Night Watch (8 page)

“They buy you a drink,” he chided me gently one night last fall, “and I end up buying them dinner. People mean well when they invite you to sit with them, but when the bill finally comes, most of them figure they deserve something for entertaining you while I was hard at work.”

“Let’s plan lunch before I leave next week. I’m really running late,” I said. “Did you enjoy Luc’s bash?”

“Wasn’t it just divine?” Gretchen said. “Of course I paid for that good time today. Wicked hangover, and I didn’t get out of bed until two. The phone rang all day with people dying to know how to get on the list for next year.”

I blew kisses to her and kept on my way, interested that she hadn’t heard anything about a corpse dressed in white or the scandalous news from New York.

The bartender must have seen me approaching and alerted Luc, who opened the door and bowed his head to me, taking my hand to kiss it and welcome me inside.

This was the showmanship that Luc Rouget thrived on. He looked dashing in the crisp white chef’s coat with his name embroidered in green thread that was exactly the same shade as the paint trim in the dining room. He wore clogs as his father had decades earlier, long before Mario Batali popularized them as the celebrity chef footwear of choice. Regulars and first-time diners seemed to watch all his movements, curious to see who he favored and whether any glimpse of his mercurial temper would flash.

Every table in the bar, except for the four-top in the far corner, was occupied. The crowd was more youthful and hip, on most nights, than the guests interested in the full experience of the haute cuisine served next door.

Luc escorted me to the table, and I slid into the brown leather banquette against the wall. He called to the bartender, asking for
deux coupes
, and within seconds there were two glasses of champagne on our table.

“Are the kids okay?” I asked.

Luc hovered over me, leaning one arm on the door frame between the rooms, but he had his eyes set on the action in the restaurant. He would lavish most of his attention on the high rollers who were paying through the nose for the hard-to-get reservation.

“They’re fine. They don’t know anything yet.”

“And Brigitte?”

“What’s to say? She hasn’t seen Lisette in years and doesn’t want to be part of any investigation involving her death. She’s taken the boys out of school for two weeks while she goes to Normandy tomorrow, where her mother is.”

“I take it you’re not happy about that.”

Luc looked down at me and nodded. “I’d prefer they be here. I’d like to be with them, especially before I head to New York.”

“I know that,” I said, sensing tension after his meeting with Brigitte. “Did you have an argument with Brigitte? I mean about taking the kids with her.”

“Brigitte never argues. She’s used to getting her way.”

She left Luc a few years ago for reasons he had never articulated. He wasn’t over her, and maybe never would be. I expected photographs of his two sons to be all over his home—Luc adored them—but I had no clue why he still kept a picture of Brigitte in the single drawer of the table beside the bed.

“Have you spoken to Jacques Belgarde?”

“Not yet.”

“Not even to tell him about the guy with the gun?”

Luc glanced at his watch. “Trust me. He’ll be in before the kitchen closes. He’s got a better nose for black truffles than most pigs, and we’re serving some tonight.”

“Why don’t you sit down with me?” I said, tugging at the sleeve of his jacket. “You look so anxious.”

“Shortly, darling.”

The headwaiter crossed the threshold from the dining room. “Monsieur Rouget, the guests at table six would like to see you.”

“Problem?”

“Not at all. A little stroking perhaps,” he said with a wink. “They knew your father. I think they just want to reminisce.”

“Papa’s my lucky charm, Alex. I’m bringing him to New York for the opening. His old customers will come out in droves,” Luc said, the spark returning to his eyes. “This is a world he created, and he’s electric at making it work.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“As soon as Jim—my wine guru—arrives, I’ll bring him in and we’ll order. Think of something fabulous the kitchen can create for you.”

My thoughts were everywhere except on the dinner menu. I opened my evening bag and took out the small notebook that I carried everywhere. My list-making habit was almost obsessive, and within minutes I had worked up a full page of questions I wanted to ask Captain Belgarde about Lisette and his findings. I was still jotting down ideas when I heard Luc’s voice, and stuffed the papers away.

He reentered the bar, followed by a tall, stocky man who looked more like a fullback than a wine merchant. Luc motioned him to the seat beside me, and I slid over to let him in as he put the two bottles of wine he was carrying on the table.

“Alex, this is Jim Mulroy.”

“Happy to meet you,” I said.

“My pleasure. Luc’s talked about you a lot.” He rubbed his palms together and smiled at Luc. “Open these up, will you? I think I’ve found something unusual for New York.”

While he examined the labels, Luc signaled to the bartender to come over and uncork the bottles. “Bordeaux?”

“Don’t say it.” Jim held up both hands. “Pretentious, stodgy, dull. Your young customers think it’s old-school and over-branded. Taste this, my friend.”

“Domaine de Jeuget. Never heard of it.”

“I don’t know how I got so lucky. Three hundred fifty years this family’s had the vineyards. Just a small estate, Luc. It’s not a château. The old guy who runs it took me down in the cellars. I’m telling you, there are cobwebs on everything except the barrels, and they probably predate Napoléon.”

Jim sniffed the cork before handing it to Luc.

“Fresh and alive, isn’t it?” Jim went on. “There are no chemicals, no manipulation. He does it just like his father and grandfather did before him, keeps it in barrels for thirty months. No oakiness, but a nice subtle aeration.”

Luc poured a bit into a glass. “How much does he produce a year?”

“Six, maybe seven thousand bottles of St. Julien.”

I was watching this dance between them and admiring Jim’s enthusiasm. “Is that a lot or a little?”

“It’s a miniscule output.” Luc laughed at me. “Think of Mouton Rothschild. They put out something like one hundred and seventy thousand bottles of their best wine each year. They’re farming close to three hundred acres.”

“Versus three acres for Jeuget,” Jim said. “It’s graceful, isn’t it? Smell all those violets that make up the aroma, and the minerals, too.”

He tilted his glass toward me and I took a whiff. It just smelled like red wine.

“I get the picture, Jim,” Luc said, explaining to me. “The major importers won’t deal with this, Alex. There isn’t enough product. They can’t buy enough of it to ship to all their clients. They can’t get a bulk price.”

“Let me order five hundred cases for New York. You can charge anything you want for it, anywhere from one to two hundred bucks a bottle.”

“What’s the typical restaurant markup on wine?” I asked.

“Four, maybe five times what we pay for it,” Luc said.

“Starting up a first-rate place in Manhattan these days, with labels you can’t get anywhere else?” Jim said. “The sky’s the limit. What do you say?”

“I think you’ve got a point.” Luc was leaning back in his chair, swirling the glass. “Let me talk to my partners.”

“But fast. This stuff is going to go like lightning. There isn’t much of it, and it’s got soul, Luc.”

I laughed at Jim’s enthusiasm.

“This will round out your cellar. It’s what you’re missing—a really profound Bordeaux.”

“But five hundred cases? I haven’t even opened my doors yet.”

“What you can’t use, I promise you Ken Aretsky will take off your hands. He’s got the best wine list in the city.”

Ken was a longtime friend of mine—one of Manhattan’s legendary restaurateurs. He owned an upscale midtown eatery called Patroon and had become Luc’s unofficial adviser in navigating the difficult waters of the modern-day business of fine dining.

“It’s easier for him. I’m doing classic French cuisine, so all my wines have to be from over here. Ken’s got superb American fare—steaks, pork, fish, lobster—so he can draw from the California vineyards just as well. You understand, Alex?”

“I do now.”

“So where are we storing all this wine, Jim? Have you figured that out yet?”

“Solved.”

“Not some warehouse in the city, is it? Nobody’s got the right conditions.”

“Try this. It’s subterranean and it’s secure, for starters. Everything a good bottle of wine loves. Dark, no vibrations, and a steady temperature of fifty-five degrees.”

“How pricey?”

“If you’ve got more than a hundred cases, it’s only a dollar twenty-five a month per case.”

Luc looked intrigued. “Hard to believe, Jim. What is it?”

He reached for his glass. “A 1962 bomb shelter, in the boonies of Connecticut. Vintage Cold War paranoia built by a rich man on his estate. No more boxes of food rations, just lots of great wine. I’ll take you up to see it when you’re over next.”

Talk of the new business venture had made Luc more vibrant than he’d been since the party last night. He was eager to get started when the headwaiter returned to take our order.

“You know what you want, darling?”

“I was thinking about veal.”

“Forget the menu,” Luc said to me, before addressing the waiter. “Tell the chef Alexandra would like veal, however he wants to prepare it. Something very special, no?”

“Make it two,” Jim said.

“And I’ll have a carpaccio of tuna. Salad for all of us,” he said.

“Monsieur Rouget,” the waiter said, instead of turning away to place the order. “What would you like me to do about table three?”

“Nobody has arrived yet?”

“No, sir.”

“A seven o’clock reservation for four,” Luc said to Jim, “at one of the best tables in the house. A no-show, and not courteous enough to call to break it. Looks bad to leave one empty in the front. That’s my prime real estate.”

“I’ve got two parties having cocktails on the terrace, neither of whom was able to book inside tonight. Shall I seat one of them?”

“By all means. I’ll go schmooze when you’ve got them inside. You have a telephone number for the no-shows?”

“Hotel du Cap, Monsieur Rouget.” The waiter bowed his head and left the bar.

“That was another thing that got my father noticed in New York,” Luc said to Jim and me, warming up as he talked. “He couldn’t abide no-shows. Thought it was the height of rudeness when part of the attraction to other customers was filling every table and turning them over if he could. So Andre would wait till midnight, then call
the offender, asking whether he wanted the kitchen to stay open in case their party was still planning on coming in.”

“Ouch,” I said. “I guess he didn’t see many of those folks again.”

“You’d be surprised. I think the harder he made it for people to get what everyone else wanted, the more they came crawling back anyway.”

Luc was in his element and I was happy to see him beginning to relax. The three of us ate and drank, and told stories about our favorite food experiences. Jim seemed almost as excited as I that Luc was coming to New York to re-create Lutèce—named for
Lutetia
, the Latin word for the ancient city of Paris.

I could have set my watch by Luc’s prediction that Jacques Belgarde would show up at nine o’clock. He came into the bar alone, and saw us as soon as he entered.

As he made his way to the table, Luc tried to explain to his guest that we needed to cut the evening short. Jim Mulroy didn’t ask any questions. He got up to excuse himself and practically bumped into Belgarde, who clearly wanted to be introduced and find out about the man who was with us.

The captain reached into his inner jacket pocket and pulled out a piece of paper, which he unfolded as he spoke. “Were you in town last night, Mr. Mulroy?”

“I just arrived at five o’clock today. I’ve come from Lyons.”

“Then you missed Luc’s soiree, too?”

“My misfortune, yes.”

“Maybe next year we’ll both be favored with an invitation,” Belgarde said. “And you, Alexandra, it looks like your colleagues think they’ve got a big case on their hands.”

He handed me a printout that he had downloaded from his computer. It was a news headline from a French site much like CNN, with a photo of Mohammed Gil-Darsin featured in a perp walk—a uniquely American tradition for the high-profile criminal.

Baby Mo looked the camera directly in the eye. His hands were cuffed behind his back, the collar of his dark trench coat stood up,
almost as though styled for the photo op. There was none of the head-hanging or sense of shame that such moments usually engendered.

Two first-grade detectives from Manhattan’s SVU—Mercer Wallace and Alan Vandomir—gripped his arms, one on each side.

The text above the image was in bold caps, three inches high. I held it up so Luc could read it, too.
L’AFFAIR MGD
!

“That’s unbelievable,” Luc said.

“What is?” I asked.

“You couldn’t do that to a man in this country. Photograph him in handcuffs before he’s been convicted of a crime. It’s—it’s indecent.”

“So is first-degree rape.”

“I’ll owe you the caviar for sure,” Luc said, shaking his head as he crumpled the paper. “I tell you, the French won’t be happy with your justice system.”

“Who cares?” Jacques said. “Bébé Mo isn’t French.”

“He certainly is. He’s spent half of his life in this country. His father’s been good to your men, Captain. He probably spends more money bribing them for favors than they make in salary.”

“Watch your step, Luc. My guys like to eat as well as you and I do. And the Gil-Darsins—uh—they’re African, after all. They’re not French.”

“You mean they’re black, is that it?” I asked.

“I said African, didn’t I?” Jacques buffed the nails of his right hand on the edge of the tablecloth. “Don’t make me out to be a racist.”

“Mo’s mother was French,” Luc said, talking to Jim Mulroy and me. “Her father owned a cocoa plantation in the Ivory Coast, and she fell in love with a local young political leader. Radical stuff in those days, sixty years ago. The Côte d’Ivoire was a French colony then. It didn’t gain its independence till 1960.”