Through the Grinder (22 page)

“Inga’s account hasn’t been active lately, either. Her latest hook-ups were Bowman, and also Eric Snyder, Ivan Petravich, Gerome Walker, Raj Vaswani, and Brooks Newman.”

I blinked.
Brooks Newman.
Mr. No Way. Mr. Three Days Vegan. Mr. Meat No More Lingerie Show. Mr. Serial Seducer with a Peter Pan Syndrome.

Yes, I could believe he was a serial killer of women, too.

Newman’s attitude toward the opposite sex was close to misogyny—although if you asked him, Brooks would probably proclaim that he absolutely adored women, for their bodies, anyway.

“Mr. Newman is one of the men who’s been leaving messages for our daughter,” I lied. “Any other hook-ups on file for him?”

Trent glanced at the screen.

“Nothing in the last ten days…guess he’s been busy at work. But Mr. Newman has put two client profiles in his personal basket—that’s a cyber space for members to store the profiles of people they are interested in hooking up with in the future.”

“Who are they?” I asked.

“Ms. Sahara McNeil, and Ms. Joy Allegro, that’s your daughter, right?”

The confirmation that Brooks had put Sahara in his basket was less of an impact on me than the mention of my daughter’s name. I closed my eyes. “Oh, my god, Joy!”

Suddenly, a number of unconnected facts linked up in my brain to form a blood-red flag. It waved in front of me now in dire warning.

“Come with me!” I cried, grabbing Matteo’s hand.

“But—”

“Come on!”

Matteo got up, leaving Granger and Trent totally confused.

“Hey, what’s going on?” Trent demanded.

“You’ll…you’ll hear from our lawyer,” Matteo cried, still in character, as I dragged him away.

I practically ran down the aisle, past the registration desk, and outside. Matteo hurried to catch up to me.

“Clare, what’s the matter?”

I ran down the block, until I reached the boarded-up building.

“Oh god,” I cried when I looked again at the Meat No More poster.

“Clare, talk to me!” Matt demanded.

“It’s Brooks Newman!” I cried. “He’s the one who’s been killing these women. I’m sure of it now. He dated Valerie, he dated Inga, and he’d obviously hooked up with Sahara at Cappuccino Connection night—her on-line profile in his web basket just confirms his interest in her…And now he’s after Joy.”

“Don’t worry,” said Matteo. “He’ll never get near our daughter.”

“She’s with him right now!”

“What?”

“The poster.” I slapped the board. “This is advertising the Meat No More Lingerie Show, it’s at the Puck Building tonight—it’s starting right now!”

“So?”

“So Joy told me she’s catering a vegetarian party at the Puck Building tonight. This is it, Matt. She’s there. Our daughter is with Brooks Newman right now!”

“H
I
!
You’ve reached Joy Allegro. I can’t pick up my cell right now. I’m either in class or trying to keep a French sauce from separating. Either way, leave a message!”

Sitting next to Matt in the back of the cab, I exhaled in frustration. Waited for the beep.

“Joy, this is Mom, call my cell the second you get this message. I don’t want to alarm you, but I want you to make sure you stay away from Brooks Newman. If he should bother you in any way, go to your teacher at once. Don’t get caught alone anywhere, stay with your teacher. Be careful and just wait at the Puck Building for me and your dad. We’re coming to pick you up and make sure you get home okay. I’m not kidding, Joy. Call me as soon as you get this message and I’ll try to—”

Beep!

“Shit!”

“Take it easy, Clare, it won’t help Joy to go bananas. Keep a cool head.”

“I know. Okay. I’ll try.”

I hated this feeling, and it wasn’t just the fact that Brooks Newman had killed at least three women and had targeted Joy, I couldn’t shake the feeling that Joy was in danger. Call it a mother’s intuition, but this nagging dark feeling that my daughter needed me had been running through me since we’d entered the New School auditorium.

I tried Joy’s apartment, but I’d just gotten her home machine. Not even her roommate was around tonight to answer.

“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.

“Hah! I don’t think he even noticed my
name
.”

We reached Lafayette and the Puck Building loomed over us. I always thought of this place as a sort of whimsical structure, and not just because of its origins. Named after an irreverent satirical magazine that had its headquarters here, the building still boasted glided statues of Shakespeare’s Puck, the weaver of dreams from the play
A Midsummer Night’s Dream,
complete with top hat.

The Puck’s architectural style actually felt whimsical, too. It was a Chicago School steel-framed structure with horizontal bands of arched windows that admitted a vast amount of sunlight. Its skillful use of a cheerful thin-line red brick combined with sober green trim presented a delightful combination of impressions—not unlike reading the comedies of Shakespeare. While on the one hand you could see the lightness and the grace of its simplicity, on the other you could feel its underlying strength and permanence.

Originally, the entrance to the building was on Houston, but a century ago,
Puck
’s editors so angered the corrupt politicians of Tammany Hall that they zoned part of the building out of existence to create Lafayette Street. After the partial demolition, the building grew like a phoenix from its fractioned ashes, sprouting additional floors and an opulent new entrance foyer on Lafayette.

At the moment, I was standing outside that foyer, looking up at a gilded, top-hatted Puck who seemed to be laughing at the foolish mortals entering his building—men in evening suits and women in opulent gowns, all of them impatiently jamming the doorway, their limousines clogging the streets around them. The building itself, a city block large, was ablaze with light, its tall windows casting a golden glow on Houston, Lafayette, Mulberry, and Jersey Streets.

Tandi drew a letter from her tiny purse. “I think we’re supposed to go to the Jersey Street employee entrance.”

We dodged the crowd and circled the building. There was also something of a crowd at the Jersey Street entrance, which was lorded over by a portly man in a black suit, black shirt, red bowtie, and conspicuous bright red socks.

“Hi, Trevor,” Tandi warbled.

“Tandi, you made it,” the man cried. “The other girls are already inside. Go dish, girl.”

Tandi waved goodbye.

“Good luck, Fuego,” she squeaked. Then she catwalked through the door and out of sight.

“Can I help you?” the man asked, batting his eyes.

“We’re here to model,” I said.

He examined me and his eyebrow went up. “Surely not.”

“Not
me,
my client, Fuego.” I pushed Matteo forward like an offering.

“Not bad,” the man said appraisingly. “Where’s your contract and letter?”

“My what?”

He thrust his hand out. There was a ring on each finger, but tastefully he’d skipped his thumb.

“Your contract?”

“Brooks Newman said he would send it over by messenger but it never arrived,” I lied, impressing myself with how good I was getting at dissembling. “Brooks only saw Fuego a few days ago. Said he’d be perfect for tonight’s event.”

“So Brooks is shopping for rough trade these days?”

He looked Matteo up and down as if he were a racehorse.

“A little long in the tooth but not bad,” the man snorted. Then he folded his arms.

“But you have to have a letter to get in here, sweetie. I’ve got J. Lo in there. I can’t just let every Tom, Dick, and…Fuego in, you know.”

“Brooks
did
give me his card,” I said, fumbling through my wallet, praying I hadn’t thrown it away since our dinner at Coffee Shop.

“Here it is!” I thrust it into the man’s hand.

“Okay,” he relented. “But you’re lucky we have more thongs than the buns to fill them or I’d send Fuego back to the meat packing district.”

He stood aside and Matteo and I stepped forward. Then his hand shot out and stopped me.

“Where are you going, sister?”

“With my client, I—”

“He’s modeling. You’re not.”

“But Fuego…He doesn’t speak a word of English,” I stammered. “He’s very obedient. Does whatever I tell him. But I have to tell him what to do because…well, just between you and I, Fuego is pretty but a little dense.”

The man’s round face broke into a grin.

“Oh, I love that in a man! Go on then, honey, and good luck.”

“A little dense,” Matteo hissed after we got inside.

“I also said you were pretty.”

Just then, a lean, muscular young man with no visible body hair strode by wearing a leather codpiece and a string holding it up—and nothing else.

“You’d better be pretty, if you want to compete with that.”

Matteo snorted.

“The dressing room is this way,” cried a scrawny man. He held a hair dryer and was waving us forward with it. Behind him, the room was full of nubile young bodies in various states of undress. There was no privacy, and models of both sexes were changing into their outfits together.

“This might not be so bad after all,” said Matteo, grinning.