The man met my eyes, his eyebrow arching suggestively, and I thought immediately about my philandering ex-husband.

Oh, God, Matt… what did you do?

My mind raced back to that night on Hudson Street. I never got the impression that he and Hazel had met before, but then she was a professional, and Matt was well-practiced in denial where one-night stands were concerned.

I stood up, placed my hands on his desk. “I’m getting tired of this game, Mr. Knox. What exactly are you trying to say? Put your cards on the table.”

“I intend to-in Monday’s edition of the Journal. Two days after Breanne’s society wedding, you’ll have all the answers you like in headlines, photos, and newsprint. Until then, this file stays closed.”

“You’re bluffing.”

“Hardly. And feel free to pass that on to Ms. Summour. Tell that designer-draped python that a near-fatal mugging is a walk in the park compared to what I have in store for her.” Knox stood, too, held my eyes. “I promise you, Ms. Cosi, when the Journal goes to press in the wee hours of Monday morning, Breanne Summour will wish she were dead.”

The intercom buzzed, cutting the tension in the room. Knox punched the button. “Yes!”

“Your five o’clock appointment’s arrived.”

Knox straightened his bright-red tie, and I blanched, thinking of the fresh blood I’d seen dripping down Breanne’s ivory shoulder.

“Duty calls,” Knox said. “You can find your own way out.”

Dismissed, we left the man’s office. But the visit wasn’t over yet. As we walked toward the reception area, I noticed a heavyset, middle-aged woman approaching from the opposite direction. She had a rosy complexion, wore attractive auburn highlights in her short cocoa-brown hair, and was stylishly dressed in a loose black pantsuit.

Her mood seemed buoyant, but when she spied Madame, her face fell. As the two women passed each other, they nodded a curt greeting. Then the heavier woman hastily moved on.

“Madame, do you know that woman?” I whispered. “Because she sure seems to know you.”

Madame nodded. “That’s Miriam Perry of Perry Realty.”

“Chef Neville Perry’s mother? The woman who lost a small fortune when Breanne published an exposé on Neville’s restaurant?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, spill. How do you know her?”

“Miriam set her sights on the Blend a few years ago. She was trying to broker a deal in the name of a corporate giant who coveted our Hudson Street address.”

“She was trying to buy the Blend out from under you?”

Madame nodded. “She wanted to turn my beloved coffeehouse into a fast-food franchise.”

“Which one?”

“Funky Town Fried Chicken.” Madame shuddered. “I rebuffed her, of course, told Mrs. Perry that she was destroying the character of the neighborhood with her real estate deals. I told her that I wasn’t going to stand by and let her turn Greenwich Village into a pale facsimile of the Mall of America.”

I blew out air, my gaze returning to the heavyset Mrs. Perry. She walked right to the corner office where Randall Knox stood waiting for her. They greeted each other like old friends.

“Thank you, Randy, for everything,” Miriam Perry gushed, air kissing the diminutive Knox.

“The pleasure’s mine.” Knox led the woman into his den.

While Mrs. Perry settled in, they talked and laughed. Then the two lifted paper cups-presumably filled with whiskey shots.

“I’ll drink to that,” Mrs. Perry said before Knox moved to close his office door.

I turned to Madame. “Don’t you find it suspicious that Mrs. Perry and her buddy Randy are toasting each other the same afternoon Breanne was attacked and nearly killed?”

“I do, indeed, my dear.”

We took the elevator down to Eighth Avenue. The sidewalks were jammed with commuters, traffic was snarled, car horns were honking. The sun had disappeared, taking the day’s brightness with it, and above the skyscrapers, storm clouds were painting my city the color of cemetery stone.

Madame flagged down a cab, and we climbed into the backseat. As the driver took off, she turned to me.

“It seems there’s much more to this case than one angry ex-husband.”

I nodded. “Neville Perry and his mother, Randall Knox and his vendetta, Monica Purcell and her deal to dish dirt on her own boss. And who knows what else is out there…”

“Lots of threads,” Madame said.

“And they’re tangled together worse than the Gordian knot.”

“Maybe there’s a single strand you can pull that will unravel the whole thing.”

“Maybe,” I said, channeling Mike Quinn. “But maybe isn’t going to solve this case.”

TWENTY-NINE

WHILE the evening rush washed over Manhattan, the postwork crush swept through the Village Blend. Today the crowd was literally spilling out the front door. Feeling depleted and defeated, I waded through the mob, the rich, earthy scents of freshly roasted coffee beans leading me toward the espresso bar like a lurching zombie.

“Caffeine… must have caffeine.”

“Hey, Clare!” Tucker Burton called. “What’s up?”

“Hit me twice, Tuck. I need it bad.”

“You got it, sweetie.”

It was my day off, but I stepped around the marble counter anyway to check on the state of the shop. Tucker-my lanky, floppy-haired assistant manager-was in charge today, and we briefly chatted about the employees, the stock, and the machinery. The normalcy of it all felt reassuring, along with the news that everything in my house was under control.

Since my people were veterans at dealing with a postwork rush, I let Tuck shoo me away. Picking up my double espresso, I headed across the crowded room to a just-vacated café table near the fireplace.

The Pisco Sour or Randall Knox (or both) had given me a slight headache, but the warmth of my double espresso was starting to cut through the bewildering fog of alcohol and vitriol. As my taste buds soaked up the nutty, caramelized flavors, my wedged platform sandals began tapping to the electronic drum machines of Tucker’s retro eighties mix.

Tuck must be psychic, I decided, because the titles playing over the Blend’s speakers were like a sound track to the events of my week: New Order’s “Blue Monday” followed by Boy George’s “Do You Really Want to Hurt Me,” the Eurythmics’ “Would I Lie to You,” and Billy Idol’s “White Wedding.”

“Okay,” I muttered, “if Cher comes on next with her eighties retread of ‘Bang, Bang, My Baby Shot Me Down,’ I’m going to lose it.”

But the next song I heard didn’t come from the Blend’s audio speakers. It came from my handbag. I pulled out my cell and silenced the ringtone, then checked the display and smiled.

“Hi, Mike. I knew you’d call when you had the chance.”

“Are you okay, sweetheart? Lori Soles just told me you witnessed a mugging today-in a restaurant bathroom. Is that right?”

“I’m fine, but it was an attempted murder not a mugging…”

I filled Quinn in on the details, along with my conversation at the Journal with Randall Knox and the little toast I spotted him sharing with Neville Perry’s mother. When I finished, Quinn remained silent for a few seconds.

“Knox sounds wrong, Clare. He has a strong motive to be involved with a revenge scheme. So does Mrs. Perry. But you need-”

“Evidence-I know! Have you gotten anything out of Stuart Winslow yet? Maybe they’re all working together.”

“Sorry, sweetheart. I don’t have good news for you on Winslow.”

I groaned, forecasting the need for another doppio espresso. Rapidamente. “Tell me.”

“When we got him down to the Sixth, he started talking without a lawyer-ranting, mostly. But he wouldn’t admit to anything. After a few hours of questioning, he finally lawyered up and clammed up.”

“Where does that leave us?”

“I can tell you where it leaves him. Free as a bird. He’s on his way to being arraigned right now. He should be out on bail very soon.”