barely glancing at us as she raced away.
“Where are you going now?” Roman called.
“The art department, darling! The Sinamon feature article’s still got issues, and her people are due here in fifteen! Monica! Tell Belinda to make sure the conference room’s ready. And Clare! We’ll need more of your coffee! Lots more!”
As Breanne’s long legs swept her away, I noticed she’d left her door wide open. Terri was still off on her errand. And except for us, the area was deserted.
“See?” Monica whispered, pointing to Breanne’s office. “If you go in there, you’ll probably find Ms. Summour’s e-mail box still wide open. She did that all the time when I was her assistant, just walked away from her computer, sometimes for hours at a time. I warned her about it. What good is password protection if you don’t close your e-mail box?”
With a shake of her blue-black hair, Monica turned and walked away. I watched her disappear down the hall and wondered whether her comments were trustworthy. Was Terri really the slippery one? Or was Monica lying to my face?
Well, one of her claims was easy enough to check out. I got up from Terri’s desk and walked inside Breanne’s spacious corner office.
“What are you doing?” Roman called.
“Checking Monica’s story.”
I moved around the huge glass desk. Breanne’s computer screen was lit up and active; her e-mail box was still open, just as Monica had warned. Anyone could have slipped into her office and sabotaged Breanne. A password wouldn’t have been needed. And who better to know when and how long her boss would be away than her current assistant?
“Clare!” Roman called from Terri’s desk. “Look at this.”
Neville’s Web site was now up on Terri’s computer screen. Today the former chef was blogging about wanting to chop his critics into little pieces. There was even an animation loop showing a meat cleaver swinging at a woman’s neck. Recipes followed for seasonal stews and soups.
“That meat cleaver looks exactly like the one he sent to Breanne,” Roman said, “complete with the death-black bow. My, he really is getting morbid.”
“Oh, God . . .”
Feeling sick to my stomach, I told Roman to give me a minute. Then I stepped back into Breanne’s office, shut the door, pulled out my cell phone, and called Mike Quinn.
I ran down everything: the suspicious man hanging around Fen’s while Breanne was inside; Monica’s phone call to an unknown number concerning her boss’s schedule and the arrival of some one-of-a-kind wedding rings; the counterfeit e-mail that mucked up the bride’s fitting. Finally, I told him about the rivalries that seemed to be bubbling inside Trend’s cauldron of an office.
“You’ve got a lot of observations, Cosi. What’s your conclusion?”
“When you get right down to it, this place is filled with the typical bitchy backbiting of office politics. It’s not pretty, but I don’t see anyone here with a grand vendetta to threaten Breanne’s life . . .” Then I described Neville Perry’s black-wrapped wedding gift.
“The meat cleaver goes beyond prankish, Mike. It feels like a real threat to her life, which is why I’m calling you now.”
“Does Breanne want to pursue charges?” he asked.
“No.” I closed my eyes. “She still thinks it’s a joke.”
“Well, no ADA I know would waste time on a case like that. Unless this guy Perry makes an actual threat to Breanne or attempts to harm her, you’re stuck. You need to get more on him, Clare. Can you find a way to do that without breaking the law?”
“Yeah, Mike. I think so. Otherwise, I’m relying on you to bail me out.”
“Bail you out?” Mike laughed. “With what? Since I lent you my checkbook to furnish my apartment, I’m broke.”
“Sorry, buddy, but a girl can eat only so many ‘picnics’ on a bare living room floor before it gets old—not to mention cold.”
“Honeymoon’s over, huh?”
“Not if you consider cuddling up on a new sofa romantic.”
“I do. What’s more, Cosi, I expect to see you on that very sofa tonight. When are you coming over?”
“I’ll get back to you, Quinn. I’m on the job!”
I closed the phone on Mike’s sputtering (I was still a little pissed at him for getting me into this) and left Bree’s office.
Roman was still at Terri’s desk.
“Okay,” I told him, “tonight’s more important than ever.”
“You mean the underground restaurant?”
“I’m going with you to Flushing, and I’m going to interview Neville Perry, try to press a few of his buttons. You can be a witness to any threats he makes or confessions