Read Online French Pressed by Cleo Coyle - Free Book Online

which was probably smart, considering we had zero time to act on the other subject.
    “My investigation?” I knocked back more coffee, refilled my mug.
    “Come on, Clare. You mentioned going to Joy’s restaurant tonight, and I know you didn’t choose it for the ambiance. You went to check up on your daughter, right?”
    “Right. I admit it. Wasn’t that easy? And you didn’t even have to beat it out of me.”
    “Well? How did it go?”
    “Not very well, I’m sorry to tell you.”
    “Why not?”
    Mike’s brow knitted as I recounted my evening, from the schizoid dinner of perfect food and lousy coffee to my daughter being threatened by a knife-wielding, probably drug-addled sous-chef. When I finally finished, he leaned forward, his mouth tight.
    “And where was the great Tommy Keitel during all of this?”
    “He was missing in action. Joy says he’s been disappearing a lot lately, and tonight I saw it for myself. This executive chef came in after dinner service was over—and with this creepy guy named Nick in tow.”
    “Creepy how?”
    “His demeanor, I guess. I mean, I’ve seen all types in the Village, believe me, but this guy was hard-core intense. His skin was extremely pale, and his brown hair was longish, but not in a trendy way. It just hung there, you know? And he was dressed all in black—which, again, isn’t exactly atypical for New York. But these clothes weren’t in the least fashionable. He didn’t utter a word to me, even after we were introduced, and he wore these pointy boots and a black leather blazer, the kind the outer-boroughs guys wear.”
    I suddenly thought of Esther’s boyfriend. BB Gun had been wearing a black leather blazer that was a lot like Nick’s.
    “Anything else you remember?” Mike asked.
    “Yeah. When Tommy introduced me to Nick, he said the man was from Brighton Beach.”
    “Brighton Beach, huh? That area of Brooklyn is full of Russians.”
    “So?”
    “So it’s a long way from Manhattan. Why’s Keitel hanging with a guy like that?”
    “I can’t imagine.”
    “Yes, you can, Clare. The black leather blazer’s a popular rag with the wiseguys. Do you know if Keitel owns his restaurant?”
    “He doesn’t.” I related what I’d overheard during Brigitte’s meltdown. “One of the men on the staff loudly reminded Brigitte that she was under contract just like Tommy Keitel.”
    “So.” Mike paused, put down his cup. “Tommy doesn’t own the restaurant. Which means he answers to an owner—or owners. And restaurants like Solange aren’t cheap. Starting a place like that must cost a cool million—”
    “Six.”
    “No.”
    “Yeah. David Mintzer told me it costs around six million to get a-two-hundred seat restaurant off the ground in midtown Manhattan. And to maintain it, the cost is something like five to eight hundred dollars per square foot per month, just for rent.”
    Mike whistled. “I guess that’s why a martini in those joints costs eighteen bucks.”
    “And a lamb chop is forty-four. Yeah, that’s why.”
    “Well, there you go,” Mike said. “The picture seems clear enough to me.”
    “What picture?”
    “Put the pieces together, Clare. Somebody with big money is backing Tommy’s restaurant. Tommy goes missing from dinner service. Nobody knows why or where he’s gone. Then he shows up late with some creepy guy in wiseguy rags from Brighton Beach—”
    “You’re saying Nick’s attached to the Russian mob? That Tommy got his financing by way of some corrupt gangsters from the eastern bloc?”
    Mike leaned back, folded his arms. “You know and I know the Italian mob has a long history of funding food-related businesses in New York. They practically owned the Fulton Fish Market before Giuliani cleaned it up. And where the Italians have lost ground, the Russians have been moving in to take it up.”
    “I don’t know…” I shook my head. “Mob or no mob, the problem from my point of view isn’t Tommy and his backers. I mean,