Night Watch

NINE

It was eight-fifteen when Luc called from his office to ask me to meet him at Le Relais. After brooding for a couple of hours, I showered and changed into a navy-blue sweaterdress with white piping that showed off my newly acquired tan.

I pulled my suitcase from the back of the closet and-despite my promise to Luc-took out my BlackBerry. I felt too disconnected from events in the office to ignore Mike completely. The phone had gone dead, of course, so I plugged it in to charge during the time we were at dinner.

I left the house for the short walk to the restaurant, intending to bypass the main entrance and go directly into the bar. I hadn’t counted on the mild night to have attracted a crowd to the outdoor tables on the terrace.

As I got closer, a woman called out and waved to me. “Alex! Come join us.”

It was Gretchen Adkins, a Wellesley classmate married to a Parisian, who’d been at the party the night before. I walked to the short hedge that separated the terrace from the cobblestone street and greeted the couple.

“I can’t sit, Gretchen. I’m late to meet Luc.”

“He’s got his hands full inside. Just have a drink with us. We’re waiting on another couple.” She was kind and warm, and loved to gossip. It was comforting to see someone from home, and I would have liked to catch up with her, but I learned months ago that Luc had a reason for me not to sit with his clients.

“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.”

“That explains why we couldn’t extradite him if the plane had actually taken off for Paris. He’s a French national.”

“Exactly. It’s the vast family wealth of Bébé’s mother that launched Papa Mo’s political career, though she didn’t live to see him become president.”

“What happened?” I asked.

“She was killed by rebel forces there when her son was only three or four,” Luc said.

“Living dangerously, that lady was,” Jacques said. “And now Bébé Mo’s a problem for the Americans, not for me. I’ve got my own fish to fry.”

In just a few short hours, I could see that the case involving MGD would be like a Rorschach test, everyone coming to the story with his or her own point of view, bringing to it preconceived notions of race, class, power, and sexism. My colleagues at home were no doubt being assaulted by journalists voicing each of these positions.

“Do you have any news about Lisette?” I asked Belgarde.

“I do, madame. But it would go down better if I had a drink.”

Jim Mulroy, clearly puzzled by the different threads of conversations, said good night to the three of us as Luc told the captain to pull out a chair at our table. He called the waiter over and told him to get Belgarde whatever he wanted from the kitchen. He walked to the bar and came back with a double shot of single malt Scotch.

“What’s the story?” I asked again.

“The body’s at the morgue in Nice. They’re going to do an autopsy tomorrow. It’s just as I thought this morning, at the pond. They suspect she was murdered.” He winked at me and lifted his glass in my direction. “The big city flics thought I was pretty smart, actually, to know so much about drowning-pink foam and all that-so I’m grateful to you, Madame Prosecutor. À votre santé, Alexandra.”

I nodded back at him.

“Of course, it will take weeks to get the toxicology results. They’ll have to see if she had any drugs or alcohol in her system.”

“That’s true, Jacques. The tissue analysis can take quite some time.”

“They haven’t found a car yet, so they have no idea how she got to the pond. No purse, no ID, not even shoes, unless they’re under all those lotus blossoms-so if it hadn’t been for you, Luc, we’d still be struggling to figure out who she is. Just that all-white outfit, like she was heading for your party.”

“And I assure you she was not. I printed out the guest list for you. It’s behind the bar, next to the cash register.” Luc walked over to get it.

“You were right, too,” the captain went on, “about the stones in the pocket.”

“Sorry?”

“That woman you told me about who killed herself. That Fox woman.”

“Woolf? You mean Virginia Woolf?”

“Probably so. If you hadn’t mentioned the heavy rocks she put in her pockets, I might not have looked there.”

Belgarde leaned forward and opened his left hand. Displayed against the rough skin of his thick palm was a small object, two inches long and an eighth of an inch thick. Its cardboard casing had shriveled-soaked in water it seemed-and the laminated paper that covered it had curled up on the ends.

Luc put the list of names on the table between us as I leaned in to look at Belgarde’s offering. It was a matchbook-a tiny box, really-the fancy type that restaurants gave away to advertise.

The captain held out his pinky and straightened the paper with his fingernail. In spring green print against a sharp white background was the single word LUTÈCE. He flipped it to show the other side-Luc’s name in all caps-as he belted back a slug of Scotch.

“Now where do you suppose Lisette got hold of this, eh? You’re not even in business yet in New York, are you?”

Luc had on such a poker face that even I couldn’t gauge his level of discomfort.

“It’s just a mock-up, a prototype,” he said, waving his arm around behind him. “My staff has been handing them out here for weeks, and at the party last night, we gave them away with cigars after dinner. I’ve got my friends distributing them at the newsstand in the square and at lots of the bars in Cannes. It’s just to start up some buzz.”

“It’s done that, my friend. I assure you. Even the investigators want a word with you.”

Luc put his hands on his hips. “For this?”

“A dead girl isn’t the smartest way to advertise, do you think?” Belgarde looked from Luc to me as he put the glass to his lips. “You’re very quiet this evening, Alexandra. Any more tricks you want to pass on to me?”

“I made my views about your attitude pretty clear this morning.”

“All a matter of style, madame, and there are those who believe I have none.”

“Je suis d’accord.”

“So you agree with that, Alexandra. Understood. But your accent is a bit leaden,” he said, turning his attention to Luc. “They’re more interested in the fact that your ex-it’s Brigitte, isn’t it?-that your ex felt it necessary to leave town before letting the detectives get the story of her contretemps with the late lamented Ms. Honfleur. Such bad advice you gave her, my friend.”

“You know better than that, Jacques. I didn’t advise her to do anything. I couldn’t advise her. She’s a stubborn woman.”

“Apparently that didn’t stop you from trying.”

“It’s my sons I went to see. You want me to arrange for the investigators to talk with Brigitte? Let me just get my boys out of the house.”

“The officers were quite surprised to find neither she nor your children were at home.”

“Where? At Brigitte’s? When?”

“Eight o’clock. Just over an hour ago.”

“Let me call her,” Luc said, holding his hand out to the bartender for the portable phone. “They’re not leaving till morning. I’ll tell her what they want. See if we can get her to be reasonable.”

“What they want, actually, is that you stop communicating with her for the moment.”

“She’s the mother of my children, Jacques. She’s my-she was my wife for fifteen years.”

“It’s okay, Luc,” I said. “I’ll go back to the house and you two can work this out.”

“Awkward for you, Alexandra, I’m sure,” Jacques said. He was chewing on a piece of baguette, amused at the thought he was stirring something up between Luc and me.

“Not the slightest bit, Captain.” At least I hoped it wouldn’t be, if I could wiggle my way out of the banquette, sucking in what was left of my spirit. “I’m so glad Luc’s devoted to his family.”

“Let me walk Alex home, Jacques. I’ll be back in ten minutes. I need to tell you about something else that happened today.”

“Just don’t let me starve while I’m waiting.”

“Of course not. Your dinner is on its way.” Luc took my hand to guide me out.

“Very generous of you, Luc,” Jacques said. “You know, one of those big-city detectives made a very rude observation. He thinks if you hadn’t been so stingy on the alimony, Brigitte might have been able to hire a housekeeper with a little more class.”

We were almost out the door, but Luc turned to take Jacques Belgarde’s bait.

“I defended you to him, my friend. Told him how generous you are to my men.” Jacques’s mouth was full now, with whatever delicacy the waiter had placed in front of him. “But he says the housekeeper gave you up in a flash. Didn’t like the way you raised your voice at Brigitte, Luc. Didn’t understand why you demanded she get in the car with the boys when it was almost their bedtime and leave town so quickly tonight.”