Cement Stilettos Read online

  “How much coffee have you already had?”

  “I don’t drink coffee. Slows me down.”

  “Yeah, I can see how that might be a problem.”

  “Keep it up, Kidd. Just remember, the sooner you give me a statement, the sooner you can go back to sleep.”

  “Carl, have you ever stopped to think there might be a reason the police are playing this close to the hip?”

  “Sure. Angela has mob connections.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “She’s been seen with Vito Cantone at least half a dozen times and members of her family were named in that high profile case that took Lucky Vincenzo to trial.”

  Lucky Vincenzo was a well-known New York businessman who’d made no secret of his underworld connections. He’d been tied to gambling, racketeering, prostitution, and bootlegging. He’d also owned a sizeable portion of the garment district, which brought him the reputation of local kid done good. He’d been arrested and bailed out half a dozen times, the streak ending only after he’d been fatally wounded during a mass shooting outside the courthouse last year. Nobody knew who, if anyone, had taken charge of Lucky’s territories in the wake of his death. The police had not been able to link the shooter to the mafia, and the killing had been ruled accidental. The unanswered questions only added to his legend.

  “You’re planning on exposing this in your article?”

  “Nope. That’s cabbage.”

  “You lost me.”

  “Cabbage. Old news. It’s been written, tossed, and chewed on by the local rodents. I need something I can print today. Unless you’re saying this was a mob hit...?”

  He was looking for confirmation that he could print. “I’m not saying anything. Not until after I’ve had something to eat.”

  I hung up and threw the covers back.

  I’d read a recent article about habits of highly productive people and had been trying to incorporate them into my life. One of the habits was getting up earlier. This morning, Carl’s unexpected call had done the trick.

  The memory of finding Angela yesterday came at me unexpectedly. I pictured her body falling forward and the blood that had transferred onto my hands. Somebody had come into Nick’s studio, shot her, and stuffed her in the sample closet. Had she known her killer? Considering what people were saying about her, it seemed likely. And if what Carl said was right, I doubted Angela could have dated a mob man without knowing his business. She’d never seemed that obtuse.

  I showered, dressed in black tights, black pumps, and a fit-and-flare navy blue sweater dress that landed just above my knees. If Carl knew about Angela’s death, then it was in the news. Regardless of what I’d learned of her life over the past twelve hours, my relationship with her was as Nick’s office manager. We’d shared coffee breaks and dished about Project Runway, shopped at the same outlets and sometimes even passed on exclusive discounts. Angela and I hadn’t exactly been friends, but we were close enough that it would be a nice gesture to pay my respects to her family after work.

  I fed Logan, cleaned his litter box, and spent ten minutes encouraging him to chase a red laser pointer around the living room for exercise. I suspected I’d find him asleep on my cashmere sweaters when I got home. He’d learned how to open the closet while I was gone, and I was tempted to set up a hidden camera to catch him in action.

  Eddie was waiting for me in my office. “It’s about time. Is everything okay? Dude. Spill.” He slid a cup of coffee toward me.

  “That was not how my first day back at work was supposed to go. I came in to get a jump start. I made all the right resolutions too. It’s a new year and a new me. And it started so well. I even impressed Pam Trotter in an impromptu meeting yesterday morning.”

  “I heard. Photo shoot in one of the abandoned factories by Canal Street, right?”

  “How’d you hear?”

  “Good ideas tend to get repeated. I heard you pitched the photo shoot and linked it to an article in the Ribbon Times. For what it’s worth, everybody loved it. Somebody even said you’re one to watch. Perfect timing, too.”

  I warmed at the praise. “I’m just glad they finally got past their first impression of me. What do you mean about timing?”

  “The owners are coming to the store.”

  “The Tradavas are doing a store visit? When?”

  “Wednesday.”

  “But the store is in the middle of post-holiday sales.”

  “I know.” Eddie slumped in his chair.

  Store visits were a dreaded part of the retail culture. Executives high enough up on the totem pole to have forgotten what happens during business as usual set up a schedule of store visits. They meet with senior management, walk the selling floors, chat up the associates, and mingle with customers. The idea is to put a face to the name of the store. It’s also to make sure the store is performing at peak level. It’s amazing what executives will notice when they look at us from their view at the top.

  Possibly the worst byproduct of a visit was the pressure on the employees to make the store appear perfect. Sales associates were instructed to dress their professional best, hide their coffee cups, answer every ringing phone within two rings, and make sure there wasn’t a speck of dust in sight. The real grunt work fell on the shoulders of the visual department and managers. I suspected Eddie was about to start talking like Scarface again.

  “This is my last moment of peace before I crack the whip out there. What’s going on with you?”

  “Long story or short story?

  “How long until your coworker shows up?”

  “Nancie gave notice yesterday. We’ve got the office to ourselves.”

  “Long version, please.” He took the lid off his coffee and swallowed several gulps.

  I gave him the highlights from twenty-two and a half hours ago: my research into the recent runway shows, Carl’s interview request for the Ribbon Times, and Nick’s email with pictures of factories. “Everything kind of clicked.”

  “Trask-radio,” he said.

  “Exactly. So I went to see Pam, pitched her the idea, and she said to go for it.”

  “Are you sure this whole idea wasn’t because you knew Nick was looking at factories and you could spend more time with him? You’re not going to become one of those boring married people who only do things together, are you?”

  I put down my coffee and gave him my best watch-it-buster stare. “I’ve been involved in six criminal investigations in two years. The overwhelming stack of evidence seems to indicate that ‘boring’ might not be all that bad.”

  “Good point.”

  “I called Angela to get the address of the factory in the email Nick sent me and she told me Nick needed me to get to the factory, that it was urgent. When you saw me tear out of here it was because I’d just hung up with her.”

  He sat up straight. “The same Angela who you found dead at Nick’s showroom?”

  “Yes. It doesn’t make a lot of sense. He acted like he never asked her to call me. And there’s something else.”

  He shook his head back and forth. “You didn’t withhold evidence, did you?”

  “Of course not! This next part is theory.”

  “Yeah, the cops don’t want to hear theories,” he said. See, we both learn from our mistakes.

  “After Angela’s body fell out of the sample closet, the phone rang. I thought maybe it was something about Nick’s business so I answered.”

  “And?”

  “It was a guy. He made it sound like Angela’s death was a message to Nick. And just that morning, Nick had told Vito Cantone that he wasn’t going to do business with him. My first thought was that Vito killed Angela. Especially after Loncar told us Angela used to date him.”

  “Could he have done it? Was there time?”

  “I don’t know. It would have been tight, but maybe she knew Vito was headed out to Nick and wanted to warn him.”

  “But something else is bothering you.”

  “The ca
ller kept referring to Nick as my boyfriend, and Vito knew Nick and I were engaged. Nick told him when we were at the factory.” I leaned back and gave full consideration to the one question that had lingered since I’d spoken to Loncar. “What if there’s something else Nick is hiding that led to Angela’s murder?”

  6

  Tuesday morning

  Eddie sat back and laced his fingers behind his head. His blond hair was a whiter shade than usual thanks to an overly zealous application of peroxide. His usual rock band T-shirt had been temporarily replaced with a black one with the words, “Do or do not. There is no try.”

  “You think Nick is keeping something from you?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. He’s acting a little funny. Not funny-funny, but peculiar-funny.”

  “How so?” He put a hand out in front of him. “Wait. If it has to do with your sex life, I don’t want to hear it.”

  Last month, Eddie and Cat (of the had-a-baby-and-moved-to-Philly fame), had accused me of not opening up and sharing details of my personal life. A little more than I think they’d bargained for came out of that discussion, and since then, I’d make a concerted effort to confide in them.

  “It doesn’t have to do with my sex life, but I don’t have anything concrete. It’s like—he’s always been so there, you know? When I was freaking out when I first moved to Ribbon, he was this solid pillar of strength, even while I thought he was a bad guy. And then after that was over, there was that thing with the knockoff handbag ring and he helped me. Even through the break up and the Dante days, he was—I don’t know—there. But ever since the engagement, even before I found Angela, it’s like he’s been drifting away.”

  “What about his dad? Does Nick act the same around him?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t been to their house in a couple of days.”

  He slapped his knees and stood up. “It’s probably all in your head. The guy just asked you to marry him. Maybe reality sunk in and he’s adjusting to what his life is going to be like.”

  I picked up my empty coffee cup and threw it at Eddie. He caught it, tossed it into the trash can, and left. The memory of his laughter remained long after the sound of it faded down the corridor.

  I spent the morning outlining the costs and tasks involved in my photo shoot and the afternoon working on the concept boards. Rex Andrew Garvin, the manager of the store’s shipping and receiving department, stopped by after lunch. He was a forty-year-old black man with wire framed glasses, a black polo shirt, and jeans. An external back support was Velcroed around his waist and he had two work gloves bunched up in his left hand. Despite his overly formal name (or perhaps in light of it), everybody in the store called him Ragu. The nickname was probably inspired by his initials, but maybe also encouraged by his habit of bringing canned spaghetti for lunch.

  “Hey, Samantha,” he said. “I heard you might need my department to deliver some samples to a photo shoot.”

  I pushed aside the concept boards. “I was going to call you. How did you hear that already?”

  “The ops manager told me. Must have come from the weekly senior manager’s meeting. Did I hear wrong?”

  “No, you heard right.”

  He came into the office and looked at the mess of papers, printed images from runway shows, and glue sticks on my desk. “This how your office always looks?”

  “Not really. I’m just getting caught up after vacation.”

  “You woulda made a good Kindergarten teacher.”

  I hardly thought a messy desk and ownership of more than one glue stick were endorsements for the care and early education responsibilities of small children, but kept that thought to myself. To Ragu, I said, “I don’t have details yet, but I’m hoping to set something up by the end of the week.”

  “Cool. Give me a day notice and I’ll take care of it. How big of a truck will you need?”

  “It depends on how many samples the buyers are able to get on short notice, but I think the store van should be fine.”

  “Cool,” he said again. He glanced at my desk again. “Keep me posted,” he said and then left.

  By five thirty I had lined up three potential factories for the shoot and an appointment schedule to start scouting them in the morning. I sent an email to the senior management team letting them know I wouldn’t be in until noon.

  As I waited for a response, I opened up a search window and typed in the name “Angela di Sotto.” The top link went to Angela’s obituary in the online edition of the Ribbon Times. It was short: no cause of death, no police statement, no mention of her mafia ties. The last line of the article said she’d been outlived by her half-sister, Connie di Sotto, and provided an address for the delivery of flowers and gifts.

  I copied the address down and collected my coat and bag. On my way out of the office, I ran into Pam Trotter with her assistant, Wanda.

  “Samantha, how are things with the photo shoot?” Pam asked.

  “So far, so good. I’m scouting factories tomorrow morning. The concept boards are sitting on Nancie’s desk and I’ve worked up a preliminary budget. Have the buyers had any luck securing the samples?”

  “We’re in luck. Most retailers aren’t doing their shoots until next month so we were able to get runway samples overnighted. They should be here tomorrow. Our only problem is going to be the shoes.”

  Wanda looked at me funny. “Can’t you just get them from Nick?” she asked.

  Pam looked from Wanda to me. “Nick...Nick Taylor? That’s right, you two have a history, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” I said. I hiked my bag up onto my shoulder and Wanda pointed at my hand.

  “Oh my gosh, are you and Nick engaged? You’re getting married? Nick’s getting married? What a pretty ring! Is it vintage?” The more animated Wanda got, the more people around us stopped to take notice of who was getting engaged to Nick Taylor.

  Heat climbed my neck. Wanda grabbed my hand and pulled it close to her. I looked from her to Pam, who smiled. I rolled my eyes and she nodded her head. I relaxed and let Wanda have her moment (my moment) and then pulled my hand back and slipped on my black gloves. The leather bunched up over the ring, leaving a lump.

  “I haven’t had a chance to ask Nick about the samples, not after what happened at his showroom yesterday,” I said.

  Pam put her hand on my forearm. “If he can do it, great. It’ll be nice exposure for him, which might help offset any negative press he’ll get now. And if he can’t do it, we’ll reach out to one of the designers who keeps basic inventory on hand or we’ll use something generic from the sample closet.”

  I’d been so busy worrying about asking Nick for a favor that I hadn’t stopped to think about the potential benefits to him. If he could get us samples direct from Italy, his shoes would be featured exclusively in our top spread of pre-fall fashion in our first catalog of the season, plus would be shown in the Ribbon Times interview that Carl Collins was putting together. It would be wrong for me not to ask him.

  I left Pam and Wanda by the store exit and ran to my car. The early January temperature reminded me that winter was here and wasn’t planning on leaving for a while. I started the engine and rubbed my arms with my hands. Cold wisps of air crept into where the convertible’s hard top attached to the car. It was better than a traditional soft top convertible, but not much.

  I pulled out from behind Tradava and drove across the highway to Nick’s showroom. The door remained taped shut, and the interior was dark. A cluster of cars were parked in the lot. People stood on the sidewalk, pressing their faces up to the window that had separated Nick and me the day before, likely destroying the residual palm prints from where we’d placed our hands on opposite sides of the glass. I drove past them and parked outside of the grocery store at the end of the lot.

  Last month, when Cat’s husband had been murdered, she’d received a refrigerator filled with casseroles from neighbors, coworkers, and just about anybody who stopped by to offer condolences. I didn’t trust m
y culinary skills enough to test tonight and didn’t think my go-to meal of Brother’s Pizza was appropriate to take to a grieving family, so I did the next best thing. I went into the grocery store and bought the largest frozen lasagna they carried, and asked Siri directions to Angela di Sotto’s address.

  The di Sotto family lived about five miles west of Tradava, almost all on the highway. My stop off at the grocery store had delayed my trip slightly, but traffic was light thanks to people prolonging their holiday vacations. Once I exited the highway, I doubled back along a side street. Even without Siri’s help, I would have easily picked out which house was my destination; a driveway filled with shiny luxury cars and a florist’s van were parked in front of a large white brick mansion.

  There was a very large chance my frozen lasagna would be underwhelming.

  I convinced myself that stopping by with my version of a condolence casserole was more about the gesture than the actual item and climbed out of the car. The wind snapped at my legs. I tightened my pashmina scarf around my neck and approached the front of the house. I rang the bell. A series of chimes announced me on the other side of the door. I adjusted the lasagna box against my hip and shifted my weight from foot to foot.

  The door opened and an Italian woman with glamorously streaked gray and white hair faced me. She was in her mid-fifties, dressed in a red leopard printed V-neck sweater and tight black pants. Gold hoop earrings swung from her ears, and a gold chain with a teardrop-shaped pendant hung around her neck. Her lips were dark cherry red.

  “Come in, you poor thing, you’re gonna freeze if you just keep standing out there.” She held the door open and waved me in with her spare hand.

  “Hi,” I said. “I’m Samantha Kidd. I came by to pay my respects to Angela’s family.” As soon as the door was shut behind me, I was enveloped in a cloud of meatballs and marinara with a side note of Opium perfume.

  “I’m her half-sister, Connie di Sotto. Come on in.”

  “I’m so sorry for your loss.” I held the frozen lasagna awkwardly, wondering if I could hide it under my coat without her noticing.