Latte Trouble - By Cleo Coyle Page 0,60

and weak. I couldn’t make out the words, but I heard Mr. Eighties’s reply.

“I’m going to pop downstairs for a soda,” he said. “Be right back.”

He turned his back to us and headed down the corridor to a second bank of elevators, without noticing us.

“Curiousier and curiousier,” I muttered.

Madame lifted her eyebrow, but said nothing. When Mr. Eighties was out of sight, we knocked on the door frame. The man who looked up from the crisp white sheets was a pale ghost of the handsome, virile, tanned young man who had appeared on Ricky Flatt’s arm at Lottie’s pre-rollout party. His pale face was sunken, his eyes dull. An intravenous tube flowed into his arm and a clear plastic oxygen tube was attached to his upper lip by gauze that wrapped around his head. His flesh was sallow and pale, almost translucent, and his skin seemed as crisp and dry as old parchment paper. When he looked up, Jeff Lugar raised an arm to shield his eyes from the bright afternoon sunlight streaming through a large window. His hand quaked from the effort.

“Jeff Lugar?” I began, stepping over the threshold. “I’m Clare Cosi and this is Mrs. Dubois…”

He fixed his eyes on us. They were bright, as if with fever. “Do I know you?” he whispered hoarsely.

I shook my head. “I was at Lottie Harmon’s party…I saw what happened to you and Mr. Flatt. I just thought I’d pay you a visit…see how you’re feeling.”

Jeff Lugar laughed bitterly. “I’m fine, just fine, or so the doctors tell me.”

“Indeed? Why, that’s excellent news,” Madame said with measured enthusiasm.

“Is it?” Jeff replied. He lifted a hand to brush his shock of hair away from his face. Once again, the limb trembled so much I couldn’t look away. Jeff Lugar followed my gaze, then lowered his arm quickly.

“Neural damage caused by oxygen depravation,” he explained. “Another delightful effect of the cyanide. There’s some brain damage as well, though I’m told it’s nominal—whatever that means.”

Jeff Lugar tried to laugh again, but coughed instead. When the hacking intensified, I stepped forward and poured him some water. He drank with rasping gulps.

“Thanks…the oxygen makes my mouth dry.” He tried to pass me back the plastic cup, splashed water on my wrist and arm.

“I’m sorry. I’m…I’m not the man I used to be.”

I sat in silence for a moment, while Madame gently queried Jeff Lugar about his home and family, his health and situation. When I spied an opening in the conversation, I jumped in.

“Do you know why someone would want to poison Ricky Flatt?”

“Maybe because Ricky was a little bitch.”

I blinked.

“Look,” Jeff Lugar rasped. “I can hardly blame that waiter for poisoning Ricky. Flatt was such a turd sometimes, the way he was goading his ex-boyfriend…”

“Were you jealous of Ricky’s old flame?”

Jeff shook his head. “No way. I couldn’t even stand Ricky. I was only there that night because Ricky insisted I come. Said it would boost my modeling career. It would be good for me to be seen—with him…or so he claimed.”

“So you’re sure it was the waiter who’s guilty?”

Jeff shrugged. “Who else? That’s who the police say did it and I believe them. Who am I to argue with the police?”

“Maybe Ricky wasn’t the intended victim,” I prodded. “Maybe someone else was supposed to die and you and Ricky just got in the way.”

Jeff nodded. “That’s what my friend Bryan said happened. He was there, too. Saw the whole thing. I guess it’s possible.”

“Who’s Bryan?”

“Bryan Goldin. You just missed him.”

“White-blond buzz cut? Billy Idol look?”

Jeff Lugar nodded. Mr. Eighties revealed at last, I thought.

“Will you be getting out soon?” Madame asked.

“I’m being moved to a rehab facility upstate, a six-month stay—that’s how long the doctors say it will take for me to fully recover my…capacities…”

We conversed for a few more minutes, until I noticed Jeff Lugar getting weaker. I touched Madame’s arm and we said our good-byes.

“That poor boy,” Madame sighed. “He looks simply terrible.”

“At least he’s above ground.”

“Yes, but I fear he has a long road to recovery.”

I could see Madame’s heart ached for Jeff Lugar. I was sad for the man, too, but my mind was more focused on Bryan Goldin. In a city of ten million people and a fashion industry of thousands he’d turned up three times now. At the rollout party, Bryan Goldin had seemed unattached, yet on the yacht he appeared to be a member of Lebreaux’s entourage. Now here he was again, this time as an apparent