"Yeah, it's a pimped-up ride effect-like that oh-so-tasteful masterpiece along the back." Esther pointed to the airbrushed scene of Viking warriors sacking a village with half-naked babes thrown over their arms.

I shook my head. "Fake bullet holes. What'll they sell next? Chalk outlines and toe tags?"

"Probably."

I shook my head. "Dexter described Omar Linford as a conservative businessman in his fifties. Could this be his car?"

"No," she whispered. "I'm sure it's his his."

Esther gestured to a young man in his late teens swaggering out the front door. Tall and plenty big through the shoulders, he wore a studded leather jacket, stressed black denims, and a battered DJ fedora over his thick, wavy ponytail. His complexion was light brown, his eyes darker than French roast, and his chrome-tipped boots clicked as he walked down the cobblestone drive. Finally, the young man noticed us examining his car. He paused and stared, saying nothing.

I waved, but I needn't have bothered. He just kept staring suspiciously-first at me, then at Esther, whom he looked up and down with a kind of openly wicked leer that made her shift the huge bag on her shoulder.

"I've still got my brick," she whispered to me.

A moment later, the kid turned his back on us and opened the SUV's door. Before climbing behind the wheel, he brushed his arm across the leather seat, sweeping a tumble of junk food wrappers onto the driveway. Then he slammed the door and gunned his high-performance engine. A moment later, the placidness of the upscale neighborhood was shattered as the aspiring hoodlum roared off.

"What a charming encounter," Esther said as she kicked an empty bag of jalapeno-flavored corn chips off her boot.

"Who the heck was that?" the heck was that?"

"I'm sure it was Linford's son, Dwayne. Vicki described him to me once. She dated him in high school."

"Interesting," I said, then started up the drive again. "Come on, Esther. Let's see how far that wannabe gangsta's fallen from the family tree . . ."

NINETEEN.

THE double front doors of Linford's home were made of heavy polished oak and decorated with the largest holiday wreath I'd seen outside of Macy's sales floor. While Esther rang the regal-sounding doorbell, I stood by her, still holding my hand-painted dish of Italian struffoli struffoli.

A narrow-shouldered man of average height greeted us.

"Ms. Cosi, I presume? I'm Omar Linford."

Linford's light brown skin was the same shade as that of the young man who'd just peeled out of the driveway. But there the resemblance ended. Omar was in his fifties, not his twenties, and he wore his salt-and-pepper hair in a short-cropped style. A small, neatly trimmed brown mustache, threaded with silver, graced his upper lip. A bright red bow tie cheered up an otherwise dowdy three-piece suit-only a tad plump in the vest-and small, round, retro 1930s glasses made our host look more like a museum curator than a shady businessman.

"Please, Mr. Linford, call me Clare. This is my associate, Esther Best."

"Come in, ladies . . ."

As we stepped inside, Mr. Linford pointed to my struffoli struffoli and his smile widened. "I see you've brought a gift! Let me help you with that." and his smile widened. "I see you've brought a gift! Let me help you with that."

But Linford didn't lift a hand. Instead, a mocha-skinned woman in a maid's uniform appeared at my side, relieved me of the dish, then withdrew as quietly as she'd arrived.

"Delightful to meet you both," Linford said. "Follow me to the dining room. Everything's ready for our luncheon."

The interior of Linford's sprawling, glass and stone house was as hyperdecorated for the holidays as the exterior. The living room's gigantic Christmas tree filled the whole floor with the scent of pine. A fortune in antique Victorian ornaments appeared throughout the house, and a much smaller illuminated tree sat in the large dining area.

We paused before a polished mahogany table, dripping with a delicate lace tablecloth and set for three. Beside it, a line of silver service buffet trays rested on a large serving cart. A roaring fire in a brick-lined hearth provided warmth, and a glass wall offered us a spectacular view of the Staten Island Greenbelt and the blue green waters of New York Bay beyond.

"Please make yourselves comfortable," Linford said, holding my chair.

The maid returned with my dish of struffoli struffoli, now neatly placed atop a sterling silver serving tray. The honey glaze I'd drizzled over the tiny balls of fried dough gleamed in the sunlight. Struffoli Struffoli was traditionally served as a communal after-dinner sweet, with guests tearing off pieces of the confection between sips of hot, strong espresso. was traditionally served as a communal after-dinner sweet, with guests tearing off pieces of the confection between sips of hot, strong espresso.

As soon as the maid placed my little Christmas tree in the middle of our table, however, Linford tore off the top and took a bite. "Forgive me for digging in," he said with a smile. "I forgot how much I loved this!"

After chewing and swallowing, he dabbed the glaze from his fingers and mouth with a white napkin. "Delicious! I can taste a hint of citrus. Did you use lemon halves to position the hot dough when you formed the tree?"

I blinked. "How did you know?"

Linford laughed. "I'll tell you, Clare, when I was seventeen I went to sea. I was young, so of course I had plenty of romantic delusions."

"Didn't we all," I muttered.

"Well, things didn't work out as planned. I caught pneumonia in Sicily, and the ship on which I was billeted sailed without me. It would have been a lonely Christmas in a strange land if a fisherman and his family hadn't taken pity on me."

Linford patted the modest bulge in his vest. "I must confess that I never ate better in my life."

"Wow, Sicily," Esther said, shooting me a pointed glance. "Did you happen to meet any Mafia Mafia bosses when you were there?" bosses when you were there?"

It was an awkward, obvious question, but now that it was out, I watched Linford carefully for a reaction. He seemed amused more than anything, shaking his head no no and laughing. Then he turned to his maid. and laughing. Then he turned to his maid.

"Cecily, you may serve now."

Into our crystal goblets, Cecily poured a blend of guava and mango nectars. She then removed the lid from a silver tray and a salty, briny, peppery scent filled the dining room.

"Funky smell," Esther blurted out. "What is it?"

"Ackee and saltfish," Linford replied.

Cecily spooned some of the fish and fruit stew onto Esther's bone china plate.

"Ackee?" Esther whispered to me. "Isn't this stuff toxic?"

I turned my head, raised the napkin to my lips, and whispered, "Only if it's not ripe."

"Excuse me," Esther said loudly, "is this ackee ripe ripe?"

Linford nodded. "Of course. It's canned in Jamaica and approved for import by the FDA. It has to be processed correctly. Ackee can be poisonous, otherwise."

Esther swallowed hard and stared at her food.

"I actually prefer fresh fresh ackee with this particular dish," Linford told me. "But the fruit is only harvested in the warmer months." ackee with this particular dish," Linford told me. "But the fruit is only harvested in the warmer months."

The ackee fruit had the consistency of scrambled eggs; the fish was firm and resembled the Italian variety of dried codfish called baccala baccala-something I ate as a child, but frankly didn't miss (an inevitable truth of life: Not every foodie memory is a good foodie memory). Apparently, Esther agreed.

"This reminds me of dag maluah dag maluah," she said. "That's Jewish saltfish." Then she gave me a private look that said, This sort of stuff is vile in This sort of stuff is vile in any any language. language.

Luckily, Linford served the saltfish dish with freshly baked hard dough bread and boiled bananas on the side. (I thought at first they were plantains, but Linford informed me that boiled green bananas were also a traditional pairing. The fruit was boiled in its own skin with the tips and sides sliced to make peeling easier after cooking.) Then Linford dug in and so did I. Esther pushed the fish to the side of her plate and ate the bananas and bread-both of which were quite good.

As the conversation lulled, I cleared my throat. "Speaking of ackee, Mr. Linford-"

"Call me Omar, Clare. We have a mutual friend, which makes us friends, too, doesn't it?"

"Yes, of course. And I understand our friend, Dexter Beatty, purchases import items from you?"

Linford sat back in his chair. "From my company, yes. You are here seeking a purveyor of Caribbean foods for your store, aren't you? Dexter told me you had questions for me about my Blue Sunshine company. It's a very reliable source, as Dexter can attest."

"Actually, I had the impression that you and Dexter were involved in a number of business deals."

"Dexter and I do have a private arrangement, Clare."

"Importing and exporting?"

"Surely you're not here to invade our friend's privacy. If Dexter wanted you to know what he and I were doing together, he would have told you himself."

"I'm here, Mr. Linford, to talk about another one of your business ventures. One that wasn't so profitable."

Linford's smile began to slip away. "You're referring to?"

"Alfred Glockner."

Linford exhaled. An expression of relief appeared to cross his face, like he'd just dodged a bullet-which made me suspicious of Vickie's "shady" sobriquet all over again.

He cleared his throat. "I don't mean to be rude, but how in the world would my private dealings with the late Mr. Glockner concern you?"

"I was Mr. Glockner's friend. After his murder, someone close to Alf asked me to . . . step in and investigate."

"You must be referring to the money I loaned to Mr. Glockner."

I nodded. "Money he never paid back."

Linford met my eyes. "Let me begin, Clare, by assuring you that Alfred was my friend, too, and that not all of my investments are profitable. Quite frankly, in Alf's case, I suspected I would never see a return on my outlay."

That surprised me. "If you wanted to help Alf, why make it a loan? Why didn't you simply give him the money?"

"I don't operate that way, Ms. Cosi. My charitable donations are always made with tax deductions in mind, and Alf's business wasn't a charity. At the time, you must understand, the loan to Alf made sound business sense."

"How sound was it, if you lost the money?"

Linford smiled-a bit tightly this time. "You're very direct. Dex warned me that you would be. Let's say I had my reasons for lending Alf a hand."

"Such as?"

"The same reason I'm in a business relationship with our friend Dexter: to keep my profile high in a community of people from whom I draw hedge fund investors. This This community on Staten Island, Alf's community, has changed over the years. But it wasn't always so inviting to someone of mixed race." community on Staten Island, Alf's community, has changed over the years. But it wasn't always so inviting to someone of mixed race."

"What do you mean exactly?"

"Alf's steakhouse catered to a wealthy, mostly white clientele, and I used it for networking, a place to connect with my well-heeled neighbors. Everyone in the community loved and respected a born-and-raised Staten Islander like Alf, and I hoped he could open a few doors for me. I also hoped Alf could keep his business going, but in these hard times, that proved impossible. And the shambles the poor man made of his personal life didn't help."

"Alf told me about his separation and pending divorce."

"Did you know about his drinking?" Linford shook his head. "One morning, near the end of his marriage, I found Alf passed out in my driveway. Alf was so drunk Shelly-his wife-locked him out. He tried to come over here for a place to sleep, which I would have happily provided, but he never made it to the front door. My son, Dwayne, nearly ran him over coming home from one of those disc jockey club jobs of his."

From the stories Linford told, I learned that Alf Glockner wasn't just a failed restaurateur. He'd always been a borderline alcoholic who'd spiraled into dysfunction after his restaurant went belly-up. As the drinking intensified, Alf's marriage disintegrated. The man finally hit bottom, ending up in a hospital with acute alcohol poisoning.

"I visited Alf there and met another man," Linford said. "A high school chum, Karl Kovic is his name. Alf moved in with Karl, and shortly after, Karl got him involved with that Santa Claus thing in Manhattan-"

"The Traveling Santas." I made a mental note to question Karl, see what he could tell me.

"I thought Alf was well on the road to recovery," Linford continued, "until I received a rather disturbing letter from him a couple of weeks ago."

"Alf wrote you a letter?"

"He didn't sign it, but I know it came from him," Linford said, his face taut.

"What did the letter say?"

"Say?" Linford shook his head, his expression looking almost pained. "It was a threat, Clare-Alf's clumsy attempt at blackmail."

"You're joking."

"I never joke about blackmail. The note demanded I forgive the debt completely-as an early 'holiday' gift. I was also to come up with fifty thousand more dollars by Christmas in exchange for his silence about alleged unlawful activities-"

"About your investments?"

"The allegations were not about me," Linford said, mouth tight. "The letter suggested my son was involved in criminal activities."

"What activities?"

Linford shook his head. "It doesn't matter. The claims were all lies."

Hard to believe after my encounter with the kid driving the tricked-out gangsta ride. But then Omar Linford wouldn't be the first parent who'd blinded himself to his offspring's malfeasance.

"Do the police have the letter now?" I asked.

Linford shook his head. "I didn't want to get Alf into trouble, so I never alerted the authorities."

"I see," I said, but the claim only made me more suspicious.

"Alf was a good man at heart." Linford held my eyes. "And the letter made no sense. I mean, Alf was the one who insisted on paying me back in the first place."