Night Watch

FIVE

My head rested against Luc’s back and my arms encircled his waist. I wore a helmet as I always did when riding behind him on his Ducati.

“Are you okay?” he asked, starting the engine. Like so many Europeans, Luc favored his motorcycle for trips to Cannes, allowing him to weave between cars stuck in heavy seasonal traffic and park almost anywhere in town.

“I’m fine.” Luc knew me well enough to call my bluff. When we’d said good-bye to Jacques Belgarde, he had left me outside the police station to go to the restaurant to make sure everything was in order for the luncheon service. I returned to the house and tried to work Lisette Honfleur out of my thoughts by swimming laps in the pool. The temperature was brisk enough to refresh me after the turn of events during the night.

“You don’t sound fine. Did Jacques get to you?”

“No, Luc. It’s not about him. I’m ready to go, really. We can talk later.”

It was noon on a spectacular day as we started out from the old village. I remember how tightly I clutched Luc the first few trips down from Mougins’s crest several visits earlier, as he navigated the steep roads on his powerful bike. The twenty-minute ride to Cannes was all downhill, past farmhouses built centuries ago, bordered by tall cypress and olive trees that lined the route to the highway.

“It’s the girl, then.” He was speeding up now, leaning left into the first curve of the descent.

“Of course it’s Lisette,” I said, picking up my head though my words got lost in the wind. I wanted to know as much as Luc did-whether she had a family and who would deliver this devastating news to them; what her background had been that led her to the lifestyle of petty thievery when she’d been offered the possibility of a good job at a chic three-star restaurant; who had brought her to Mougins last night, dressed as though she planned to attend our party.

Now I trusted Luc on the Ducati Multistrada, no longer clinging to him as at first, but taking my cues from his body that I had also come to know so well over time. We shifted from side to side as though one rider guided the powerful machine. There was no opportunity for conversation as we raced onto the highway and sped south, reaching the crowded streets of Cannes, where Luc worked his way through midday traffic jams and commercial loading zones to come to a stop a block from our destination.

We both dismounted and packed our helmets into the saddlebags. Luc reached for my hand and pulled me toward him, and I accepted his warm embrace. He stroked the back of my head. “We’ll talk at lunch.”

I nodded as we headed around the corner to La Croisette, the grand boulevard that formed the iconic image of the French Riviera. Royal palms created a majestic centerpiece as far as one could see in either direction, reminding me that the town had originally been built as a mild-weather winter resort for the very rich more than a century ago. The great hotels-the Carlton, the Martinez, and the Majestic Barrière-looked like elegant fortresses, matrons of an era gone by, on one side of the road, while a brilliantly colorful band of beach umbrellas lined the strip of sand at the water’s edge.

“Are we going to L’Ondine?” I asked.

“That’s your favorite, isn’t it?”

“Far and away.” We had sampled many of the seaside restaurants, but this one was special to me. Luc’s father had taken us there on my first visit. He had a maxim that had served him well in the business: the best restaurant is the one where you are best known.

“That’s where I reserved.”

We were arm in arm crossing the boulevard. Like all the resorts on the Cannes waterfront, the restaurant was down a flight of stairs from La Croisette. Plage L’Ondine had a glassed-in dining room, but we chose always to rent lounges and a large umbrella-eye-catching in a cheerful canary yellow with clean white trim-to sit outside on the beach and swim in the Mediterranean between courses.

The maître d’ was an old friend of Luc’s, who greeted him enthusiastically and kissed me on both cheeks. He led us to our usual spot, telling us that rumors about the success of last night’s dinner had already circulated throughout the food community in Cannes. Apparently the bad news about Lisette hadn’t traveled quite as quickly.

Luc was indeed well-known here. A waiter appeared instantly with a bottle of champagne and a menu for me as we made ourselves comfortable on the chairs. The royal blue umbrellas to our left and the bright pink ones to our right marked neighboring establishments, filling for the afternoon with locals, tourists, and visitors from the sleek yachts that jammed the colorful port.

The waiter filled our glasses and disappeared before we clinked them together. “Cheers, Alex. Ask me whatever you want and let’s get on with the day. Everything else here is perfect.”

“Tell me all you know about Lisette.”

“Darling, you’re more exasperating than Jacques Belgarde.” Luc pushed his sunglasses on top of his head and squared off to me. “I barely had anything to do with her. You know the long days and nights I spend in the restaurant, charming the guests. Well, trying to, anyway. She was upstairs in the office a few hours, two or three times a week. She always seemed down, like I told him. Her entire demeanor was off-putting to me, so I had no reason to engage her. I thought she was a druggie, too.”

“You didn’t say that.”

“Because I don’t know for sure. Why make it worse for her?”

“It can’t get any worse for her than it is. And you didn’t report that crime to the police.” I wondered whether Luc really had anything to hide from the tax authorities.

“Sip your drink. You’re here to relax and I don’t want all those bubbles to go to waste.”

“When we left the police station this morning and you went back to your office, did you talk to anyone else about Lisette?”

“I wanted to see how many reservations we had for lunch, to make sure all my VIP customers were well seated. I went back to take care of business before I took the afternoon off to attempt to seduce you,” he said, signaling the waiter to come back.

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“Yes, yes. Okay? Yes, I called Brigitte to tell her about the girl. Is that a problem for you?”

“Of course not.”

“I called her because they had such a tremendous catfight when Brigitte accused Lisette of stealing from me. Everyone in town knew there was bad blood between them. I wanted to see if she’d heard from Lisette lately. I’d prefer Brigitte not be dragged into all this.”

“And did she know anything?”

“Nothing, Madame Prosecutor. Now, is this inquisition going to go on all afternoon, or can we order something to eat?”

“I apologize, Luc.”

“You don’t doubt that Jacques is going to show up at Le Relais tonight, do you? I promise you he won’t be able to resist. It will only cost me a good meal-a big one-with some serious wine, and you’ll know all the dirt he’s dug up by nine o’clock.”

“I’m sure you’re right.”

“You’re like everyone else who comes to Mougins after all. You see our precious hilltop from the highway and you think it’s Camelot. You believe it’s a magical medieval village where time stands still and only good things happen.”

Since our relationship began, my frequent jaunts to the south of France had become a form of escape for me. I didn’t delude myself about that. More than a decade of prosecuting the most heinous crimes in a city where violence flourished 24/7 made me especially susceptible to the nonurgent lifestyle that Luc so enjoyed.

When I was alone in New York, I tried to separate out how much of the pleasure and excitement of the relationship was my love for him and how much was the fairy-tale aura of life in this romantic enclave. Once I reached Mougins, it was a hopeless task to even contemplate making that decision.

“Now I know it’s like every place else in the world. That’s a good reality check for me,” I said, pulling the crewneck sweater over my head and realigning the straps of my bathing suit. There was no purpose to a menu when I was out with Luc. “What’s for lunch?”

The waiter stepped forward to take our order. “We’d each like to start with the salad of tartare de crabe et saumon. And then we’ll have grilled langouste to follow, okay?”

The spiny Mediterranean lobster was entirely different from its American cousin. I had a home on Martha’s Vineyard, where I’d first met Luc at the wedding of two of my best friends. I’d introduced him to all the culinary treasures of my little island in the Atlantic-clam chowder and fried clams from the Bite, lobster hauled in the same day and harpooned swordfish from Larsen’s Fish Market, lobster rolls and root beer at the Galley, grilled striped bass at the Chilmark Tavern, and mussels steamed in garlic and oil at the Beach Plum Inn-and Luc reciprocated with all the most delicious foods in the South of France.

“I’ll never be able to eat dinner,” I said, sipping the cool champagne as he reached over to pat my stomach.

“It’s my goal to fatten you up.”

“You’ve got a good shot at it this time. I don’t know how many laps I can do after a few glasses of champers.”

I put my head back on the cushioned pillow of the lounger. This was only Sunday, and I didn’t have to fly home for another week-enough time to put behind me the trial of the serial rapist I had just taken to a successful verdict, and before I needed to prep for the more difficult child abuse case I would prosecute in June.

“Laps? I’m thinking more like a late afternoon nap, Alex.” We had both stretched out on our lounge chairs, facing each other. Luc was tracing the outline of my shoulder with his fingers. “You need to make up your mind about Saturday night, you know. It has to be exactly as you like.”

April 30 was my birthday-thirty-eight this year-and we were going to celebrate it together in a week. “I told you, Luc, no party. Last night was enough of that.”

“The restaurant, then?”

“No. You’ll end up working the room with your fancy guests instead of sitting with me.”

“Have you picked another place? Another chef?” He slapped his hand across his chest and feigned disappointment. “How many stars?”

I laughed. “Do you remember my first time here? The first dinner we had together? Because that was my very favorite.”

“Of course I remember it. I brought out all the stars in the heavens for you. Well, I shall do that again, if the weather gods cooperate.”

On my first trip, I had taken the direct flight to Nice, arriving in mid-morning. We drove to Luc’s home in Mougins, spent a day reacquainting ourselves with each other, and at nine that evening, fully refreshed and lovingly restored, I came downstairs to find a lavish table set for two on the terrace. The pool had been surrounded with votive candles, Smokey Robinson serenaded me from within the house, and two waiters from the restaurant ferried back and forth with silver-domed servers holding one delicacy after another. The sky had never seemed so star-filled.

“That’s what I’d like it to be-just the two of us.”

“Then it’s settled.”

I kissed my fingertip and placed it against his lips. “And you’ll be in New York just ten days after I go back, right?”

“Everything’s in place, yes. The decorating is practically done and the equipment has arrived. Almost all the hires are complete.”

“An opening date?”

“Not so fast. We’ll have a month of tastings first. Dinners to which we invite friends, sort of try out the whole deal on them. The spring and summer months will be a sampling, a transition, while we’re going full bore over here. Then I’ll be ready for a real launch in the fall,” Luc said. “I hope you’ve been collecting names for me. I’ll need plenty of gourmand guinea pigs.”

Luc was attempting a very bold move in a difficult financial market. With silent partners backing him, he had purchased a building on the east side of Manhattan and planned to re-create the elegant restaurant his father had started so many decades ago, the one that almost every critic on both sides of the Atlantic had for years and years declared the finest dining in the city: Lutèce.

I had a loyal group of friends in the district attorney’s office who would be only too happy to submit themselves to the haute cuisine of the new Lutèce kitchen. Luc was a restaurateur, an executive chef who owned and managed the restaurant here and would do the same in New York. He had his father’s sense of style and creativity, but wasn’t the guy in the kitchen, holding the food to the flame.

The waiter was back to refill our glasses and offer an amuse-bouche-something to excite our palate-in this case a medley of seafood, courtesy of the chef. Luc sat up and put his feet in the sand, readying himself for the delicious meal to follow.

“I thought the catacombs had been closed,” I said. “I didn’t realize you could still go down there and root around.”

Luc groaned. “Get this all out of your system-bones and bodies and burial vaults-before the langouste is set in front of me, darling; I’d like to enjoy eating it, if you don’t mind. Have you ever been inside the catacombs?”

“I made the mistake of accepting the invitation of a friend who’s a medical examiner in Paris, five years or so ago. A tour was his idea of an excursion, I guess, but it’s one of the creepiest places I’ve ever been.”

We had entered through a narrow spiral staircase to the dark chamber way below the street surface that led to miles of tunnels beneath the city. The only sound breaking the silence was the gurgle of a hidden aqueduct coursing through an adjacent cavern wall. There was hall after hall of carefully arranged remains, floor to ceiling-centuries of dead Parisians who had been moved here in mass burials after widespread contamination of the city’s cemeteries. Rusty gates barred visitors from reaching areas that were too unsafe-or perhaps too gruesome-to be part of the tour.

“They were closed temporarily after some vandalism three or four years ago. Then reopened. That happens now and then.”

“You’ve been there, too?”

“Many times, Alexandra. And no, I’ve never been tempted to carry off any bones.”

He was licking his fingers to savor every last bit of the marinade.

“Did you ever go to the catacombs with Lisette?”

“No and no and no and no to all the ridiculous things that cross your mind.”

I thought for a minute. “What if there’s any significance to the numbers?”

“Which numbers?”

“Three skulls in front of Le Relais,” I said. “And you’re the only restaurant in town that’s got three stars.”

“And you’ve got a wonderfully fertile imagination that you should use to think about all the things we can do the next time you can sneak off for a visit here.”

We had started to eat in earnest when the maître d’ hurried to our chairs with a portable phone in hand.

“I’m so sorry to interrupt you, Luc, but it’s the police. He says it’s very important.”

Luc stood up. “Damn Belgarde. He’s determined to make himself look more stupid than Inspector Clouseau at this point.”

“Not for you. It’s for madame,” he said, extending his arm with the phone. “It’s American police.”

Luc threw his hands in the air. “I can’t believe this. You’re on holiday, Alexandra. Doesn’t anyone in your office get that? There are five hundred other prosecutors for Battaglia to lean on. Surely someone else is competent enough to do what you do?”

“Anyone and everyone on my team.” I blushed as I put down my glass on the small table between our chairs. I had promised Luc that I wouldn’t even charge my cell phone during the week here, so that we’d have a real chance to experience life together, without a professional interruption.

“Hello, Coop?”

Not even the static on the small phone that had been carried too far from its base could muffle the distinctive voice of NYPD homicide detective Mike Chapman.

“Yeah, Mike.”

“Did I catch you in the middle of a foie gras or anything? Is your profiterole melting?”

“Make it quick.”

“Forgive me for skipping the ‘bonjours’ and all that, but I had Luc’s secretary run you down.”

“Obviously.”

Luc folded his arms and walked away, but the maître d’ wasn’t ready to relinquish the phone to me at the height of the hour his reservations were calling in. He remained at my side.

“You’ve got to come home, Coop. Pronto. Next plane out of paradise.”

“Not this time,” I said, and though I was bursting with curiosity, I knew Luc would be furious if I even asked Mike why he had called.

“Mercer needs you. It’s serious, kid.”

“Something happen to Mercer?” The heightened concern in my voice got Luc’s attention. He knew that Mercer Wallace had covered my back more times than I could count. There was very little I wouldn’t do for him.

“Yeah.”

“He’s hurt?”

“Calm down, kid. He’s just fine, physically. What happened to him is that he’s saddled with the biggest case of his career and he wants you to help him. At the moment, it’s your archenemy who’s calling the shots.”

“Pat McKinney?” The chief of the Trial Division spent much of the average workday trying to stab me in the back with a serrated knife. “What does McKinney want with a rape case?”

“Visibility, I guess.”

I took Chapman’s bait. “What makes it so big?”

“I caught the squeal. Collared the guy in the first-class cabin on a flight to Paris.”

“The perp is French?”

Luc’s eyes were riveted on me as I started to talk and show interest. Now I was the one who took a few steps back.

“Lives in France, but he’s West African. Rich as Croesus. Son of an exiled African leader and he’s rumored to be the next president of the Ivory Coast, give or take a revolution or two in between. Head of the World Economic Bureau-called the WEB. You know who that is?”

“I have no idea.”

“I thought you specialized in Frenchmen.”

“You’re beginning to break up on me, Detective. You might find yourself disconnected if you get too snarky.”

“Mohammed Gil-Darsin,” Mike said. “Go on line and check him out. The French call him Baby Mo, even though he’s in his fifties, or they just use his initials-MGD. Anyway, a maid at the Eurotel Hotel down in SoHo claims he raped her.”

Everyone in the South of France knew Papa Mo, the overthrown dictator of the Republic of the Ivory Coast, who had gone into exile here-following the example of Haiti’s Duvalier-with millions of dollars stolen from his country’s cocoa-rich coffers. I didn’t realize he had a son who was a figure in the international economic community.

“Did you say a maid is the accuser?”

“Yeah, a housekeeper at the hotel. Best suite in the joint, at three thousand clams a night. She was doing turndown service in the room and he came out of the shower starkers. She tried to back out and he threw her onto her knees.”

“Nobody dead, Mike?” He was probably the best homicide detective in the city, assigned to Manhattan North, but he had never worked special victims cases.

“Nope. Alive and kicking back.”

“So what are you doing with a rape case?

“Working Night Watch, Coop. All the craziest shit happens on Night Watch.”