Killer Heat

SEVENTEEN

The note inside the padded envelope was written in bold calligraphy that I had come to recognize these past two months

Confirm package ordered to arrive Plaza Athénée, at the Bar Seine, at seven-thirty tonight. Needs food, wine immediately…and occasional affection. Driver will be downstairs to make pickup. Pack contents carefully to avoid melting in transit.

The card was attached to a large brass key with a red ribbon. I fanned myself with Luc Rouget's missive as I rode up in the elevator. We had met in June at the Martha's Vineyard wedding of one of my best friends, Joan Stanton. She had despaired of a string of broken relationships following the death of my fiancé, Adam Nyman, shortly after my graduation from law school. Luc and Joan's husband had known each other for years, and her plan to surprise me with an introduction made a romantic weekend even more emotionally charged.

Since the night we met, I had seen Luc three other times in New York. He was the son of a renowned French restaurateur, and although he lived in Mougins, a tiny village perched high in the Alps, he was making frequent trips to the city with the prospect of reestablishing his father's classic dining spot.

Inside my apartment, I turned up the air-conditioning and immediately began to fill the bathtub with warm water, adding scented potions to make loads of bubbles. I needed to create an artificial wall to distance both the horrors of the last week and this morning's scare from a personal life that too often took a backseat to my work.

There were three messages on the answering machine-all from Luc-and I played them as I undressed.

The first one was a fuzzy cell call from the international arrivals terminal at JFK, shortly before noon. The second, during his cab ride into the city, expressed his concern that he had spoken to Laura, who told him I wouldn't be in the office at all that day.

"Luc here, Alexandra. I'm beginning to worry now that one of your cases might change our plans," he said on his third try. "It's Friday afternoon, and I have to leave for DC in the morning. I'm in meetings all afternoon. Please call. I'm hoping I've found a way to unlock some of your secrets, ma chère."

His French accent was always a turn-on.

On Martha's Vineyard I kept a collection of old keys on my desk- from flea markets and antique shops-to use as paperweights. Luc must have seen them after Joan and Jim's wedding.

I left a voice mail for him at the hotel before I slipped into the tub.

I felt better after a long, soothing bath and an attempt at a nap. But I was too wired to sleep, excited by my feelings for Luc-feelings I hadn't experienced in more than a year.

Joan and my friend Nina were determined to help me find a balance between my private life and the intensity of the prosecutorial job. I liked the emotional involvement of my work, but it was difficult to translate how richly rewarding it could be to someone who'd had no experience with the dark world of sex crimes and homicides.

It was an admittedly odd juxtaposition. When I closed my eyes to think about kissing Luc, I had to force out thoughts of the two dead women whose killers we were trying to find. I could remember every word Luc had whispered to me that first night on the Vineyard, but the staccato sound of gunshots still reverberated in my ears, even in the quiet space of my home.

There was something so easy, so comfortable about spending time with friends who were prosecutors and detectives. There was no need to explain how we coped with the trauma that we witnessed almost every day, or to applaud our efforts to help put people's lives back together, or to question our often Sisyphean interest in bringing the guilty to justice.

I needed to leave some of that baggage at home when I walked out the door to meet Luc.

I wore a strapless sundress that always lightened my mood when I put it on. It was aqua silk, with a swing skirt that just touched the top of my knees. My legs were tanned and it was too hot for pantyhose, so I chose a pair of black patent sandals with thin straps and high heels. I carried a sequined throw over my shoulders, in the unlikely event it cooled down during the evening.

I took a last look at myself in the mirror, then pulled back my hair, sweeping it off my neck into a knot and clipping it in place with a beaded barrette.

"There's a car service waiting for you, Ms. Cooper," the doorman said when I came downstairs.

"Thanks, Vinny."

He held the door open and whistled for the driver to pull up. "Glad you're taking the night off. That's a tough schedule you've been keeping."

Even the doormen knew I needed to get a life.

It was a fast ride to the elegant hotel on Sixty-fourth Street and Madison Avenue. Bright red awnings and neatly trimmed topiary marked the entrance, and I stopped to reapply my lipstick before I went into the lobby.

Bar Seine was one of the most attractive rooms in the city. Dark wood paneling gave it a rich, warm look, and the low lighting and soft music added to its appeal. As soon as I stood in the doorway, Luc came forward to greet me.

"Bon soir, Alexandra," he said, taking me in his arms and kissing both my cheeks several times. "I've been looking forward to this for weeks. I'd have been-how do you say? Désolé-there's nothing in English that quite captures that expression. I don't know what I would have done if you'd thrown me over for another case."

Luc guided me to a banquette in a corner of the room. Before we sat, he lifted my fingers in the air and twirled me once around. "You look ravishing. I've kept the driver, so perhaps we'll go dancing after supper."

"Lovely idea."

"Une coupe?"

"Oui, monsieur."

There was a bottle of champagne chilling in a cooler. The waiter saw us sit down and came over to pop the cork.

"That's the last thing I'm going to say in French." Luc had made fun of my accent on our second date, despite years I spent studying the language in high school and college.

He raised his flute and tapped it against mine. "Well, if you just say 'oui' to everything I ask from this point on, we'll do fine. Here's to a splendid evening."

There was something wonderfully seductive about Luc's manner. Although Nina had declared him GU-geographically undesirable- when she learned he was just visiting from France, she, too, had been taken by his charm and charisma.

"Are you hungry? Did you have any lunch?" he asked before the waiter left.

I had been too upset to eat anything after the episode at the range. "Something light would be good."

"Huitres?"

"Perfect."

"Perhaps not as fresh as the oysters you get in Chilmark from Larsen's Fish Market or those fried clams at The Bite, but they should do," Luc said, ordering two dozen for us. "Now tell me about your day. What kept you out of the office?"

"Tell me about yours. You probably have more exciting news."

Luc was forty-eight years old, divorced with two children who lived nearby in his hometown. He wasn't classically handsome, but he had strong features-blue gray eyes that reflected his enthusiasm, even behind wire-rimmed glasses, and a long, thin Roman nose. He was tall and lean, with hair just a few shades darker than my own, and his great style was evident in the way he dressed and carried himself.

"I think things are beginning to shape up well," he said. "This is the height of our season in Mougins. It's hard for me to get away in August, but the opportunity to duplicate my father's creation is quite thrilling for me."

Luc smiled easily. He delighted in the pleasures of the culinary arts, and his energy was infectious. I couldn't imagine a professional world- certainly neither law nor medicine, with which I'd been surrounded since childhood-that didn't involve life-and-death decisions but simply enjoyment.

André Rouget had moved to New York from France in the 1960s and had built a remarkable career in a notoriously fickle business. One of the first celebrity chefs, he had opened a landmark restaurant in a town house on East Fiftieth Street. Lutèce became known for the finest French cuisine in America, maintaining its excellence as it passed from Rouget's leadership to that of the great André Soltner, until it closed its doors almost forty years later.

"Have you found a location?" I asked.

"I'm hoping to do this exactly in the manner of my father," Luc said, explaining that his partner in the venture was scouting for a building very much like the original.

"And you'll call it Lutèce?"

"Bien sûr. There's a great history in that name. You know what it means?"

"Wasn't Lutetia the original name of Paris? Isn't that the Latin word, from the time of the Roman conquest?"

"Even more complicated, Alex. The Parisii were a Celtic tribe, living on the Ile de la Cité. The derivation of the word is Celtic-louk-teih, the place of the marshes."

I didn't want to be thinking of Mike Chapman now, but the mention of a useful piece of trivia brought him to mind at once. The information would serve me well betting against him on Jeopardy! some night.

"But let's talk about you. Tell me why you aren't on the Vineyard this weekend."

The oysters arrived on a bed of ice chips. They were cold and delicious, with a slightly briny taste that I especially liked.

"I couldn't plan anything because of the trial. I should be able to get up there for the long Labor Day weekend."

"Such a beautiful island, especially where you are, in Chilmark. It must restore your spirit, when everything else about your work seems so harsh."

"My own little piece of paradise, Luc. I love it there. What happens in Washington tomorrow?"

"My partner wants me to meet a guy who lives on the Eastern Shore-a potential backer for the restaurant. Then I fly directly home. Back to work. We have to feed all those American tourists, you know," Luc said, refilling our glasses and touching the rim of his against mine again. "Laura told me you had a big victory yesterday. Can you explain the case to me?"

I didn't want to bring Kerry Hastings's story into our rendezvous. It was too somber to mix with champagne and Malpeques.

"It's a very long story. I'd so much rather talk about your summer and anything that has to do with getting you to New York more often."

"I sent you that key for a reason, Alexandra. You know the Marches aux Puces in Paris? Clignancourt?"

"Of course. It's my favorite place for antiquing."

"Then I shall add that to our list of things to do together when you come to France. That brass key is from the wine cellar of an old chateau in Bordeaux. You can add it to your collection, but you know I bargained hard for it. I'm trying to find a way to get into your heart. Open you up a bit. Perhaps one of those keys will be useful."

Luc reached across the table for my hand.

"I don't think you need any help with that."

"But I realize that I learned more about you from my conversation with Nina than I know from talking to you."

The afternoon after Joan's wedding, I had been called back to the city for a break in a case I was working on. Luc had been fogged in on the island, and my college roommate had told him more of my personal history during that long evening than I probably would have revealed in the most intense cross-examination.

We finished the oysters and opened a second bottle of Cristal by ten o'clock. I didn't want any more to drink. My hair was coming loose from the barrette, wisps of blond ringlets curling around my brow and neck. By this time there seemed to be very little we didn't know about each other.

"You know, I had a reservation in the dining room for nine o'clock," he said, laughing as he looked at his watch.

"I'm not the least bit hungry now."

"Not for anything at all?"

"I didn't say that."

Luc reached into his pocket and put the small gold room key on the table. I picked it up and closed my hand around it.

He stood up beside me. "Dancing?"

"I think it's a waste of a lot of euros to keep that driver waiting."

"But that dress looks so lovely when you move."

"Then I'll move," I said, slipping out of the banquette and leading Luc across the room. I looked at the number engraved into the key. Four seventeen.

I crossed through the lobby to the far side of the reception desk and called for the elevator while Luc went outside to dismiss the driver for the night. We got on and the doors closed.

Luc took my head between his hands, putting his lips to mine. I opened my mouth and we exchanged kisses, deep and long. He pressed my back against the gilded elevator wall. I started to laugh.

He lifted my chin and kissed my nose. "Am I that funny?"

I closed my eyes so I wouldn't see the camera lens in the corner of the ceiling. I kept telling myself to stop being a prosecutor and pay no notice to the surveillance equipment that this hotel, like every other, had installed in public areas as a security measure.

"Somebody's watching us," I said, pointing at the miniature device.

He held up one of his long arms as though to block the lens. "Then let me take you to a more private place."

Luc led me down the hallway to his suite. He stepped aside for me to unlock the door, and then I followed him in.

The first time we made love was slow and playful. I was comfortable with Luc, trusting him, giving myself to him with an excitement I hadn't thought possible.

We rested, talked, and made love again. Finally, at two o'clock, Luc said, "We still haven't eaten any supper yet." He nibbled at my stomach. "Not enough there to feed me."

"How can you even think of food now?"

"It's against my religion to skip a meal, Alexandra. You've got to get used to that. What will you have?"

"Whatever you order." I went into the bathroom, wrapping myself in a thick white terrycloth robe.

"Suppose I give you a choice. Two things easy for the chef in the middle of the night. They don't have to do much to get some caviar up here. Or you might indulge one of my favorite childhood memories."

"What's that?" There were bottles of sparkling water on the desk in the living room. I opened one and curled up in an armchair.

"A peanut butter and jelly sandwich," he said, kissing the crown of my head as he walked to the phone to dial room service. "I can't get peanut butter in Mougins. I usually come to the States with an empty suitcase and take home jars of it. That and Oreos and English muffins."

"Hold the caviar. I'd much rather have a sandwich." Luc's sophistication was irresistible, but so was his lack of pretension.

In the morning, the previous night's driver was standing beside his car at the curb in front of the hotel. "We'll drop you on our way to La Guardia," Luc said.

"I feel like I'm walking on air. I'll just stroll up Park Avenue and be home in no time. Just kiss me once more and tell me when you're returning."

The driver was discreet enough to turn around while we said our good-byes, and Luc rode off with a wave, promising to call when he reached home the next afternoon.

It was another sultry day, but I cheerfully greeted dog walkers and people out to get their newspaper and coffee. I said hello to all the white-gloved doormen I passed and stopped for the men unloading furniture for the ongoing renovation at the massive brick structure of the Seventh Regiment Armory.

This would be the second week in a row that I missed my Saturday morning ballet class, but I was too tired and had no desire to concentrate on the drill of barre and floor exercises.

I was digging for my key chain in my small jeweled handbag as I heard a wolf whistle from behind me.

"You're either way too early for streetwalking or you're late for Cinderella's pumpkin." A car door slammed and Mike Chapman's voice turned the heads of two of my elderly neighbors, gossiping on the sidewalk.

"I-uh-I'm just getting-I didn't-obviously, I've been out all night," I stammered, suddenly embarrassed, with no idea how long Mike had been waiting for me.

"Sequins and sandals. I didn't know breakfast was going to be formal or I would have put on socks. What happened, the guy didn't think you were worth the cab fare home?"

"Look, I'm sorry I wasn't here if you needed me. Is something wrong?"

"There's another girl dead," Mike said, running his fingers through his hair. "You've got to help me, Coop. We've got a maniac on the loose.