Latte Trouble - By Cleo Coyle Page 0,50
security. She was feeling desperate…
Tad gulped more coffee, black this time. “Anyway, Fen sent over patterns for some of his fall line, so Lottie could design the accessories….” He glanced at his watch, looked in the direction of the empty staircase. “Someone approached Rena pretending to be an international knockoff merchandiser. He offered her seventy-five thousand dollars for copies of Fen’s designs. Like I said, she was desperate, owed money. So Rena took the deal. She copied the designs and traded them for cash.” Tad snorted. “Turned out to be a set-up. Fen himself sent an employee to make the deal—”
“Wait a second,” I interrupted. “Let me get this straight. Fen stole his own designs?”
Tad nodded grimly. “The man Fen had sent to Rena made the exchange in some hotel room on Eighth Avenue. A private surveillance firm taped the whole thing. Then, about three weeks ago—around the time Rena and I became engaged—Fen approached Rena and told her the truth. He threatened to go to the police and expose the crime to Lottie. I think Rena was more concerned about what Lottie would think than any jail time she was facing. The two women had become close.”
“What were Fen’s demands?” I asked. “All blackmailers have demands…”.
“Rena’s shares in Lottie Harmon…and mine. After Fall Fashion Week is over and Lottie is finished with her major presentation, he wants us to trump up a reason to want out of the business, and tell Lottie that we’re selling him all of our shares. Fen wants to buy our shares and control Lottie’s business.”
“I don’t understand,” said Matt, who’d been pretty quiet up to now. “Why try to sell the Lottie Harmon shares at the seminar after Fen threatened you and demanded you sell the stock to him?”
“Rena and I don’t want to hurt Lottie,” explained Tad. “And we don’t want any trouble from Fen. We’re hoping if we divest fast, before the end of the week, Fen will have no hold on us. The shares he wanted will be dispersed among other investors, and Lottie will be safe—she’ll be able to retain the largest percentage of stock—and control of her business.” Tad met my stare. “Like I said before, Ms. Cosi. I was just trying to protect Lottie. I—”
The conversation had become so intense that we didn’t notice we were no longer alone until a shadow fell across the table. I looked up, stunned to see Detective Mike Quinn standing there, his sandy, windblown hair longer than usual. He had a five-o’clock shadow despite the fact that it was not even noon yet, and his face appeared gaunt, but his shoulders were as broad as ever. Only after his piercing blue eyes met mine did I notice Quinn was flanked by two policemen in uniform, neither of whom I recognized.
Quinn nodded silently in Matt’s direction, then faced me. The ice in his eyes momentarily warned. “Good to see you, Clare.”
“Hello Mike,” I said softly.
Matt glared, but Quinn didn’t seem to notice. His gaze smoothly shifted from me to Tad, turning glacial again as it focused on the paunchy man squirming in the overstuffed chair.
“Are you Tad Benedict?” Quinn asked.
“Yes, I’m Benedict.” Tad eyed him suspiciously. “What do you want?”
“I’m Detective Michael Quinn.” He flashed his badge. “I need to speak to you in private, Mr. Benedict.”
“No,” Tad shot back, defiant and worried at the same time. “We’ll talk right here. What’s this all about, anyway?”
“Do you know a Rena Garcia who resides at the Continental Arms Apartments?”
“Yeah. Sure. She’s my fiancée.”
I saw the uniformed cops exchange glances, and with a sick jolt of dread I sensed what was coming next.
“When was the last time you saw Ms. Garcia?” asked Quinn.
“Yesterday afternoon before my financial seminar…why?” Tad rose to his feet. “Listen, what’s going on here. Where’s Rena? Do I need to call my lawyer?”
Mike Quinn put his hand on Tad’s arm, squeezed it solicitously as he met the man’s gaze squarely. “I’m afraid I have some bad news for you, Mr. Benedict—”
Tad froze. “Rena…has something happened to Rena?”
“I’m sorry to inform you that Ms. Garcia was found dead in her apartment early this morning.”
“No, no!” Tad cried. “It’s a mistake!”
Quinn shook his head, reached into his natty trenchcoat, pulled out a Polaroid photograph, and showed it to Tad. I could just make out the face of a woman, raven-dark hair splayed like a crown around her head, her flesh cartoon pink against a blue background that could have been either a carpet