A Clean Kill

Twenty

All afternoon and evening the news was filled with the Wilson murder. Photos of Maddy Wilson at Fashion Week, at Restaurant Week, at social events that were immortalized in W and Town & Country, and all the foodie magazines, were shown everywhere. She'd been a skier and a fashion plate, a popular figure. Speculation was rife about what had gone wrong in the Camelot where she'd lived. Intermixed with the story of the murder on Beekman Place were clips of Wayne Wilson, when he'd been a celebrity chef during the first half of his career. He was the former husband of ballerina Jenny Hope, and the owner of four French bistros—an important person in the food world.

It was the story of the day, bigger on national news than strife in any war-tom country and more important—on the TV scale of importance—than suicide bombings in the Middle East, hostage situations in Africa, stock market misconduct, and the prostitution of young girls in the Far East all put together. The brick house, the roped-off street, the police vehicles clogging up the entire area. The body bag being carried out to an ambulance, CSI with their bagged and boxed evidence in hand as they hurried out to their vehicles. Images the public had come to know as well as the parade of movie stars in revealing dresses on award nights. Crime and celebrity were the candy the country craved. And here it was, if not with nationally recognizable faces, at least with people who were well-known and prominent in their city. It was a feeding frenzy and there was a lot of material to disseminate.

Mike and April got another taste of it when they left the station for dinner at eight. They were besieged by a half-dozen reporters the second they stepped outside.

"Is Mr. Wilson a suspect?"

"Was he having an affair with the nanny?"

"Is it true she was mutilated?"

"Were her nipples cut off?"

The questions flew at them, but April didn't look to see who was asking. Mike shook his head.

"Nothing more for tonight," he said, taking her arm. Several reporters followed them down the street with the questions still blasting them like enemy fire. Then suddenly, they got to the end of the block, turned the corner, and became just two people walking to dinner. Mike gave April a quick hug and she clung to him, wishing they were already home in Westchester.

"What was that shower thing all about?" he asked.

Sighing, she let the embrace slip away. Overhead the sky was still NYPD blue, the deep, deep color that set off the stars in the early evening before the light was completely gone from the earth and night closed in on the city. "Starlight, star bright," she murmured. "First star I see tonight." She didn't make her wish out loud. The whole setup bothered her. Wayne and his affairs. Maddy and hers. The babysitter who claimed she wasn't a babysitter and was probably fired that morning by the murdered woman. What was it all about? What was under the surface? Who was trying to cast the blame on whom? She didn't have her usual clarity of vision. The fog all around her was lifeless. No whispers emerged from it to tantalize her. She didn't think the killer was Remy or Derek, but she didn't know exactly why. Wayne was a big question mark.

"What are you driving at?" Mike asked.

"I don't know. Wayne is a chronic womanizer. He kept his last wife about six years. Maybe Mad-dy's number was up, and he didn't want to pay alimony again." She shrugged. "It wouldn't be the first time something like this happened."

"Is that what her friend suggested?"

"No, no. Alison is treading carefully with Wayne. What's your take?"

"I didn't question him, querida. I'm staying out of it."

She laughed softly. "Sure you are."

Mike took her hand and squeezed it. Neither of them mentioned the honeymoon four days away. "Te quiero, mi amor," he said after a moment.

"That's nice." April smiled. "But if you have an affair on me, chico, I'll cut your nuts off."

"Thanks for the warning," he laughed. They walked the rest of the way to the restaurant in silence.

Soleil was crowded at eight. With its wide windows, bright south-of-France decor, and famous competition—Lutece—closed down for lack of business, it was the new hot spot in the neighborhood. On that crisp June evening there was no sign that the wife of the owner had been murdered that morning. The long bar was jammed with people waiting for tables. The food aromas were enticing and votive candles flickered everywhere.

The girl standing at the podium with the reservation book was wearing a slinky black dress that showed off everything she didn't have. No ass, no tits, hardly any flesh at all. What an advertisement for a restaurant, April thought. The girl's hair was short and black and curly all over. Mike smiled at her.

"The name is Sanchez. We have a reservation," he said.

"Oh, Captain Sanchez. I have a table in the corner for you. He's here. He wants to see you."

"He?" Mike raised his eyebrows.

"Mr. Wilson. He's cooking tonight," she added.

Mike looked surprised. "Does he do that often?"

"On Danny's day off, or when he wants to escape. No one ever looks for him in the kitchen." She picked up two menus and led the way to the only empty table in the place. It was in the back where the view of the action was good. "He said you'd want to be in a quiet spot."

"Thanks," Mike said.

"How about a glass of wine on the house?" the skinny girl said expectantly. "Anything you want."

April shook her head. "Hot tea," she said.

"I'll have a Diet Coke," Mike added.

The girl went away to pass along the order and April asked, "Did you know he was here?"

"Nope. I thought he was at the Plaza."

So much for surveillance. She spread her napkin across her lap, hiding the gun at her waist and her skepticism about Minnow's competence. "It will be interesting to find out what the specials are," she remarked.

Then she gazed at him with all her toughness gone because even though she might be unlucky in vacations, she was lucky in love. Mike studied the menu. He looked good in his silver tie and black shirt, his white, black, and gray nubby blend jacket and black trousers. This was the outfit he kept in his closet at work for occasions like this. Very West Coast. She couldn't help admiring what a fastidious dresser and extremely handsome man he was. At least she thought so. For a second she forgot about the Wilsons and glowed with love. Then the mood was broken.

"Bonsoir. I'm Jose." A good-looking Hispanic placed a basket of warm minibaguettes on the table with such reverence they could have been newborn babies. With another flourish he added a plate of pink butter curls decorated with whole red peppercorns. "I'll be your server tonight. Would you care for a glass of wine?" he asked.

"We've already placed our order," Mike told him. They weren't drinking wine on the house or otherwise.

"The chef recommends the shrimp wonton and tea-smoked quail with ginger-mango glaze, baby vegetables, and Singapore noodles for the lady and the taquitos and pork loin chipotle for the gentleman."

April arched a delicate eyebrow at the fusion menu that was not listed on the printed one, but Mike put his menu down and said, "Why not?"

Jose melted away to the kitchen.

Forty minutes later, after they'd eaten the tiny spicy taquitos, the shrimp wontons as light as any April had eaten, the exquisite boneless quail, and the tender smoky pork, she had to admit she was impressed, the nontraditional presentation notwithstanding. Mike insisted on paying the bill and they followed the server into the kitchen.

They found Wayne in a narrow stainless steel alley as hot as any God-fearing sinner's reckoning of Hell. He had a bottle of wine in one hand, and perspiration dripped down the side of his face as he watched an equally drenched grill chef juggle steaks, chops, and thick fish fillets on a spitting gas grill. Wayne was wearing a short-sleeved. white chef's jacket, printed chef's baggies with an ocean of fish swimming on them, a baseball hat with the same fish on it, and clogs on his bare feet.

"How did you like the quail?" he asked, backing out of the cramped space to talk to them.

"Delicious," April said. "Marinated and tea-smoked first, then seared on the grill, right?"

He nodded. "You know your stuff."

"Tea-smoked is my favorite," she said. "Is that a regular special?"

"Of course not. I heard you were coming."

They followed him into a small office, where he closed the door and plugged a fat cigar in his mouth. Then, remembering his manners, he passed the box over and offered Mike one. "Ever had a really good cigar?"

Mike took the box, studied the illegal Havanas. He even lowered his head to sniff at them. "I quit a while back," he said as he closed the box and returned it without taking one.

"Que lastima," Wayne said with a strong American accent.

"You speak Spanish," Mike remarked.

"A little French, German, Italian. You have to be able to converse with the gorillas working the pits."

Nice, first he fed the Mexican policeman a Mexican-style dinner; then he called his people gorillas. Mike smiled without any warmth.

"So what can I do for you? I know you didn't come for the food."

"Oh, you never know. We might want to do a party here sometime," Mike said genially.

"Anytime. I'll cook myself. How's that for a promise?" Wayne lit the cigar and blew smoke into the air, remarkably poised for a guy who'd lost his wife that morning.

April wondered about his having kept the restaurant open. What kind of message was that? A stack of industry magazines covered the seat of the chair nearest to her. She placed it on the floor and took a seat. Mike remained standing.

"Thank you for cooking for us. A very subtle menu," April said. "We're here because we need your help to find the person who killed your wife," she said.

He nodded. "Of course. Anything I can do. I told you that this morning."

"One thing you told me is that you have girlfriends," April said slowly.

Irritation ticked over his face. "Oh, don't make

too much of that. Maddy and I had an open marriage. It didn't affect our feelings for each other." He brushed the infidelity off.

"Somebody took exception," April remarked.

"Well, don't look at me. I wasn't the last one with her." He sounded like a little boy.

"What do you mean?" Mike joined the conversation.

"Let's just say she had an arrangement with her trainer. I'm sure' you know that by now."

"Did it bother you?" he asked.

"Why should it?" Wayne said impatiently. "I paid the bills, didn't I?"

April's sinuses began to object to the cigar smoke. She sniffed to hold back a sneeze. "Let's go over the events of the morning one more time."

He blew more smoke and picked up a wineglass that was sitting on his desk, half filled with a red. "It's all very clear in my mind. Maddy slept late. I always get up early to be with the boys."

"How early?" Mike interjected as Wayne sipped from his glass, swirled the wine in his mouth, then swallowed.

"Five thirty."

"Is that the time they get up?"

"No. I pick up my e-mails, answer my mail. We have breakfast at seven," he said easily.

"Who cooks, you?"

"Remy does the cooking there."

"What did she make this morning?"

"She wanted to give the boys a treat." He smiled. "She's not a bad little cook. She made fresh sausages, crepes, raspberry jam. Hot chocolate."

"Very nice. The three of you ate it—" "No, four of us."

"Your wife joined you, then."

"Well, she did when we were finished. She came in at seven forty and had a little temper fit because the baby got jam on his napkin. I told her it wasn't a big deal, and she erupted. She just got so mad. I'm sorry about it now."

"Then what happened?"

"Oh, Remy got the boys cleaned up and we took them to school."

"Your wife didn't come with you?"

"You know she didn't. If she'd come with us, she'd still be alive."

"What about her relationship with Remy?"

"She was jealous. Maddy didn't cook, so she felt having a home chef was unnecessary. But food is an important part of my life. I want to teach the boys the pleasure of eating. Meals at home in the kitchen. The family together." He lifted the palms of his hands to emphasize the point. The gesture said it all.

"What time did you drop the boys off?"

"A few minutes before eight."

"Then what did you do?"

"We went to the restaurant. It was a delivery day. I don't miss that."

"Who delivers on Mondays?"

"Dairy, produce, meat. I look at the stuff to make sure it's top-of-the-line. I count the boxes. It takes hours, but anybody who doesn't do it gets ripped off. When I get an alcohol delivery, believe me, I count every bottle."

"Great. That helps a lot. We'll need your lists— who delivered, what you got," Mike said.

"To show that I was here when she died."

Mike nodded. "We also need the names of your girlfriends, and all the people who knew the code to the garage door. And everybody who saw Remy at the restaurant, and what time she left."

"Yeah, sure. Anything else?"

"I'd like to talk to your executive chef before we go," Mike said. He was the one who gave Wayne his alibi.