Night Watch (33 page)

Tom and Mike had the same distinctively handsome Irish faces, both with thick heads of black hair and winning smiles.

“You’ll be the first to know when I’m on the market.”

“Then go a round with us at Forlini’s right now.”

“You heard Mercer. Next time.”

“Tell you what,” Tom said. “When Lem knocks you out with an acquittal on MGD, I’ll throw the party.”

“I’ve had ten better offers than that just this afternoon. See you tomorrow.”

We got into the car and Mercer made a U-turn to drive uptown on Lafayette Street.

“Where to?” I asked.

“Patroon.”

I was happy for the first time all day. Ken Aretsky had been a trusted friend to Luc and me and would protect me in his superb restaurant, with all the care and comfort that went along with his great food.

“I love this idea. Thanks a million.” I knew Mike had a purpose—beyond his palate—in this venue. He, too, had benefitted from Ken’s generosity, and he undoubtedly wanted to get the restaurateur’s insights on what had been happening in Luc’s world.

We cruised uptown and found parking easily on East 46th Street, right in front of Patroon. Ken and his wife, Di, one of my dearest friends, were greeting guests in the main dining room. The chic-looking crowd in the plush banquettes reflected the glow of the understated lighting from the wall sconces, showing off one of the most distinguished photography collections in any public space in the country.

Stephane, the stunningly efficient captain who had been with the Aretskys for the fifteen years since they’d opened their doors, directed us to the Humidor Room on the second floor. Although he
and I always addressed each other in his native French, I didn’t want to hear a word of that language this evening.

The entire level on two was a suite of handsome rooms of different sizes, all for private parties. The intimacy of this one, with its Spanish cedarwood and spotless mirrors, was one of my favorites.

“Totally my fault last night,” Mike said, hands up in the air like he was surrendering to the local sheriff.

“My idea to take your quarrel out onto the street,” Mercer said. “My bad.”

“Gentlemen, gentlemen. Let’s not all fall on our swords at one time. I’ve been pretty stupid about some of this.”

“Damn right you have, kid. We’ll regroup tonight.”

“Up here?” I asked.

“No, but behind that sleek bit of cabinetry, there’s a door with a flat-screen TV.”

Mercer opened it and turned on the television, muting the set while we waited for Final Jeopardy!

“So my day was as busy as yours,” Mike said. “And I’d need a flying carpet to keep up with Luc’s partners.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Peter Danton for starters. The guy can’t sit still. He’s gone for two weeks every month. His usual flight pattern is New York to Ghana. Roams around West Africa.”

“That’s his business, Mike.”

“Don’t be so thin-skinned, Coop. I’m just laying out the facts,” Mike said. “He picks up again from Senegal to the south of France, before going on to Paris and home.”

“Nothing unusual about that.”

“Then you got Gina Varona. South of France, Paris, Milan.”

“All fashion and cosmetics.”

“And friends and food, Coop. I get it.”

“Do their trips overlap?”

“Rarely,” Mike said. “But the Brooklyn techs got a new name from Luc today. A new player. Jim Mulroy.”

“That’s not new at all. I know Jim. I mean I met him on Sunday. He’s the wine buyer. That’s his business.”

“Yeah? Well, he’s been all over the place, too. And begging for a piece of the action.”

“How do you mean?”

“He wants a cut of the partnership, behind Varona and Danton. His last trip was Paris, Lyons, Mougins, Bordeaux,” Mike said, flipping through his pad.

“Everywhere I’d expect a wine merchant to be,” I said.

“Lille, too?” This time, it was a question, no doubt prompted by today’s news about MGD.

“Beer country,” I said, crestfallen. And then, hoping to save Mulroy from any hint of the scandal, I added an idea. “Although Lille’s right in the heart of where the best champagnes come from—between Reims and Troyes.”

Mike looked at his watch and then the television.

Trebek had already revealed the blue screen with the final category and was reading it aloud for the second time as the volume came on. “Presidential Shelter.”

“Who knows what they mean by that one,” Mike said. “Twenty only.”

Stephane reappeared with a drink for each of us. We clinked glasses and Mercer toasted to a speedy solution to Luc’s predicament.

“Here’s your answer, folks,” Trebek said. “‘These two islands were the sites of fallout shelters built in 1961 for JFK during soviet face-offs.’ We’re looking for two islands.”

The musical timer ticked away while the three contestants scratched their heads and screwed up their noses.

“You got any fallout shelters on the Vineyard, Alex?” Mercer asked. “That would have been close to the summer White House in Hyannis.”

“No such thing on my little island. I’ve never heard of this. Doesn’t the White House have its own bunker?”

“Built during WWII,” Mike said, “to protect FDR. You got it.”

“So where could these be?” I asked, grateful for the diversion from the serious work of this week.

“Is that an ‘I give up,’ Coop?”

“Why, is your Cold War trivia as good as the real military stuff you know? And yes, I’ve given up on just about everything.”

“What is Nantucket?” Mercer asked. “That has to be one of them.”

“You’re halfway there,” Mike said.

Trebek was shaking his head at the three women, who seemed frozen behind their podiums. None of them were writing.

“What are Nantucket—and Peanut Island?” Mike asked.

“Now, that one comes straight from your twisted imagination,” Mercer said to him.

“No takers?” Trebek said. “What are Nantucket—the island off the coast of Cape Cod, where the president and his family summered—and Peanut Island? Peanut Island, for those of you who didn’t know, is a tiny strip directly opposite Millionaire’s Row in Palm Beach. Nobody guessed that, did you?”

Mike turned off the television. “Yeah, Navy Seabees built the shelter at the end of ’61, as we were ramping up to the Cuban Missile Crisis. Just a helicopter hop from the Kennedy home, on this little island that was meant to be a terminal for shipping peanut oil.”

“Just hearing the word ‘peanut’ makes me hungry,” Mercer said.

“Then let’s chow down.”

“Up here?” I asked.

“Nope,” Mike said. “Follow me.”

The three of us took the tiny elevator down two flights, to the basement. Patroon, too, had a wine cellar with a dining table. It was far more intimate than the space at ‘21,’ and without all the sinister hidden doors and locked rooms. Luc and I had surprised Vickee and Mercer with an anniversary dinner for eight in the divine, candlelit space several months earlier.

“What’s the point of this?” I asked. “Déjà vu, all over again?”

“Ken thought it would give us privacy. I’ve got to bring you up to speed, and he said he’d help us with some answers.”

Stephane brought menus down to us, but we’d eaten at Patroon so many times that we really didn’t need them to order.

“I’ll have the rack of lamb,” Mike said. “Onion rings, whipped potatoes, grilled asparagus.”

“Very good choice, Detective. Did I forget to say ‘ladies first’?” Stephane asked, pointing his pen at Mike. “He just jumped right in ahead of you, Alexandra.”

“He’s a growing boy. And I’d like the thirty-five-day dry aged sirloin, please. Black and blue.”

“Mercer?”

“Dover sole. Grilled.”

“It’s sublime,” Stephane said. “We’re serving it tonight with a caper meunière sauce. Will that be okay for you?”

“Just perfect. Mike’s side dishes will do us all fine.”

“Mr. Aretsky wants to send you a bottle of wine, with his compliments. He said to tell you he’ll be down here shortly.”

Stephane excused himself to place the order. I started peppering Mike with questions.

“What else did you find out today?”

“The lieutenant finally took me off Night Watch. He’s letting me give Brooklyn Homicide a hand. I was there most of the day, with Luc.”

“Thank you so much for being with him. Truly, Mike. I mean it.”

“After they sent him on his way, I began making all the calls. They asked me to reach out to the police captain in Mougins.”

“Jacques Belgarde?”

“Exactly.”

“What does he add?”

“I’m trying to see if there’s any link between Luigi Calamari and Lisette Honfleur. We know they were both in Mougins the night of Luc’s party,” Mike said, “and now they’re both dead.”

“There’s the candy connection,” Mercer said.

“Yeah, Lisette had blow hidden in her Bronx wallet, and Luigi had a boatload of cocaine stashed in the canal.”

“Has the ME given you any word about Luigi’s drug use in the autopsy report?”

“No signs of it. Gina Varona might have been right. No vascular changes in the nasal submucosa, no perforation of the nasal septum like a chronic addict might have.”

“And the tox results will take weeks. So what do you think Luigi’s brother meant about his drug problem?”

“Could be,” Mercer said, “that he knew the kid wasn’t a user, but that he was up to something every bit as lethal.”

“Importing it for sale,” I said. “There’s something I’ve got to ask you, Mike.”

“Shoot.”

“Did Luc tell you anything else about what time Luigi got to the party last Saturday? Or how long he stayed?”

“He said it was late. Definitely toward the end of the night. Probably after you left for home.”

“And Lisette,” holding my breath, because Luc had so emphatically denied her presence to Jacques Belgarde, even though the clothes she died in were all white. “Did you ask him whether Lisette came to the party with Luigi? Did Luc see her there as well?”

“No. He still insists he hasn’t seen her in several years. We’re working on the car rental places at the Nice airport, to see whether Luigi rented one to get to Mougins, see where he spent the night.”

“They have to have been working together, Mike,” I said, putting down my drink to map out the lines between the players. “Luc and I left the house for the party at about seven o’clock, to make sure everything was set up for our guests. The door to the street is never bolted, but when I got home at around two
A.M.
, not only was the door locked and jammed with bits of bone but the larger bones were stacked up in front, and three skulls had been placed at the entrance to the restaurant.”

“And did they resemble the skull I brought to your apartment from Luigi’s houseboat?”

“Exactly the same type. Very, very old and discolored. From the Parisian catacombs, I’m quite sure. Belgarde has Lisette’s arrest record for trespassing there.”

“So the logical thought is that Luigi and Lisette were deep in something together,” Mercer said.

“Something that Luc didn’t have any reason to know about.” Both of them ignored me when I spoke.

“Let’s say Luigi had a legitimate reason for going to Mougins.”

“Was Luc aware of that?”

Mike hesitated and glanced across the table at me. I’d seen that look before. He was trying to decide how much information to trust me with.

“He didn’t know Luigi would be there at the party, but one of the other waiters invited him, telling him to drop in at the end of the evening, after some of the guests were gone. He said he’d come to town to try to recruit staff for Lutèce from the other restaurants around Mougins,” Mike said. “Luc liked his moxie. He even agreed it would be great to steal talent from his competitors in France and have a few authentic French waiters.”

“That sounds like Luc,” I said. “So Luigi arrived after I left the party?”

“Probably so.”

“Alone?”

“Yes.”

“That could account for the Lutèce matchboxes. Luc was giving them away at the party, and the waiters were using them to light candles, too. Luigi could have taken some, maybe even given one to Lisette.”

“That’s an idea,” Mike said.

“Lisette was dressed all in white,” I said. “I wonder if something or someone stopped her from coming to dinner.”

“Doesn’t seem like we’re ever going to know,” Mercer said. “She
could have been planning to go in with Luigi, but got cold feet about being confronted by Luc.”

“I got another thought,” Mike said. “Suppose she’s the one who planted the bones and the three skulls while you were up at—where was the party?”

“At the highest point of the village, just outside the Saracens Gate.”

“Explain the geography to me, Coop. Can you see Luc’s house—or the restaurant—from that point?”

“No way. It’s a stunning vista, but built in medieval days to keep out invaders. So you can see all the way to the Mediterranean because it was meant to be a lookout for foreign armies, but you can’t see back down to the village behind the stone walls.”

“So if you and the town’s ‘in crowd’ were up at the party all evening, someone like Lisette could have made her way to the house with—let’s say—a bag of bones,” Mike said.

“Sure. And instead of looking to any villagers like a stranger roaming around the town,” I said, “she’d have seemed to be done up for Luc’s party. No one would have thought twice about it.”

“And she knew the way to his house, I take it.”

“No doubt. The timing works, too. When I was trying to get the door open—Lisette must have jammed it, just to make trouble for us coming home. That’s when I heard laughter from the field below Luc’s property. She’d delivered her gruesome skeletons and was on her way down to the parking lot.”

“But who was laughing with her,” Mercer said, “if Luigi was up at the party? How many people were involved, and what was Luigi really up to with his visit to Mougins?”

“Feels like the age-old double-cross,” Mike said.

“How?” I asked.

“Assume for a minute that Luigi Calamari seemed like the real deal to Gina Varona and to Luc. Smart, young, handsome guy—speaks French—has experience at an upscale private club, so they want to lure him away to head the waitstaff at Lutèce.”