Once Upon a Grind (26 page)

“T
HE
football player,” Leila whispered with a self-righteous glare. “That's who you should be ambushing. Not me.”

“What football player? Give me a name.”

“Dwayne Galloway.”

Even without the listening device in my ear, I could have heard Franco's “Holy crap!” in that Town Car parked six stories north. Unfortunately, I didn't have the sports knowledge he did.

“Who exactly is Dwayne Galloway?”

“He's a former New York Giant, Clare, an ex-running back with two huge Super Bowl rings. He hooked up with Anya here a few months ago. The man was obsessed with her. It didn't work out, and they broke up. Then he started up with her friend—she goes by Red, I think. Anyway, Galloway never got over Anya. He was practically stalking her at the festival last weekend.”

“Galloway was there? In Central Park?”

“He was dressed as a knight, just like his cast.”

“Cast?”

“After he left football, Galloway bought a warehouse near the old Giants Stadium and converted it into one of those awful theme restaurants. Jeremy keeps bugging me to go there, but—sorry—not in
this
lifetime.” She checked her watch. “Okay, I'm done now. My date is waiting.”

She turned to go, but I yanked her back. “Why didn't you tell the police what you knew?”

“You're kidding, right?”

I pointed to Anya's key around my neck. “Does it look like I'm kidding? I'm here for answers.”

“Well, you're not going to like
this
answer.” Leila leaned close. “My friend Samantha
tried
to tell the police what was up—”

“You mean Samantha Peel? The festival director? You two are friends?”

“She's a member here, too—we had the same divorce lawyer. She saw Galloway stalking Anya. Ask her. She gave the police her statement, but they buried it.”

Oh, God
, I thought.
Leila's right . . .

I flashed back on that “man in medieval garb” mix-up with Endicott and Plesky on the night they arrested Matt.
Or was it a mix-up?

“Don't you see?” Leila smirked. “Mike's precious brethren in blue are protecting the Giant because he's a sports celebrity. He gives half the Mounted Unit moonlighting jobs at that awful
Meat
-dieval Tournament and Feast; even hands out free family passes to the NYPD brass.” She shook her head. “I shudder to think what Galloway was going to do to Anya in those woods with that date rape drug of his, but the detectives involved are obviously going to look the other way. They'll probably pin it on some innocent dupe.”

I cringed.

“That's all I know,” she snapped. “Now I'm going back to the Gold Room. And don't you dare follow me.”

As Leila moved to the door, I counted to ten then checked in with the man upstairs (the one with the badge and Spy Shop receiver)—

“Did you get all that?”

“Got it.”

“Good. With luck, you might even have a second witness to Galloway's stalking of Anya.”

“Who?”

“Me. The morning of the festival, I was working at our coffee truck. Two knights in armor stopped by the window. One of them was big enough to be a former football player. I saw him watching Anya's every move, like he was some kind of predator.”

“Would you recognize him if you saw him again?”

“I think so. Can you scare up a photo of Galloway? I haven't followed football since the Curtain came down.”

“The Iron Curtain?”

“The Pittsburgh Steel Curtain—Mean Joe Greene and his defensive crew.”

“Given Leila's statement, what worries me now is the Blue Curtain. We need to find out who exactly brought it down to protect Galloway.”

I thought about that. “Listen, I know someone who can help us. When I found Anya's body, a mounted cop in armor galloped to the scene. He moonlights for Galloway, and he was very upset when he saw what was done to our Sleeping Beauty.”

“Good. Come back up and we'll talk about our next move.”

“Okay, I'll just take one last look around.”

“Copy that—and remember, don't leave the same way you came in. I want to know where that second entrance is located.”

“No sweat.”

Back on the main floor, I checked my watch and scanned the table games. There was still plenty of time left on my trusty transmitter's charge.

One more roll of the dice might be worth the gamble
, I decided; and despite Leila's little warning, I headed straight for the Gold Room.

T
HE
romantic, getting-to-know-you vibe of the Gold Room was the polar opposite of Silver's perpetual party.

Candlelit tables ringed a gilded fountain, gurgling with a liquid that resembled melted-down bullion. Mosaics with gold-flecked tiles sparkled on the walls beside replicas of Gustav Klimt, the gold leaf master. And along the rear wall, a marble bar, trimmed in gold, was hosting a gold medal wine tasting for several couples.

I spotted Leila's slender figure rejoining the wine-tasting group. An olive-skinned man in his fifties gallantly stood to welcome her back. But before I could take another step in their direction, a golden-haired hostess approached me with a pointed—

“Good evening.”

“Good evening,” I parroted.

“May I see your invitation?”

“Oh, I'm free tonight,” I said, projecting Leila-like aloofness as I moved away. “I'm only here to mingle . . .”

My voice trailed off in the face of twin white-gloved waiters passing me to the left and right with jaw-dropping confections.

One looked like Bloomsbury Café's Golden Phoenix Cupcake Plate, an internationally famous dessert served under glass on an Empire Morning Cake Stand. Perched beside it was a small bowl of American Golden Caviar, a salt-free caviar often sweetened with infusions like passion fruit and Armagnac.

The other waiter appeared to be carrying a Golden Opulence Sundae, a signature dessert at New York's Serendipity restaurant, home of the frozen “haute” chocolate. (Five scoops of ice cream, infused with Madagascar vanilla, were covered in edible gold leaf, drizzled with syrup made from one of the world's most expensive chocolates and garnished with gold-dipped French Dragées Longuettes direct from Paris. The cost? Like that golden cupcake, around one thousand US dollars.)

“Had a little too much champagne, have we?”

My flight of golden foodie fancy was interrupted by the hostess, who'd popped in front of me again.

“Excuse me?” I said.

She leaned close and lowered her voice. “When a club member reviews your profile and wishes to meet you, you'll receive an invitation to this room. Until then, you'll want to mingle in Diamond or Silver. Good evening.” She gestured toward the exit.

Oh, well. Craps on that throw . . .

Back on the main floor, I was about to call it a night when I noticed another familiar face—a furry one.

Strolling around the table games in a tailored evening jacket was Harrison Van Loon, Esquire, the Fairy Tale Fall Committee's bearded attorney. The man appeared quite comfortable in his fashionably tie-less state. Drink in hand, he stopped every few feet to chat with a male or a female club member.

I shouldn't have been surprised to see Van Loon here. After all, he was an uptown big shot from a Dutch family whose roots in this burg went back to its earliest immigrants. Rubbing elbows with obscenely wealthy new arrivals was shrewd networking, although I did wonder why he'd risk any connection with an illegal gambling establishment—unless he knew something I didn't.

Whatever his reasons for being here, I was eager to say hello. He'd helped Matt get free of police custody once. Maybe he'd consider working his legal magic again.

But before I could reach him, his head of salt-and-pepper hair moved off the casino floor and through the LED Diamond archway.

This gave me pause.

Should I be following a man I knew directly into the “mistress meet” room?
Or was that meat?

One glimpse through the glittering archway confirmed
a plausible reason to enter.

“What are you doing?” asked my earring.

“I've decided to investigate the catering.”

“There's a spread?”

“Oh, yes . . .” (And after spying that costly cupcake and haute chocolate sundae, I was now exceedingly curious about the kitchen.) “The food here could give me a clue to who's providing the catering, which could give us a connection to the club's owner.”

“Then let the culinary inspection begin,” Franco declared, “and while you're at it, grab me a cannoli.”

“I'll see what I can do.”

A
S
I moved toward the buffet, I couldn't help applying Franco's Goldilocks Principle. The Silver Room had been too loud, the Gold too quiet. But this Diamond Room—with its smooth jazz, ballroom dancing, and tempting table of tapas—was shaping up to be
just right
.

Keeping one eye on Van Loon, I studied the stunning buffet. But the spread gave me little in the way of clues as to who was catering this private party.

The small plates offered tastings of signature menu items found all over this city—from Buddakan's tender tea-smoked chicken with a scallion and ginger chutney to the 21 Club's gourmet chicken hash in béchamel. There was Spice Market's Cilantro Lime Steak; Café Boulud's Sugar Cane Grilled Shrimp with Peanut Sauce; and Le Bernardin's Roast Monkfish on Savoy Cabbage with a bacon-butter reduction.

Forget Goldilocks!
I felt like Gretel in front of the witch's house, greedily sampling little plates of Aquavit's Glazed Salmon with Wasabi Sabayon; Jean-Georges's Peppery Green Beans; and a creamy-spicy Buffalo Chicken Salad with Gorgonzola dressing—I had no idea who created the latter, but I made a note to copycat it.

After inhaling Babbo's Mint Love Letters (ravioli filled with pureed peas, ricotta, and fresh mint in a lamb ragout ), I crunched down Babka's Shrimp Kiev, making sure to tilt back my head (as Matt once taught me) to catch every drop of the delectable herb butter inside.

Finally I was ready to look over the table's sweeter offerings.

No cannoli for Franco, but there were mini Cronuts à la Dominique Ansel and Chef Thomas Keller's famous version of the Oreo.

“I haven't seen you here before, have I?”

Tearing my eyes from the amazing “Inside-Out” Chocolate Cream Coffee Cake (a fluffy cloud of mocha whipped cream tucked between layers of devil's food), I glanced up to find Harrison Van Loon raking my Fen-hugging curves with the same hungry interest I'd been giving the dessert display.

“Oh, hello there,” I said, feigning surprise. “I'm new here. This is my first night, Mr.—”

“Call me Harry.”

Van Loon's horn-rimmed glasses were gone, replaced by contact lenses that intensified the green of his hazel eyes. He stepped closer—a little too close for comfort actually—and out came the toothy smile I remembered from Central Park. Only this time it had a decidedly wolfish edge to it.

“I'm very pleased to meet you,” he said in a tone that sounded more like
And what's in your basket, little girl?
Then he held out his hand.

As we shook, I reminded him—“We already know each other.”

“Oh?” His head tilted and his grip tightened. “You must be one of my firm's clients?”

“Close. You helped me out with your legal expertise this past weekend.”

When he drew a blank, I lowered my voice. “I'm Clare, from the Village Blend.”

“The coffee lady?” Van Loon simultaneously dropped his smile and his hand before taking a giant step back.

“I hope I'm not giving you the wrong impression. I mean about being in this room.”

“No. In fact, I shouldn't have been surprised to see you here, given your employer—”

My employer?
“What do you mean?”

Ignoring the question, he continued babbling, “I must say, you're very well spoken.” He looked me up and down again, less like a wolf this time than one of those pink-smocked fairy godmothers in the ladies' lounge. “Yes, you
have
fixed yourself up quite nicely.”

Gee, thanks.
“Listen, I won't keep you, but I do have a quick question, if you don't mind?”

“What's that?”

“You lent a legal hand to my business partner when he was questioned by the police. You remember, don't you, after the Central Park Festival?”

“Yes. A most unfortunate business.”

“It's about to become even more unfortunate, and he may need your help again. Would you be willing to—” I took a step closer.

“I'm sorry.” He held up his hand. “I must stop you . . .
Clare
, wasn't it? I was happy to make a call on behalf of my work with the festival committee, but I am not a criminal attorney.”

“Can't someone in your firm handle—”

“No.” He lowered his voice. “We're primarily divorce lawyers.”

“You don't do anything else?”

“We draw up prenuptial agreements. But that's about it.”

I glanced around, getting it. “Fish in a barrel here, I suppose?”

“You could say that. Actually . . .” He leaned closer and let himself share an insider's smile—one entrepreneur to another. “I often advise my female clients to join the club, so to speak.”

I recalled Leila's comment about meeting Samantha through the club and their shared divorce lawyer. Was it Van Loon? I took a chance—

“Oh, I'm not surprised”—I casually waved a hand—“you handled Samantha Peel's divorce and Leila Quinn Reynolds's, didn't you?”

“Yes, two of many. And my firm does handle some civil actions for our clients, as well, but not criminal. Tell you what. Call my office in the morning. My assistant will provide a short list of referrals, in accordance with your . . . well, your
resources,
as limited as they no doubt are. Now if you'll excuse me . . .”

And that was that. The furry-faced lawyer was off to sniff out more lucrative prey. I tracked his movements past the espresso bar to a table of two gentlemen and two ladies—the latter dripping in a girl's best friend.

But the diamonds weren't as interesting to me as that coffee station he'd breezed by, and I couldn't help wondering—

Whose coffee are they serving anyway?

My professional curiosity piqued, I headed over and ordered a double. The taste seemed strangely familiar.

“This coffee is quite good,” I told the barista.

“Thank you, ma'am.”

“Would you mind telling me who supplies it?”

“The Village Blend.”