a dead stripper and the attempted robbery of a socialite in a restaurant—beyond the fact that both victims have blond hair and nice legs.”
“What about the attempt to run Breanne down on the street?”
“Gas guzzlers run amok all the time in this burg. You’ll have to do better than that.”
I stared at the man. Broad and angular, the detective’s jaw jutted like a concrete window ledge; his neck resembled a Greek column. His hair was the color of toasted walnuts, his eyes were the color of warm rum, but his mind had all the flexibility of a stale baguette.
“Why don’t you talk to the detectives at the Sixth Precinct involved with the cases I mentioned. You can call Mike Quinn or the investigating officers in the Hazel Boggs murder case, Lori Soles and Sue Ellen Bass.”
At the mention of Sue Ellen’s name, Rocky Friar’s eyes bugged. And then it hit me. When Friar first arrived, his name sounded familiar, but I was still rattled by the attack and hadn’t made the connection. Now I remembered.
Rocky Friar worked out of the Ninth Precinct and lived in Mike Quinn’s Alphabet City apartment building (Divorced Badges ‘R’ Us). He was also Sue Ellen’s old boyfriend, the one who’d declared her banned from the building.
“Frankly, Ms. Cosi, I don’t buy your theory on the case. Sounds like a tangled mess to me. I think you’re overwrought from the attack.” He jerked his thumb at the bar. “Do yourself a favor: have a good stiff drink and find a seat.”
“But Lori Soles and Sue Ellen Bass might have a new lead on the—”
“Forget it. I’m not talking to Sue Ellen Bass about this case, or any other.”
Friar turned his broad back to me and gestured to a young Hispanic detective. Like Friar, the younger man was dressed in a sport coat and dark slacks. He wore his gun on his hip and his gold shield on his belt. The man nodded to Friar, ended his conversation with a waiter, and hurried to Friar’s side. I willed myself invisible and stepped closer to the pair.
“What d’ya got, Victor?”
“Nobody from the kitchen staff saw anything out of the ordinary. The party guests are still being interviewed, but no one’s come forward with an eyewitness account other than the woman you were interviewing. And I got the victim’s statement before the ambulance took off—”
“Did the perp make any sexual advances? Fondle the victim?”
Victor shook his head. “She claims he didn’t even demand money or valuables, just started choking her—”
“You mean he grabbed her necklace,” Friar said.
Victor glanced at his notes. “The victim called it choking.”
Friar noticed me lurking, just then.
“I’ve taken your statement, Ms. Cosi, so I’m done with you. Move along.”
Gritting my teeth, I walked away, fumbled in my bag for my cell phone, and hit the second number on my speed-dial list. Mike Quinn’s voice mail picked up.
Damn.
Okay, next. I fished out the card Detective Soles had given me. She said to call if I uncovered any new developments in Hazel Boggs’s murder. In my opinion, this was a new development, so I pulled out my cell phone and punched in the number, half expecting to get her voice mail, too. But I got an answer on the second ring.
“Detective Lori Soles.”
I identified myself, and the woman’s tone instantly turned friendly. “Clare Cosi, my favorite PI.”
“Anything new in the Hazel Boggs case? It’s important I know, or I wouldn’t be bothering you.”
“The bullet was recovered at the autopsy,” Lori said. “We’re expecting a ballistics report this afternoon, tomorrow morning at the latest. Anything new on your end?”
“I’m at Machu Picchu in Soho, and Breanne Summour was attacked here about thirty minutes ago. The senior detective on the scene thinks it’s a mugging.”
“Who is it?”
“Rocky Friar.”
“Oh, brother.”
“But Friar is wrong,” I quickly added. “I was there, an eyewitness to the attack, and I say it was a hit. I’m more convinced than ever that the death of Breanne’s look-alike and this murder attempt on the real thing are connected.”
“I don’t know what you’ve got,” Lori said. “But it certainly sounds interesting. I’ll run it by my partner. If she’s good to go, we’ll be there in fifteen.”
I closed the phone and returned to Madame and the luncheon.
Breanne was gone by now. The ambulance was taking her to Beth Israel’s ER. The paramedics didn’t think her vocal chords were damaged, but they suspected a hairline fracture of her collarbone. For that she needed X-rays.