Latte Trouble - By Cleo Coyle Page 0,76

Bruno Magli leather loafers. Like a spider, the man slowly uncurled himself and rose to face me.

I hadn’t seen his image many times in my life, but I recognized him now. Having just seen his younger face, I’d knew he’d once been strikingly handsome, but obviously no Dorian Gray portrait of this guy was aging in some secret vault because the man looked old beyond his years—and it occurred to me that the roadmap of creases he now displayed probably did trace the dissolute excesses of his years.

Appropriately eccentric for the international fashion scene, the man sported small silver loops in each of his ears, and his hair, once dark and wavy, now hung in a long, gray braid down his back. The conventional features of his once common life had obviously been obliterated for the expected affectations of a more famous one. With curious, intense eyes he stared at me but didn’t approach.

“You’ve been asking a lot of questions about me, Ms. Cosi.”

“Good evening, Fen. Or should I call you Mr. Goldin?”

An intrigued gray eyebrow arched. “Actually I’m still Stephen Goldin, of Goldin Associates, though few connect my financial endeavors with my line of apparel. While I try to keep a foot in two worlds, I do like to keep them separate.”

“You didn’t have to kidnap me to have a meeting,” I replied. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you for days.”

“You and that tiresome detective, Quinn.” Fen waved his hand. “I have little time for such nonsense during Fashion Week.”

“There was time enough to grab me off the street, though.”

Fen chuckled. “Were you surprised by my associates?”

“Oh, no. In fact, I think I’ve seen them before—as extras on The Sopranos.”

“Some things are unavoidable, Ms. Cosi. I design and make my clothing here in America, and you know what that means. Those men…my associates…they help me avoid strikes and other union problems. They are useful in other areas as well.”

“Like kidnapping?”

“Like acquiring this place…I purchased it for a song from an entertainment entrepreneur who had an unfortunate gambling addiction, and was prone to borrowing money from the wrong men…”.

“Loan sharks, you mean. Your associates? How are they at poisoning people?” I shot a sharp glance at Bryan. He gave me a Billy Idol sneer.

Fen sighed. “Now you’re being tiresome.”

“Oh, am I? Then listen to this. I know you were Lottie Toratelli’s lover twenty years ago. I also know that you slept with Lottie’s sister during the same period, and that Mona ended up prematurely dead.”

Fen looked past me, gestured to his nephew. Bryan Goldin jumped to his feet and fetched a French Provincial chair from the corner. A matching chair came by way of the Japanese woman in the yellow kimono.

“Sit, Ms. Cosi. You have suddenly become interesting again.” I sank down, and Fen sat opposite me. He crossed his long legs and leaned toward me. “I had absolutely nothing to do with Mona Toratelli’s death. Nothing.”

Bryan Goldin appeared again and set a delicate carved table between us. The Japanese woman brought us a bottle of plum wine and two crystal glasses. Then she and Bryan Goldin slipped into the shadows of the room, appearing to vanish.

Fen picked up the bottle. While he poured the dark purple liquid into his glass, I examined my own—ran my finger inside it and sniffed. He laughed at me, a mirthless bark. “If I had wanted to poison you, Ms. Cosi, I wouldn’t have brought you to my club to do it. And I certainly wouldn’t be pouring us both drinks from the same bottle.”

I raised an eyebrow as he took the glass from my fingers and poured me a drink. “To your health,” he said, handing my glass back to me and raising his own. I watched him take a healthy swallow.

My lips were dry, my mouth parched. Needing something to calm my rattled nerves, I carefully sipped my own drink, detecting no taste of almonds or bitterness. The only two things that registered were the sweetness and the strength of the alcohol.

“Please, tell me more,” said Fen, taking another sip from his glass. “What else do you know about me—or think you do?”

I took a second sip of the sweet wine, then another before I spoke.

“I know you tried to force Rena Garcia and Tad Benedict to sell you their shares in Lottie Harmon,” I began. “I also know how you entrapped Rena in a fashion design knockoff scheme, blackmailed her, and threatened to expose her unless she sold you her