instead.”
“Have police questioned this man?”
“Yes, but they say he has no criminal record and they don’t see him as a viable suspect for what appears to be a random street crime, especially now, when street crime is on the rise.”
“Could the police be right, Clare? Perhaps Alf was going to burglarize this nice man James Young, but he had second thoughts and then he himself was mugged and killed—a terrible irony.”
“Yes, it could be that simple. But Vicki Glockner herself claims it isn’t—”
And although I didn’t mention it to Madame, I still had my suspicions about the lead detective in the case. “Generalissimo” Franco’s own partner practically called him a vigilante, and his hostile treatment of me, for butting into the investigation, not to mention his oddly intense statement about not “seeing evil” in me left me wondering. The night of Alf’s murder, Franco had told me he’d just come on duty. Could he have shot Alf himself in some twisted form of street justice? Or was Franco somehow involved in covering up the real truth about Alf’s murder? He wouldn’t be the first corrupt cop to take a bribe for looking the other way, especially when it involved the shooting of a man he judged to be a criminal himself.
“I have to talk to Linford,” I finally told Madame, “see what I can find out. Even a denial can be telling if the man’s not a good liar.”
“You’ll need a partner for that, too, dear.”
“I have to get a handle on this guy first. I know where he lives—next door to Vicki Glockner—but Vicki wasn’t very helpful about his background. I need to know more about him, his business, his associates. I need to know how to question him.”
Just then, a wiry young man with spiked blond hair and a pale complexion approached our table. He wore baggy jeans, motorcycle boots, and a shiny, outer-boroughs black leather blazer. The young man nodded politely, then struck a slouching hip-hop pose.
“Clare Cosi, Clare Cosi; you’re a fresh Village posy; now release my czarina; so with me she can mosey!”
Madame’s eyes widened. She glanced at me and addressed the rapper: “And who is your czarina, young man?”
“The Best girl, in the West, girl! That sweet-booty babe-with-the-chest girl!” The young man lifted his closed fist, shook his pinkie and index finger free, and pointed both toward the espresso bar.
“Esther?” Madame glanced at me, just to make sure.
“This is Boris Bokunin,” I said. “He’s a Russian émigré, slam poet, and urban rapper.” He was also a hardworking assistant baker in Brighton Beach, but I knew he preferred the other identifiers. “Did I get it right, Boris?”
Boris gave a little bow. “BB Gunn. That’s my hip-hop handle! Just ask me ladies and—” He clapped his hands and pointed at us. “I’ll light your candles!”
Madame glanced at me, her laugh lines crinkling. “He reminds me of the beats!”
Boris’s eyes widened. “You need someone beat down?”
“She means beat poetry, Boris,” I said. “But that’s a whole other century.” I rose from my chair. “Tell Esther I’ll relieve her in a minute.”
BB grinned at that, saluted me, bowed to Madame, then spun on his motorcycle boots and headed for the counter.
Madame touched my arm. “Do keep me informed of the developments on catching Alf’s killer. I’d like to help if I can.”
I patted her hand. “Have a good trip to Vermont with Otto. The bed-and-breakfast sounds amazing. Your beau certainly knows how to keep the romance in the holiday season.”
“Mistletoe and music, my dear.” She winked. “Candy canes by candlelight.”
I nodded, ignoring a surge of mixed feelings. With Joy away and Mike trying to crack a cold case, this Christmas wasn’t going to be a very merry one for me. On a quiet sigh, I bent down and gave Madame a good-bye hug.
I could only hope my daughter was finding the same sort of happiness in Paris that her grandmother was enjoying in New York. Despite the theme of today’s Chatsworth Way, it appeared the holiday season really could be the most romantic time of the year for some women. I simply wasn’t one of them.
EIGHTEEN
A FEW days after wishing Madame a good trip, I was on my way to Staten Island to have lunch with Omar Linford. I even brought backup. With Madame still away on her long romantic weekend, I tapped my old partner in anticrime, Esther Best.
We finished our morning shifts together and she agreed to do the driving—mainly because I didn’t want to burden