Three

CUFFED and Mirandized, Gun Girl was soon seated in the same high-back chair where she’d cornered her Cinder-fella. One police officer was posted by her side, while a half dozen more wandered around our upstairs lounge.

With its antique lamps and eclectic mix of furniture, our second floor had the look and feel of a bohemian apartment—and given the cramped state of most Village flats and NYU dorms, many residents actually did use our lounge as their living room.

This space is where Esther held her poetry slams; Tucker staged read-throughs and auditions for shows he was directing; and our community celebrated special events.

These historic walls (covered with works by artists whom Madame had cheered up, warmed up, or sobered up over the past six decades) had seen everything from band rehearsals to baby showers and bar mitzvahs. But tonight was no party. As of thirty minutes ago, this space had become a crime scene.

I recognized most of the uniformed cops milling around. They were all good customers, especially Patrolmen Langley and Demetrios. These longtime regulars on the Hudson Street beat were now updating the young detective on the scene.

“She never talked. Not even when I read her rights,” Officer Langley said. “But I got her to nod that she understood, so it’s legit . . .”

He was right about her despondency. When I’d hugged the young woman, I felt all the fight go out of her. Once the drama was over, she deflated like a sinking raft. Now her head was bowed, her gaze fixed on the floor, her loose honey-colored hair veiling an expressionless face.

Officer Demetrios lowered his voice. “I think she might be off her meds or something . . .”

I considered that observation. The way her manic performance instantly flatlined to dazed silence, she might have been off her medications—or on illegal narcotics.

“And this was the only weapon you recovered?” Detective Sergeant Emmanuel Franco displayed the gun, now encased in an evidence bag.

Langley nodded. “Funny, huh?”

Detective Franco frowned. “Not for her.”

“You want me to wait?” Langley asked.

Franco shook his shaved head. “Take her back to the precinct and start processing her.”

The two officers carefully helped Gun Girl out of her seat and led her away. Detective Franco stayed behind.

Another Village Blend regular, Franco had been nearby when the report of shots fired came over his police radio. As a concerned friend, he rushed to the scene—though the man was much more “friendly” with my daughter, Joy Allegro.

As ranking officer, he took charge of the investigation, which (no surprise) utterly annoyed my ex-husband.

Matt disliked uniforms in general and policemen in particular, the result of too many encounters with corrupt officials in developing countries that just happened to grow excellent coffee. But his animosity toward Emmanuel Franco went far beyond Matt’s typical penchant for uniform scorn.

Franco had arrested my ex-husband—more than once.

Truth be told, he’d arrested me, too, but I got over it. Matt never did. Even worse, Franco had captured the heart of Daddy’s little girl. For that, I worried Matt would never forgive the man, whom he alternately referred to as a “mook” or a “slob,” depending on his mood or the weather.

To be fair, Matt was spot-on about Franco’s typical dress-for-distress wardrobe. Stained hoodies, old T-shirts, scruffy denims, and scuffed work boots were the usual attire for the young detective—job-appropriate choices since he spent most of his time on undercover work for the OD Squad (the nickname of an elite NYPD task force that focused on investigating drug overdoses).

But tonight was different.

Franco was put together like I’d never seen. A charcoal gray jacket, immaculately tailored, hugged his muscular frame. Sans tie, his ebony Egyptian cotton shirt was open at the neck. His biker boots had been replaced by upmarket footwear no down-market cop should be able to afford.

“Going to the prom?” I asked.

He grinned and fingered the collar. “Nice, huh?” he said.

I waited for an explanation. He could see I was curious. But he offered none. Instead, after an awkward pause, he looked suddenly uncomfortable and turned away.

After directing officers outside to grab statements from witnesses still on the scene, he instructed me to take a seat in the lounge and wait for him to take my statement. Matt joined me, and together we both watched (and listened) as Franco spoke with the victim.

Richard Crest, an investment banker of some sort, was agitated. Not because of his recent brush with death. Crest was stewing because Gun Girl had cracked his phone screen when she kicked the device across the room.

“I should make her pay for damages,” he griped, cursing as he tried to resuscitate his phone.

Franco gripped his elbow and directed him to a chair beside the wood-burning hearth. In the flickering glow of the still-crackling fire, the two young men appraised each other.

Manny Franco’s poker face betrayed nothing while Richard Crest’s disparaging gaze took its time looking over Franco’s new suit. Crest grudgingly approved. Only then did he begin to talk.

“The girl and I hooked up two or three weeks ago—through Cinder. We had a few laughs, went back to my place. I sent her packing the next morning, shook her loose, end of story—except she kept bugging me, so I told her she was a gold-digging whore, and I blocked her from my account.”

Franco raised an eyebrow. “You called her a gold-digging whore?”

“Sure. I’ve got to be honest, right? A lot of these bitches see bags of money when they look at a guy like me, so I’ve got to be harsh to shake them off.”

“But you didn’t shake her off, because it didn’t end there, did it?”

“It should have,” Crest said. “But she started stalking me, ruining my new hookups . . .”

Holy cow, I thought. In this guy’s view, a “relationship” has a shorter shelf life than latte milk.

On the other hand, I had to admit, our society didn’t exactly discourage his way of thinking. God help the “so-five-minutes-ago” product, idea, news stories, or health food trend. Sometimes it felt as if half the population was mentally swiping, on a mad mission to continually discard a perfectly decent thing in favor of something else—and not necessarily better, just different, and seemingly newer. Seemingly because, once you’d taken enough laps around the sun, you knew there was very little new under it.

After Franco listened to Crest’s statements, he scratched his shaved head. “You’ll have to explain something to me. If you were trying to discourage Ms. Kendall’s interest in you, why did you agree to meet here tonight?”

“Well, duh! She obviously tricked me. I didn’t come to meet her. I thought I was meeting a twenty-two-year-old model, but all I got was that skank and a gun in my face!”

The interview went downhill from there. Franco finished the victim’s statement, had the man sign it, and sent him into the night.

Franco sat back down and motioned me and Matt over.

“To be fair,” I began, “she only shot at the ceiling and made a lot of threats. I don’t think she meant to hurt him, or anyone.”

“That’s a safe bet,” Franco replied, “since the gun is a showbiz prop.”

“What do you mean prop?”

“The gun was loaded with blanks.”

Matt smirked. “I knew I should have tackled her.”

“Which begs the question . . .” Franco eyed him. “What were you doing while Joy’s mother was heroically disarming the shooter?”

“Backup,” Matt said flatly.

“How far?”

“Oh, for pity’s sake! I was acting as her backup. And if you don’t know what ‘backup’ means, you ought to watch a few TV police shows. You know, for some advanced training.”

Franco opened his mouth. But before he could say something our daughter would regret, I cut between them. “Are you sure they were blanks? Those shots were so loud. So realistic.”

“That’s the point,” Franco said. “Guns loaded with blanks are packed with more powder to give a louder bang for the camera or the audience.”

“How did she even get a weapon like that?”

“Carol Lynn Kendall had several IDs on her, including a union card for the International Alliance of Theatrical Stage Employees and a temporary pass for the film studios in Astoria, Queens.”

That certainly explained her friendliness with my assistant manager, Tucker. The thespian connection brought another thought, too . . .

“During tonight’s incident, I got the impression Ms. Kendall was playing to the phone cameras in the room. Do you think this was some kind of publicity stunt?”

“Not according to the victim. But I would like to hear your side of the story—from the beginning. No theories, please. Only what you saw and heard.”

“Just the facts?”

He nodded.

“Okay, Sergeant Friday, I’ll do my best . . .”

I recounted everything, from the moment I heard the shots until I disarmed the shooter. I even repeated the crude remark made by one of the men as he was leaving the scene.

“I’m sorry I didn’t see who he was . . .”

I paused, waiting for Franco to catch up with his note-taking. My requisite serving of “just the facts” was complete, but I couldn’t stop myself from adding a tiny side of speculation.

“That man I mentioned with the nasty remark? I can’t help wondering if he’d been goading the young woman on before I got up there. Maybe he was involved somehow, because I have a hunch what Ms. Kendall did here tonight was performance art. For reasons of her own, she was playing to those phones.”

“We’ll review any footage we find, but I wouldn’t put much stock in that theory. At every suicide attempt or hostage situation, you’ll find some bonehead yelling for the poor slob to jump or pull the trigger.” He shrugged the shrug of a New York street cop. “Human nature.”

With that, Franco closed his notebook.

“Nice work tonight, Coffee Lady. No harm done, except to that poor girl’s record. If she’s lucky, a sharp attorney will get the felony charge pleaded down.”

He cleared his throat. “One more thing. There’s a news hound from the Post who’s been haunting our stationhouse. If he gets wind of this, it’s going to hit the paper.”

“Let’s hope he doesn’t get wind of it,” I said.

Franco studied me. “You’re worried about bad publicity?”

“I’d hate to lose customers over safety concerns.”

“What about the mobile phone footage you mentioned?”

I waved away that worry. “This world is an ocean of motion. With millions of people continually uploading videos, I doubt tonight’s little incident will make a ripple.”