A Brew to a Kill (15 page)

I exhaled in frustration. Esther had come to the same conclusion I had. Kaylie did seem the likeliest suspect behind Lilly’s hit-and-run. But this article wasn’t going to help us prove it to the district attorney’s office.

Yes, it solidified my feelings about Kaylie’s motives; it even refocused the target as Lilly, instead of just some “random” Blend customer; but it did something else, as well.

“This article gives Kaylie legal cover, Esther, and that’s not good news.”

“What do you mean?”

“If the police don’t find hard evidence connecting Kaylie—or a member of her crew—to last night’s crime, then she can point to this piece and claim Lilly had many enemies. Her lawyer can argue that any food-truck vendor might have been fed up enough to take a swipe at her with a service van.”

“Okay,” Esther said. “But we know different. So what are we going to do about it? We can’t just stand by and let that Paris pink poseur get away with running down our friend—and right in front of our shop!”

I checked my watch. Detective Buckman hadn’t contacted me yet, but I knew he would. In the meantime, I brought Esther up to speed on what I’d done so far to help—how I’d found that YouTube video and asked Dante to track down the kid who’d shot it.

“If we’re lucky, our little Spielberg recorded the hit-and-run, too. By now he would have sent the files to Buckman. When the detective calls, I’ll ask him if he’s found anything useful in the footage—”

I stopped talking when I saw three men walking through our open French doors. Dante and two guests. The older man I didn’t recognize. He wore a summer-weight olive suit and a serious expression. The youngest of the trio, however, was still clad in the same electric green Speedos I’d seen him wearing the night before.

Dante ushered the men to a table near the fireplace and waved me over. The older man in the suit removed a leather bicycle glove and shook my hand with a warm, firm grip.

“My name is John Fairway. I’m a practicing attorney and director of the alternative transportation advocacy group Two Wheels Good. I’m here to represent this young man in both of these capacities.”

Tall and slightly gangly, Fairway struck me as mid-thirties, though his lined, sun-dried complexion and silver-blond crew cut gave the impression of his being older. He would have had the outward demeanor of your average lawyer, calm and staid with a conservative suit—except for the rainbow banana helmet dangling from his arm, the Day-Glo orange mini-pack strapped to his back, and the bright yellow bicycle ties around his suit pants.

“And this is Calvin Hermes.” Dante gestured to the kid in Speedos. “Calvin is a bicycle messenger for Citywide Quick-Delivery. He shot the YouTube video of Esther you told me about last night.”

From his name and uniquely attractive features, I deduced that Calvin Hermes was of Afro-Greek heritage. The kid couldn’t have been more than twenty, with a dark complexion and ebony curls that contrasted sharply with wide, light blue eyes as captivating as a young Paul Newman’s. Like most bike messengers, Calvin didn’t appear to have an ounce of fat on his lean form.

I sensed the kid was nervous, and immediately tried to allay his fears.

“Thank you for coming, Calvin. I hope Dante made it clear that you’re not in any trouble and you don’t need a lawyer. But I’m glad you and Mr. Fairway are here, because we really need your help.”

Calvin visibly relaxed, and Fairway cleared his throat.

“I think I know the reason for this meeting, Ms. Cosi. You want to know if Calvin captured footage of the hit-and-run in front of this coffeehouse last night.”

“Dante told you about the incident?”

“He didn’t have to. I have a network of cyclists who keep me informed. When one of my people witnesses an injury or fatality caused by a motor vehicle, they forward the data they gather to me electronically, in the form of text messages, photographs, or video recordings.”

“And you pass this information on to the authorities.” That seemed obvious, but Fairway shook his head.

“No. We don’t.”

I blinked, certain he’d misunderstood. “What I meant to say was, I’m sure you give this evidence to the police, right?”

“No, Ms. Cosi,” the lawyer said. “That’s why we’re here. The police are the problem.”

“E
XCUSE
me?” I said. “In a world of rampant corruption, gang violence, terrorism, and drunk drivers, the
police
are the problem?”

“The NYPD has displayed a bias against cyclists and pedestrians—and a cavalier attitude toward reckless driving. What I do is assess data, Ms. Cosi, and then I circulate it to the rest of my group in the form of a ‘Wheels Down’ alert.”

“And what is a Wheels Down alert?”

“Let me explain in a manner you can fully appreciate: One of the goals of Two Wheels Good is to stop reckless drivers. Our members are my eyes and ears. Just last month an anonymous tip from one of my people helped capture a woman who’d fled the scene after running down a child on Queens Boulevard.”

“But surely justice would be better served if the authorities had your evidence to help them.”

“Certainly, when legally compelled by the NYPD or district attorney’s office, we turn over evidence specifically requested. As far as
justice
, however…” Fairway’s eyes turned flinty. “Most drivers who kill pedestrians in New York City
are permitted to leave the scene of the crime without arrest, sometimes with no more than a ticket. It’s an unspoken truth that no driver gets charged in a fatal accident unless they violate more than two traffic laws. On top of that, ten to fifteen percent of drivers guilty of vehicular homicide never get prosecuted due to the mistakes of a botched police investigation.”

I couldn’t argue with Fairway’s statistics, mainly because I didn’t have any of my own. But I knew studies and statistics could be presented in narrow contexts in order to push agendas. So I never drank the Kool-Aid when an obvious advocate quoted figures. I always assumed there was another side.

On the other hand… given Mike’s sad tale of Max Buckman’s murdered wife, I suspected John Fairway had a pedal to stand on with this one. Even Mike admitted:
“When it comes to using vehicles as deadly weapons, there are lots of ways people can get away with murder.”

“I’m still steamed about that Williamsburg incident,” Dante said. “An artist was killed riding his bicycle on a Brooklyn street.”

Fairway quickly nodded. “The police failed to gather enough evidence to prosecute the driver, even though he fled the scene. Then the police tried to cover their own stupidity by blaming the cyclist.”

“The story’s true,” Dante assured me, nodding his shaved head. “And when that failed, the NYPD tried giving the victim’s family the bureaucratic runaround.”

“A good example, Dante,” Fairway continued. “Yet for every vehicular homicide that wins the publicity of the Williamsburg incident, ten more are ignored. Two weeks ago, a prominent Manhattan plastic surgeon was run down during an early morning bicycle ride. There were no witnesses and the police have yet to make an arrest.”

Fairway leaned across the table. “Even more tragic, this senseless murder was considered so routine it rated very little media coverage on a busy news day. With such public apathy, you can see why the police are seldom interested in the evidence
my organization gathers. And in most cases our evidence is inadmissible in criminal court.”

“Why is that?”

“Primarily because it’s gathered anonymously. My people don’t trust the police and they won’t cooperate with the authorities.”

“Okay then, if you don’t pass evidence on to the cops, who
do
you give it to?”

“When enforcement fails, lawsuits are the next best option. We pass our data on to the families of the victim and their lawyers, who pursue justice in civil court.”

Fairway slid an unmarked manila folder across the slick marble. “In this case, I’m passing the evidence on to you, Ms. Cosi. I shall be
watching
you to see how it’s used.”

I ignored the odd Big Brother–esque threat, and opened the folder. Inside I found two blurry photos. The first showed the rear end of a white van. The second image was an enlargement of the first.

“Oh, my god. Esther, look at this!”

The first two numbers on the New York State license plate were clearly legible in the enlargement, though the rest were blocked by evening shadows.

“You claim these photos were taken last night?” I asked excitedly.

“Yes,” Fairway said. “Calvin was on scene, taping this lady’s performance poetry. He had his smart phone handy when the attempted murder took place—”

“Excuse me?” I interrupted. “You just said ‘attempted murder,’ which implies you’re aware that the driver had a motive. How could you be aware of that? Do you know something about this incident the police don’t?”

Fairway shifted uneasily. “You’re reading too much into my words, Ms. Cosi. I simply meant that there is no such thing as an ‘accident’ when a pedestrian or cyclist is run down by an internal combustion engine. In New York City, cars kill more people than guns. Did you know that?”

“I’ve never thought much about it.”

“That’s the problem. There are too many uninformed,
unmotivated
members of the public out there. This town had the good sense to ban guns. Why not the automobile?”

I was about to reply when Esther beat me to it—

“That
sounds
very noble,” she said, adjusting her black-framed glasses. “But what do
you
get out of all of this advocacy?”

He smiled. “Two Wheels Good dreams of a day when no personal cars or trucks are permitted in Manhattan—and deliveries are made only with special permits. Innocent lives are claimed every day. The authorities are indifferent, so we at Two Wheels Good are sometimes forced to resort to… other means.”

His words hung in the air for a moment. “Other means?” I echoed. “You’re not actually going to argue that your cause puts you above the law?”

“The statistics speak for themselves. We do what we must. What we deem necessary for the greater good.”

Esther and I exchanged uneasy glances.

“Hey, listen,” she said. “I don’t like cars, either. And I hate traffic. I even admire some of your goals. But guess what? I don’t like opaque innuendo about ‘other means’ and ‘doing what’s necessary’ coupled with vague threats like ‘we’re watching you,’ because, frankly, as we know from history, ‘above the law’ rhetoric can end up with the ‘wrong’ sort of people being herded into showers that have Zyklon B on tap instead of hot water.”

“You have a right to your opinion, Ms. Best.”

Fairway’s voice had gone cold though his smile never wavered. Rising, he slipped the banana helmet over his bristly blond scalp. Calvin Hermes stood, too, and checked his smart phone for messages.

“You must excuse us. Calvin has work, and I’m expected at a rally in front of the Brooklyn borough president’s office. If you need to reach me for any reason, here’s my contact information.”

Fairway’s business card was as odd as he was. No phone
number. No office address. Fairway’s name didn’t even appear. Just an orange plastic rectangle with an e-mail address under a Two Wheels Good logo—a Victorian-era bicycle with a huge front wheel.

Calvin Hermes took off after that, but Fairway lingered for a moment, surprising Esther by offering his hand.

“I would be remiss, Ms. Best, if I did not add that you are a very talented performance artist. I have been following you with pleasure on the Internet.” His gaze slipped for a moment to admire her ample bustier cleavage. Then it moved back up to meet her shocked brown eyes. “It was my personal honor to meet you. I’m sure we’ll meet again.”

When lawyer and client were gone, Esther let out a freaked-out scream.

Dante smirked. “I can see he won your heart and mind.”

She put her hands to her full cheeks and shook her head. “That guy was too
weird
.”

“Well, he certainly had the hots for you,” Dante noted. “And I thought you liked weird.”