I need to confront is going to be here tonight, and we both agreed it's the best source of information we have.”

Franco met my gaze. “You may be crossing paths with a murderer. And not your run-of-the-mill killer, either. This individual has the means to kill with a pinprick.”

“I know, but look at it logically. The killer could have struck in a crowded place, but didn't. Anya was attacked in a secluded area of the park, and Red in the privacy of her apartment. The last place a killer is going to hurt me is in that club.”

“You could still be opening yourself up as a future target. And if anything happens to you, Mike Quinn would never forgive me. Neither would Joy—and FYI—I wouldn't be too happy about it, either.”

“With you watching my back, what could happen?” I smiled.

Franco blew out air.

“Try not to worry,” I said, patting his big shoulder. “I can handle myself.”

“I know. I've seen it.”

“Then wish me luck.”

“I do. Just be careful in there . . .”

While I moved to the backseat, Franco slid his listening device under an open
New York Daily News
. Three minutes later, we were rolling up to the ominous black door.

“I'll monitor things in front of that hot dog joint down the block,” Franco said. “If there's trouble, get the hell out. If we lose communication, get the hell out. The charge on the device only lasts about an hour so when midnight rolls around—”

“I know, scram before my Spy Shop transmitter turns back into a cheap earring.”

Franco wished me luck one last time. Then, like a swimmer diving into uncharted waters, I took three deep breaths and exited the Town Car.

T
HE
street was quiet and full of shadows, and the dingy building was as bleak as I remembered. The recessed doorway took me a few feet off the sidewalk, and I automatically looked for a handle on the battered metal door. Then I remembered, there was no handle, only that talking mirror with the ominous male voice—

“Show me your key . . .”

Parroting the attitude of Leila's crowd, I rolled my eyes, as if I'd done this
dozens
of times and was
so
very bored with it. Then I pulled up the long chain of silver and gold that Molly had found and revealed Anya's key.

A blast of bright red laser light startled me. I let the beam scan the key and (presumably) me. Then it shut off, plunging the recessed area back into blackness.

For a few seconds, I held my breath, until a loud click sounded and the heavy door cracked open. I nearly shouted, “Thank you!” Instead, I pushed the thick slab of metal.

“Welcome—” No more threatening male voice. Now a sweet and sultry female was addressing me. “Please step all the way inside . . .”

The space was dimly lit, and I saw no one. Then the door shut itself behind me, clanging and locking with frightening finality. Bright lights came up to reveal a cinderblock room with all the charm of Sing Sing solitary.

My heart began beating faster as the voice instructed me to: “Please wait a moment . . .”

There was no beam this time, but I saw eyes in the sky—twin security cameras in opposite corners of the cell, moving to and fro to check me out.

“Please step into the elevator . . .”

Before I could ask, “What elevator?!” one of the stone walls lifted like a Broadway curtain. Elevator doors slid wide and I stepped into a mirrored square. The doors shut (more mirrors) and I watched myself attempting to count how many levels we were descending—five, maybe six floors?

The doors opened on a darkly paneled lobby with a cloak room window, and I finally saw a human being. A young blonde in a little black dress approached with crisp steps.

“Good evening,” she said.

“Good evening,” I replied.

She stood and waited, blinking at me, as if I were slow on the uptake.

Great. What am I missing?

“Your bag, please.”

“Oh, yes, of course . . .” I handed it over. She held it out and a large olive-skinned man in an evening jacket stepped out of the shadows on my left side. As the well-dressed linebacker pawed through my lipstick, compact, and hairbrush, a hard-faced woman in a pantsuit appeared on my right.

The woman wanded me with an electronic scanner from top to toe then she receded again. Back to the netherworld—or a passenger terminal at JFK.

“Free or match tonight?” the blond hostess asked.

“Free,” I said with a wave of my French manicure.

“Tips?” she asked.

“Oh, no,” I assured her, “these are my nails.”

For a tense second, the hostess stared blankly into my face. Then she burst out laughing. “Good one!” She glanced up to see if the towering security guard was laughing, too. He wasn't. With a shrug, she focused back on me.

“Diamond can really use some of that life-of-the-party joviality tonight—if you're up for that.” She smiled, warming to me as she handed back my bag. “What are your languages?”

“Italian,” I said because
English
was obvious, wasn't it? “And French.
Passable
French.”

“Passable is good enough here, as you know.” She glanced at the two guards again and they melted back into the shadows. Then she pulled a smartphone from her pocket, activated an app, and began scanning a text scroll while strolling toward a grand arched doorway trimmed in gold leaf.

I quickly caught up.

“We have a Saudi prince in Silver tonight,” she conveyed in quiet conspiracy. “French is one of his languages. As for Italian, there's a baron in Diamond, he races Formula Ones and summers in Olbia-Tempio. And we have a Venezuelan import-export heir in there, too. He didn't care for his match tonight, so if you're up for that, he's ready . . .”

Obviously, “tips” here had nothing to do with nails.

The club's hostess ran down a few more gentlemen profiles—executives, politicians, aristocrats. None were American. And she never once showed me a photo or used a name. No one had asked me my name, either, and I got the distinct impression that would be a
faux pas
.

What I really needed was a tip about how this place worked. The hostess continually referred to Silver, Gold, and Diamond. I had no idea why, but with those guards looming, I feared too many questions would get my Spanx-firmed rear thrown back into that selfie-ready elevator.

Once I started mingling, I'd look for someone who could tell me more without giving me away as an intruder. (A bartender maybe? Or a conveniently inebriated guest?) Until then, I'd have to smile and nod and keep my mouth shut.

“Enjoy your evening,” the hostess sang then tapped her smartphone again and swiped it over a scanner in the wall. Double doors slid open, and with a snappy turn of her heel, she left me at the gilded archway.

Another giant keyhole . . .

Holding my head high, I steeled my soul and stepped through.