Decaffeinated Corpse (19 page)
Read Decaffeinated Corpse Online
Authors: Cleo Coyle
Tags: #Mystery And Suspense Fiction, #General, #Fiction, #Detective, #Mystery, #Mystery & Detective - Women Sleuths, #Fashion, #Mystery & Detective, #Fiction - Mystery, #Mystery & Detective - General, #Coffeehouses, #Suspense, #Women Sleuths, #Cosi; Clare (Fictitious character), #Mystery fiction, #Restaurants - Employees
Downstairs we’d already discussed strategy. The plan was simple. Madame would show the receptionist her set of keys and claim that she’d seen an Asian gentleman drop them when he’d parked his SUV near Dag Hammarskjöld plaza.
If the receptionist offered to take the keys, Madame would refuse to give them up, requesting a chance to speak to the man himself. When he appeared, she’d challenge him, recounting his movements and demand that he give up the name of the person who’d hired him to tail Ellie.
I didn’t like the idea of direct confrontation, but I couldn’t think of a better scheme at the moment, and my former mother-in-law felt confident she could make this work. Maybe she could. Madame was the sort of regal dame with whom most people were reluctant to argue. Secret Asian Man might be one of them.
Given the fact that he was a professional investigator, however, I was willing to bet we were in over our heads. My bookie dad probably would have given us 7 to 3 odds: the long-shot being our actually getting the information for which we came and the more likely scenario landing us unceremoniously on the sidewalk downstairs.
While the receptionist continued talking on the phone, Madame and I settled into the standard issue waiting-room furniture. Madame pawed through the magazines and brochures on the coffee table. I glanced around the room.
“Are you nervous?” I whispered.
“Not at all,” Madame replied, opening one of the office’s glossy brochures. “Just a little impatient.” She dipped into her handbag and pulled out her reading glasses. “This is interesting . . .” she murmured a minute later.
“What?” I asked, my eyes still on the receptionist.
“This office is being run by a man named Anil Kapoor, but it’s only one branch of a global company. Have a look . . .”
I took the brochure, and began to read:
At Worldwide Private Investigations, Inc. (WPI), our licensed private investigators, forensic experts, and legal information specialists achieve results. With offices around the globe, we are especially equipped for international investigations, including missing persons, marital and child custody cases, property and copyright disputes, extradition and asset inquiries as well as a host of other investigations and security needs. At WPI, no case is too big, or too small. Whether you are an individual, a C-level executive, or a government official, you can rest assured that our confidentiality is paramount.
Many of our agents are bilingual and are culturally, nationality, and gender diverse. All must clear a thorough background check prior to employment. In addition to military and law enforcement sectors, WPI recruits talent from private service industries such as accounting, computer information systems, and . . .
My gaze returned to one of the company names. “Terra-Green . . .”
“What did you say, Clare?”
I pointed to the brochure. “TerraGreen International,” I whispered, “they’re a client of this office’s protective services division, and Ellie’s husband works for them.”
Madame’s eyebrows rose. “You’re sure?”
I nodded. “About two or three years after Ellie and Ric broke up, she was still dropping by the Blend. I remember she’d gone through a stint interning at the TerraGreen labs on Long Island. That’s how she first met her husband, Jerry Lassiter. He was an executive with the company.”
“Did you say labs? What sort of company is this TerraGreen?”
“They make fertilizers and plant foods. Back then, I think Ellie was working on some sort of project to genetically engineer crops.”
Madame frowned in thought for a moment. “Ellie was an intern and her husband was an executive when they first met? Is that what you said?”
“Yes.”
“Then there must have been quite a few years between them.”
“He’s at least fifteen years her senior.”
Madame sighed. “It seems we have a classic recipe here. Older, rich husband provides a young Ellie with security and stability, but years later, she begins yearning for the adventure and passion she lost. Enter old flame Ric . . .”
“But is Jerry Lassiter having his wife followed to document infidelity?” I whispered. “Or is there more to it?”
“What more could there be?”
“Ric was mugged last night. I doubt a professional investigator got involved with something like that.”
“So you think Jerry Lassiter did the deed himself?”
“Or he hired someone to do it. Yes, that’s what I think. What I can’t do is prove it. I’m not even sure of his real motive.”
“Real motive?”
“Don’t you see? He could be after Ric’s hybrid cutting . . . or he could be out to make it look like someone else is after it, so if harm comes to Ric the police will look for another suspect.”
“Oh, yes. I see. If Jerry Lassiter is afraid of losing his wife to Ric, maybe his solution is to lose Ric first?”
“Exactly.”
“Well, my dear, as far as proving it, we need to start right here with this agency. TerraGreen may be on its client list, but that doesn’t prove Jerry Lassiter hired them to tail his wife.”
“I know, and that’s why we’re going to dump your ‘lost keys’ approach.”
“We are?”
“Yes.”
“Then what are we going to do?”
“I think we should—”
The front door opened just then and I stopped talking. A well-dressed gentleman boldly strode up to the receptionist as if he owned the place. When I caught sight of his face, I realized he did.
Tapping Madame on the shoulder, I pointed to the section of the brochure that displayed the photo and bio of the man standing right in front of us.
Now retired from his official work, he runs the New York branch of WPI. Located near the United Nations and the diplomatic office for which his office often consults, he has assembled a New York team with extensive experience in criminal investigations and intelligence collection from around the world.
Mr. Kapoor’s education and studies include: Princeton University, Bachelor of Arts degree in Sociology and Business; D.E.A. Executive Management and Financial Investigations; Harvard University, graduate course on National and Internal Security; USDA Graduate School Performance Audits.
As he spoke to the receptionist, Madame leaned toward me. “Clare,” she whispered. “What do you want us to do?”
“Just go along with me,” I whispered in reply. Then I silently pointed to the brochure and Anil Kapoor’s bio. Madame began to read it over.
“Ladies?” the receptionist called after Mr. Kapoor left the waiting room and headed towards the agency’s offices. “Do you have an appointment?”
“No, we don’t.” I rose from the couch and moved toward her desk. “This company was recommended to us . . . and we were in the neighborhood today, visiting friends at the French Embassy, so we thought we might just drop in and ask a few questions . . .”
I ran out of words, but Madame was ready—
“
Oui, oui
. . .” she said, summoning her old French accent. “We’re a bit uncertain about the whole process,
comprenez-vous
? But of course if no one is available to talk to us about your company, we can call for an appointment,
une certaine autre heure, oui
? I believe there’s another agency the deputy secretary recommended . . .” Madame made a show of looking through her Prada bag. She glanced at me. “Do you have that other agency’s card, my dear, or do I?”
Oui, oui
. . .” she said, summoning her old French accent. “We’re a bit uncertain about the whole process,
comprenez-vous
? But of course if no one is available to talk to us about your company, we can call for an appointment,
une certaine autre heure, oui
? I believe there’s another agency the deputy secretary recommended . . .” Madame made a show of looking through her Prada bag. She glanced at me. “Do you have that other agency’s card, my dear, or do I?”
The receptionist quickly spoke up. “I’m sure you won’t have to leave before seeing someone. Just give us another few minutes, and I’ll ask if Mr. Kapoor’s available. If not, I’m sure a member of his staff will answer all of your questions.”
“
Merci
,” Madame replied.
Merci
,” Madame replied.
“Your names please?” the receptionist asked.
Five minutes later, the young woman was escorting us into a corner office. The decor in here was markedly different from the bland waiting room. Mahogany bookshelves lined the walls with leather-bound volumes. A thick Persian rug of sapphire, jade, and ruby covered a parquet floor, and the large room was dominated by a substantial desk of dense wood lacquered a shiny black.
Behind a sleek flat-panel computer monitor sat Anil Kapoor. He rose when we entered, his hand moving to smooth his pearl colored tie.
“May I present Madame Marie LaSalle and her daughter, Vanessa LaSalle,” the receptionist announced.
“Madame, mademoiselle,” Mr. Kapoor said. He extended his hand and we all politely shook. Then the receptionist backed out of the room and her boss gestured to the two mahogany chairs in front of his desk.
“What may I do for you today?” Mr. Kapoor asked, discreetly swiveling his whisper-thin computer monitor to the side.
“We have a few questions for you,” I began. “We’re looking to hire an investigator to help . . . with an investigation.”
One of Mr. Kapoor’s dark eyebrows rose very slightly. “What sort of investigation?”
“Well, the details are . . . they’re very private. First we have some questions about your agency . . . you understand?”
Mr. Kapoor shifted in his chair, gave me a polite smile. “I’ll answer any questions, if I can.”
“You see, this is the first time we’d be using you, although a friend of ours recommended you to us.”
“And who might that be?”
“He’s an executive,” I said, “with TerraGreen International.”
“Oh? What division?”
“Division? I . . . I’m not sure . . .”
“What country then?” Mr. Kapoor asked.
“The U.S. He’s based right here in Long Island.”
“I see.”
“Anyway,” I said, “Jerry mentioned to us that he’s very happy with the case you’re working on now for him . . .”
Mr. Kapoor’s forehead wrinkled. “Jerry?”
“Jerry Lassiter, of course. He did give me the right agency? You’re investigating his wife, Ellie, aren’t you?”
The man remained quiet for a long moment, his dark eyes studying me and then Madame. “I’d like to be helpful,” he said, “but I’m not familiar with every case this agency handles. And, of course, it’s not our policy to discuss any ongoing investigation. Now, tell me a bit about your needs. What sort of case do you have?” His eyes squinted a fraction. “If you really have one . . .”
“Of course we have one. It’s . . . it’s a case of . . .”
“It’s a missing person’s case,” Madame levelly replied.
“I see,” said Mr. Kapoor. “Man, woman, or child?”
“Man,” said Madame.
“Age?” Mr. Kapoor asked.
“About thirty,” Madame replied.
“And where was he last seen?”
Madame glanced out the window a moment. “The French Riviera.”
“Can you be more specific?”
“The beaches of Nice. It’s simply a question of finding the man again, you see?” Madame said. “After he shared himself for a few unforgettable months, he simply disappeared.”
“Oh, yes. I think I see now.” Mr. Kapoor nodded. “It’s a love affair?”
“But of course,” Madame replied.
Mr. Kapoor locked eyes with me. “And exactly how long did this missing man and your daughter have this love affair?”
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