Death of a Chef (Capucine Culinary Mystery) (19 page)

Beneath his level stare, David rejoiced. This was definitely the place to do police work. You didn’t even have to ask questions. All you had to do was bring the drinks.

“You don’t believe me? Listen up. There were six of us that night with Fanny, right? You know what happened to Jean-Lu. What you don’t know is that someone shot Galinette in the head at close range. Then Escartefigue falls down a ravine in the hills up there.” Cabanis waved vaguely in the direction of the north with his arm. “That guy was as sure-footed as a goat, running up and down the rocks after wild herbs. Then Jean gets mowed down by a tractor as he’s riding home on his Solex. Even the dumb-ass gendarmes thought that was suspicious, but they still called it an accident.”

Cabanis looked at David truculently. “And Anou? What do you think happened to him? Hasn’t been heard from in years. He probably was the first to get done in. So what does that tell you?”

David said nothing.

“No, merde, I’m not kidding. What does that tell you?” Cabanis almost yelled. Casimir looked at them with alarm from behind the bar.

“It tells me that you think you’re going to be next.”

“Goddamn fucking right that’s what I think. So get me another drink. I need one.”

CHAPTER 31

A
fter Chéri left the office, Capucine traced a pattern on the imitation-wood surface of her desk for a few seconds, rooted around in her desk for Brissac-Vanté’s card, and dialed his cell phone number. True to Chéri’s word, it rang six times before voice mail clicked in. The phone was turned on and had a signal, but no one was picking up.

Next, she called Brissac-Vanté office. A bright, young, perky female voice answered immediately.

“Monsieur Brissac-Vanté, s’il vous plaît. This is—”

“I’m sorry. He’s in a meeting right now. Can I take a message and get him to call you back as soon as he’s available ?”

“Mademoiselle, this is the police. Would you please inform Monsieur Brissac-Vanté that I need to speak to him immediately.”

“I’m sorry. He’s actually playing golf. He won’t be back until much later.”

“Golf? No problem. Tell me where he’s playing and I’ll have him picked up.”

There was an awkward pause.

“I can’t. . . . He, well, really, he’s gone to England for a golf tournament. I should have said that.”

“Mademoiselle, lying to the police is a punishable offense. What if I send a squad car for you and we finish this discussion in my office?”

“Please, madame,” the secretary said through an obviously dry throat. “I’m only telling you what Madame Brissac-Vanté told me to say. She called me last week and said that her husband would be going abroad and I was to take messages if anyone called. I only said it was England because he goes there so often.”

“And you haven’t heard from him since then?”

“No. Not a word. Not even an e-mail. It’s really weird. This is the first time this has happened in the whole year I’ve been working here.”

“When, exactly, was the last time you saw him?”

“Last Thursday evening. He was here when I left. He didn’t come in on Friday or any day this week.”

“Do you know what his plans were for Thursday evening?”

“Of course. I had made a reservation for a table for two at Le Grand Véfour for eight o’clock that night. I don’t know who he was taking, but a fancy place like that, it must have been a potential client.”

Next, Capucine called Le Grand Véfour and used her married name, which invariably got her further in restaurant circles than her police rank. She asked for the sommelier, who was a close acquaintance of Alexandre’s.

“André, can you do me a huge favor? Get the hostess to see if she had a reservation last Thursday for a Monsieur Brissac-Vanté.”

He was back on the line in three minutes. “We did, but he was a no-show. He had a guest, a stuffy-looking business type, who sat around for half an hour, drinking a nice Dom Ruinart ninety-eight we have by the glass, and then left in a huff. Chef was seriously pissed off. We
never
have no-shows, and the guest stalked out without paying for his wine. Chef put this Brissac-Vanté on our no-reserve list.”

Twenty minutes later Capucine double-parked in front of the Brissac-Vantés’ building on the avenue Henri-Martin. As she approached the door, an extremely well-dressed, silver-haired gentleman exited and held the door open for her with a courtly bow and an engaging smile. Delighted she had been spared announcing herself on the
interphone,
she rewarded the gentleman with an almost imperceptible wiggle of her gluteals.

The door was opened by a maid in a black polyester dress and a white lace-bordered apron, an outfit Capucine had been sure existed only in the movies.

“Madame Brissac-Vanté, s’il vous plaît,” Capucine requested with the easy smile of a social call.

“
Madamie pas ici,
” came the answer in a thick Portuguese accent.

Capucine aped a look of alarm and dismay. “But I’m supposed to have lunch with her.”

“
Não
here. She
esta
with horses,” the maid said on the defensive, convinced she was about to be blamed for something.

It took a few seconds for the penny to drop.

“L’Etrier? We’re supposed to be having lunch at l’Etrier? Silly me. I always mix everything up.”

The maid’s happy smile was as warm as the Algarve sun.

 

Despite the fact that l’Etrier had enough acreage in the Bois de Boulogne for three riding rings and comfortable boxes for over a hundred horses, the clubhouse was a modest little affair with a small bar, a tiny sitting area, and a twenty-cover dining room.

As Capucine approached the clubhouse, two teenage girls lazily put their geldings over three-foot jumps. They both wore brightly colored ski jackets over riding pants with suede leggings instead of boots, clearly the equestrian must of the season. After each jump they would look into the plate-glass window, presumably at doting mothers.

Yolande Brissac-Vanté sat by herself at the diminutive bar. At Capucine’s approach Yolande turned, took a moment to recognize her, jumped off her stool, preparing to run, then realized she was cornered. Her face was a tight rictus of terror, eyes so wide, the white was visible all the way around the azure irises.

“What do you want?”

“I’m trying to find your husband. Do you know where he is?”

Yolande choked back a sob and looked wildly around the almost empty room. The barman could be heard noisily stacking bottles in the kitchen.

“He’s away on a business trip. I’ll have him call you as soon as he gets back,” she croaked. “Now go away.”

“Madame,” Capucine said, “if your husband is missing, it’s potentially very serious. He’s a key person in two murder cases. If you don’t cooperate, I’ll be forced to take you to my brigade for a formal interview.”

Yolande cringed as if she had been struck.

“We can’t talk here,” she whispered. And then, in a much louder voice, “I was just about to go see my mare. Why don’t you come with me?”

Wordlessly, they walked down long rows of square, oversized boxes until they reached one that displayed a neat card in a metal frame: Euthymie. Yolande leaned over the lower half of the door and peered in at her horse munching hay in the back of the box. An elderly, grizzled groom in blue workers’ overalls ambled over and mumbled, “B’jour, m’dame.” Yolande started and recoiled, ready to run again. Recognizing the groom, she sighed in relief. The groom apologized for the intrusion, then launched into a patois narrative about poor Euthymie’s near foreleg inflammation, which at long last seemed to be responding to the ointment the veterinarian had prescribed.

Yolande smiled at the groom. “That’s wonderful. I can’t tell you how much I’ve been needing some good news.” Her horse stuck her head out of the box, lips questing for treats in the pockets of Yolande’s tweed jacket. Yolande stroked her nose. “The softest thing the dear Lord ever made,” she said, more to herself than to Capucine. Her eyes filled with tears.

“It was last Thursday. He told me he was going straight from work out to dinner with a prospective client. But he didn’t come home that night. I’m such a bad wife, I suspected he had gone out with a girl and gotten too drunk to come home.”

Capucine said nothing.

“He didn’t come back the next night, either. I thought he must have run off with someone. I was in a rage. I despise myself for having so little trust in him. Then the call came. It was terrible, but it was as if a ton of bricks had been lifted from my chest. They want money. All I have to do is pay and I’ll get him back. Isn’t that wonderful?”

Capucine continued to say nothing.

“Don’t you see? Mistresses never give men back, but all kidnappers want is money.” She bubbled a sound that was halfway between a laugh and a sob.

“How many times have they called you?”

“Once, just that once. On Saturday. The call lasted only a few seconds. They had him. They would notify me later how much I had to pay. But I had to promise I would tell absolutely no one. Especially not the police. If I did, I would never see him again. I’m sure they’re spying on me to see if I’m keeping my word. At least you don’t look at all like you work for the police.”

“And you’ve had no further communication? No notes? No letters?”

“Nothing. Just that one call.” Yolande squeezed Capucine’s arm. “Kidnappers always return the victim when they are paid, don’t they? Tell me that is true.”

“Actually, it is.”

Yolande’s sigh was so loud, the mare raised her head in alarm.

“But you’ve got to stay away from me. I don’t care about the money or catching the kidnappers. All I want is Thierry back. You’ve got to promise me you won’t interfere. Please!”

CHAPTER 32

I
n her years at the Crim’, Capucine knew Commissaire Jérôme Lacroix only by sight. Still, she had always been slightly in awe of him, a seasoned veteran of the old school, a cop’s cop. Lacroix looked like flics used to look: baggy tweed jacket, nondescript necktie, unpressed gray flannel pants, bulky Manurhin MR 73 revolver in a sweat-darkened leather holster under his armpit.

“There aren’t enough kidnapping cases in France for the PJ to have a dedicated squad. But I’m the official expert, so all kidnappings come to me, even if I’m already so deep in the crap, I need a snorkel.” The crow’s-feet at the edges of Lacroix’s eyes deepened, and he emitted a smoker’s gurgling laugh. His laugh involved his eyes but not his lips.

“Kidnappings are the shittiest job in the police. Both sides hate us. The kidnappers and, most of all, the families. They’re almost always well-to-do, so they start out looking down their noses at the police. And then they believe, they desperately want to believe, that all they have to do is pay the kidnappers’ ransom and—bingo!—they’ll get their loved one back safe and sound. We’re only there to fuck it up for them. The kidnappers have explained that to them, but they knew it, anyway.”

Lacroix tapped a filter-tipped Gitanes out of a soft pack, lit it, and inhaled deeply without breaking the lock his eyes held on Capucine’s.

“When you work in kidnapping, you wind up wanting to join the Italian force. Down there the police are able to freeze the family assets so they can’t pay a ransom. They don’t give a shit if the victim doesn’t make it back home. They want to get their message out on the street loud and clear that kidnapping is not a commercially viable proposition.”

Ruminatively, Lacroix shaped the tip of his cigarette in his ashtray until it formed a perfect point.

“So let’s see if I have the story straight. Thierry Brissac-Vanté is married to a wealthy woman. His main occupation is as a marketing entrepreneur who represents businesses to hire celebrities to endorse their products. He also invests his wife’s money in projects, which are usually very visible and often involve restaurants. That makes him sound like a very good guy to kidnap. His family has plenty of ready cash, and they’re used to doling it out in large clumps.” Lacroix raised his eyebrows fractionally to elicit Capucine’s approval. She nodded.

“The pickup sounds professional enough, somewhere between his office on the Champs-Élysées and a restaurant in the Palais Royal. Most likely it would have been as he walked out the door of his office. All you’d have to do is have a couple of guys hang around in front of his building—easy enough to do on the Champs and not attract attention—and hustle him into a waiting car. No one on the sidewalk would notice a thing. And the wife has only had one phone call, which lasted a few seconds and provided no details other than that ‘they had him.’ ”

Capucine nodded.

“What you’ve got here is a plain-vanilla kidnapping with two wrinkles—the heads of two of the victim’s investments have been murdered, and his wife is good pals with the president’s ex-wife. Interesting, but for the time being, we’re going to forget about that.”

“You are?”

“It’s highly improbable that the kidnappers have left any traces, or at least not enough for us to get a bead on them. And kicking up a lot of dust with an investigation is very dangerous for the victim. The last thing we want to do is spook the kidnappers. What we need to know is how and when the transfer happens. That’s when we have a crack at nabbing them, or at least picking up enough leads to get a decent investigation going. Of course, the family’s going to try as hard as they can to keep us out of it.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“The usual. The way kidnappers work is that they let the tension build up in the family until they’re ready to cough up serious money. My guess is that the next thing that’s going to happen is a phone call where the victim is put on the phone and is made to plead. The call will be cut off before we can get a trace on it. We’ll get the number, but it’s going to be a stolen prepaid phone, and they won’t stay on the line long enough for us to locate where the call came from. The call with the amount and the instructions for the handover won’t happen until the family has been left to stew, thinking about how much the poor victim is suffering.

“So all the phones—office, house, wife’s cell, and servants’ cells—will go on a level-one tap upstairs.” He pointed with his thumb to the top floor of the Quai, where the long banks of phone-tapping receivers were located.

“Why don’t you add Chéri Lecomte to your list? She claims to be having an affair with Brissac-Vanté and was the one who tipped me off to the fact that he’d gone missing.”

Lacroix extracted a small pad from the center drawer of his desk and made a note.

“Then we call the fiscal brigade and get them to start monitoring the wife’s accounts. I’m hoping we’ll pick up the kidnappers’ calls, but if we don’t, I want a heads-up that the wife is withdrawing important sums of money.”

“Call Lieutenant Firmin Bouchard. I used to work there, and he’s very good. He’s already run down the family finances for me, so he has a head start.”

“Perfect. If he can get a handle on any offshore accounts the family has, so much the better. That’s where we always run into trouble.”

Capucine’s forehead creased slightly in concern. “That’s it?”

“Look, in this game you have to learn to be patient. It’s not like regular police work. You have to let them come to you.”

“And you think the kidnapping has nothing to do with my murders.”

“No, I never said that. I’m just telling you how we’re going to try to catch these guys.”