Espresso Shot

I ran down everything: the suspicious man hanging around Fen’s while Brea

“You’ve got a lot of observations, Cosi. What’s your conclusion?”

“When you get right down to it, this place is filled with the typical bitchy backbiting of office politics. It’s not pretty, but I don’t see anyone here with a grand vendetta to threaten Brea

“The meat cleaver goes beyond prankish, Mike. It feels like a real threat to her life, which is why I’m calling you now.”

“Does Brea

“No.” I closed my eyes. “She still thinks it’s a joke.”

“Well, no ADA I know would waste time on a case like that. Unless this guy Perry makes an actual threat to Brea

“Yeah, Mike. I think so. Otherwise, I’m relying on you to bail me out.”

“Bail you out?” Mike laughed. “With what? Since I lent you my checkbook to furnish my apartment, I’m broke.”

“Sorry, buddy, but a girl can eat only so many ‘picnics’ on a bare living room floor before it gets old-not to mention cold.”

“Honeymoon’s over, huh?”

“Not if you consider cuddling up on a new sofa romantic.”

“I do. What’s more, Cosi, I expect to see you on that very sofa tonight. When are you coming over?”

“I’ll get back to you, Qui

I closed the phone on Mike’s sputtering (I was still a little pissed at him for getting me into this) and left Bree’s office.

Roman was still at Terri’s desk.

“Okay,” I told him, “tonight’s more important than ever.”

“You mean the underground restaurant?”

“I’m going with you to Flushing, and I’m going to interview Neville Perry, try to press a few of his buttons. You can be a witness to any threats he makes or confessions of violent intentions toward Brea

“Sounds like a plan, Shirley Holmes.” Roman’s impish eyes danced. “It seems I really am going to be your Dr. Watson-your big, gay, epicurean Watson.”

“Right.”

“But, listen, honey, before you start solving crimes again…” Roman tapped his watch. “You’d better get that coffee made.”

Damn. The coffee…

I took off down the hall. On the way to the break room, I rang Matt and gave him the update on the cleaver, quietly warning him to keep Brea

“Talk her into eating takeout at her place tonight, okay? And for heaven’s sake, use a private car service. Don’t walk anywhere. Between that SUV last Friday and the look-alike shooting last night, the last place that woman should be is on a New York sidewalk.”

“You believe me now, Clare, don’t you?” Matt asked.

“I believe Brea

SIXTEEN

I met Roman at precisely seven thirty on the Times Square platform of the Number 7 line. We grabbed the last two seats aboard the first car, and the train took off, rumbling toward the East River and the borough of Queens.

On subway lines that ran through the touristy parts of Manhattan, laughter and conversation were common. On this line, at this hour, the quiet weariness was palpable, like an oppressive fog. The riders around us were recent immigrants, their tired eyes sca

Roman Brio failed to notice. His demeanor was giddy, anticipating a magical night in gastronomy land. “These underground restaurants provide quite a thrill. A few have been disappointing, but most are full of delights.”

I nodded silently. At the moment, I felt more simpatico with the other passengers. Matt’s wedding was four days away. I’d already worked hard on the advance prep, but there was still more to be done. I certainly didn’t want to be schlepping out to Flushing to talk to a disgruntled chef who could very well have the bride-to-be in his crosshairs.

Our train made two more stops under Manhattan ’s avenues, then it rolled beneath the East River, emerging minutes later out of its subterranean tu

Roman leaned close. “We’ve slipped the bonds of civilization and plunged into the untamed frontier of the metropolis. The culinary adventure begins!”

“We’re on our way to Flushing, Roman. Not Calcutta. Or are you testing the opening line of your next column?”

“I’m simply making an observation. To most residents of Manhattan, Queens is an undiscovered country. Sure, they come here to use the airports, but that’s it.”

“Not so true anymore.” (Having employed part-time workers who didn’t have Roman’s bank account, I knew Astoria and Long Island City were getting hotter by the year.) “Even young white-collar professionals are having trouble affording Manhattan rents. Queens is a close alternative.”

“I suppose you’re right.”

“No supposing about it.” I checked my watch. “Listen, we have a good forty-minute ride in front of us. Why don’t you fill me in on this Chef Perry feud with Brea

“No history. Those two only met in passing-parties, openings, that sort of thing.”

“Then the Trend exposé on Perry’s restaurant started it?”

“I told Brea

“Only broad strokes; I need details.”

As I gazed through the scuffed Plexiglas windows at passing shops, churches, and row houses, Roman explained how Brea

“And let’s not forget the frantic prepla

“What could be worse than serving expired product?”

“Tip pooling.”

“No.”

Tip pooling was frowned upon in the restaurant biz. Typically a waiter kept all of his or her own tips. In a restaurant that pooled, the waitstaff was forced to place all gratuities into a common kitty to be divided at the end of the day.

“It stinks,” I said, “but technically it’s not illegal.”