Night Watch (34 page)

“Got it.”

“Makes sense he’d sniff around to get other experienced staff. What’s to lose? You’re the one who told me these French places don’t like to use anyone but their own in the front of the house. Maybe Varona or Peter Danton financed his trip to Mougins, because Luc claims that he didn’t know about it.”

“And you believe Luc?”

“I do, Coop. I do,” Mike said.

“But what’s Luigi’s connection to Lisette Honfleur?”

“Cocaine, obviously,” Mike said, running his fingers through his black hair. “We just have to find out who hooked them up together, and how long ago.”

“So you’re saying Luigi worked the cross,” Mercer said. “Surprises Luc at the party, to show his face and offer his bona fides about the business trip. But you’re thinking he had two purposes, and the other involved a drug transaction.”

“Exactly.”

“And Lisette got bounced ’cause she was holding out on Luigi.”

“Yeah,” Mike said. “Kept her coke too well hidden.”

“But the bones and the skulls?” I asked. “What about them?”

“Captain Belgarde is still convinced they were just a diversion. A hoax. Three skulls, like you said, and Luc’s three stars. They were supposed to freak out all the locals. Make Luc worry that someone was out to sabotage his standing, his restaurant in Mougins.”

“I’m seeing the light,” Mercer said, nodding his head. “The bones were meant to take Luc’s attention off what was happening here in New York.”

“What do you mean?” I said. “What’s happening?”

“Somebody in this partnership, Coop, is dirty-dealing. You’ve got blinders on, girl. You just keep looking stupefied while we get to the bottom of this. That’s all I’m asking of you. Either Luc’s not who you think he is—”

Mike stretched his hand out to reach mine while he spoke, but I recoiled.

“Or he’s being played for a fool by someone here—someone who’s trying to turn Luc’s dream into a nightmare.”

“And the girl was just a casualty of the drug wars,” Mercer said. “Maybe she was introduced to Luigi for his side game?”

“Importing drugs in his spare time, expecting a high-class clientele—hedge funders and young turks he’d curry favor to in the restaurant—ready to buy his stuff. He was probably looking for someone like Lisette to be a burrier,” Mike said, using the latest term of art for a smuggler, a combination of “courier” and “burro.”

“I’d guess she was playing hide-and-seek with Luigi that night, keeping her own stash safe and sound,” Mercer said.

“Think of it, Mercer,” Mike said. “If Luigi found out that night that Lisette had a criminal record—”

“How would that come up?” I asked.

“Easy. Suppose she bragged about where she got the skulls, trying to prove her mettle? Suppose she thought he’d be impressed that she’d been a bad girl—a thief, a shoplifter, and who knows what else?”

“Yeah.”

“The problem is she would have been revealing that she had a criminal history. A rap sheet, a record, fingerprints on file.”

“Useless to Luigi,” Mercer said, “as an international burrier. With a record, Lisette wouldn’t have made it past the customs line at JFK.”

“So that’s a reason to kill her?” I asked.

“Depends on how much she knew about Luigi’s plans,” Mercer said. “That could give him a motive. So could stealing his dope supply. And then he slips a matchbook into her pocket, to keep the heat on Luc—knowing all the while Luc has an alibi.”

Mike tossed his head back to finish his last shot of vodka. “Also could be how Lisette knew about Luc’s plans. Poker face, blondie. Just you keep a cool poker face. I’m not fingering Luc, I’m just saying he’s in the middle of a maelstrom, and we’ve got to help him get out.”

The door opened and Ken Aretsky came in. He leaned over and kissed me, and I was instantly disarmed by his warmth. Ken was the epitome of a mensch—a total stand-up guy for whom friendship and loyalty were paramount.

Mike and Mercer stood to shake hands with him. Ken was a little taller than I, slim and fit in his smart tweed jacket, with an irrepressible smile and tortoiseshell glasses that did nothing to hide the sparkle in his eyes.

“I know you wanted to talk to me, Mike. Am I interrupting anything?”

“Please sit down with us, Ken. We need your help.”

“Sure,” Ken said. “Where’s Luc?”

“He’s got lots of stuff to do,” Mike said.

“He’ll be okay in all this, won’t he?” Ken was talking to Mike but looking at me.

“That’s a work in progress,” Mike said. “We’re on top of it.”

“What do you need from me?”

“Talk to us about how the business end of this works, Ken. Where’s the profitability? How do you deal with investors? How do they make their money back?”

“Have you got all night?”

“Start talking.”

“It’s different for every restaurateur, Mike. Luc and I get along well because I think we’ve got pretty similar interests. We’re about giving our clients great hospitality and really good food,” Ken said. “Luc’s got the same gift his father, Andre, had. He takes an interest in the people who eat in Le Relais. It’s not about his ego at all.”

“But he’s talking about six to eight million to start up a new place like Lutèce. How do you make a go of that?”

“Well, you certainly can’t do it alone anymore.”

“So Luc’s got partners, right? Rich guys who throw money at him. How long will it take him to pay them back?”

“You can be sure that his team has spent plenty of time with their accountants. This all has to be managed down to the last
dime, Mike, to the very last penny. It’s plotted out to the price of the candle that sits in the middle of a table, or whether or not you can afford to put truffles in a reduction sauce you’re using on a veal dish.”

“What else?”

“The numbers guys tell you how much you’re going to have to spend—and make—to turn a profit,” Ken said. “It can easily take five years for an owner like Luc to earn the first dollar that’s free of debt.”

“That’s a long time.”

“Say he has a hundred and sixty seats to fill at dinnertime at Lutèce. They’ll be counting on turning them over for a second seating on the high-traffic nights.”

“What are those?” Mercer asked.

“Thursday, Friday, Saturday. The other nights you’re lucky if you turn over a quarter of them, in this economy. Appetizers for as much as thirty-five bucks, and entrées between forty and sixty. You do the same figuring for the luncheon business. If you get lucky and fill the tables more times than you expect, it’s all money in the bank.”

“What’s different about this economy?” Mike asked. “It always looks to me like the rich boys still like to eat well.”

“I count on that,” Ken said, with a smile. “Luc’s very fortunate. Even though he’s the new kid in town, he gets the instant name recognition of Lutèce, one of the greatest restaurants ever created, which lasted more than forty years. But when he started to plan this opening, it was before the bloodbaths on Wall Street. A lot of those over-the-top bonuses are what kept my private rooms full and my wine vaults empty.”

“What’s the deal with all you guys and private rooms?” Mercer asked.

“They’re a surefire way to make more money.”

“Why?” I asked.

“People like the exclusivity, Alex. And on our end, we get to
charge the patrons for renting the room, beyond the price of the food. You reserve our Sporting Room upstairs for a dinner of thirty, let’s say, and you choose the menu for your guests in advance? The chef knows exactly how much food he needs to prepare, so there’s no waste, and I know you’re good for some expensive wines to wash it down.”

“So this wine cellar of yours,” Mike asked, looking around at the elegant display of cabinetry holding the bottles, “is it modeled on the idea of the one at ‘21’?”

“Same concept,” Ken said with a wink at me, “only mine is nicer.”

“And those stories about the secret door at ‘21’?”

“All true, because of Prohibition. It used to be the best-kept secret in town, but now it’s a familiar story. The architect ultimately revealed his design.”

“How many investors does it take in today’s market to create a place as classy as Lutèce?” Mercer asked.

“It depends how much money each one wants to put up. I’m not sure how many backers Luc has.”

“Neither are we,” I said.

“Well, we know about Peter Danton and Gina Varona for sure,” Mike said. “But Luc said something to the cops today about another silent partner or two, people that were giving money to Danton and Varona in order to get a slice of the pie.”

Ken shook his head. “It’s a bad way to go.”

“How so?” Mike asked. “Too many cooks?”

“That’s the general idea. You get four, five, or six people—it’s bound to happen that one doesn’t get along with some of the others. There’s too much at stake. In the end, it’s Luc who suffers. It’s Luc,” Ken said, “who’s likely to go under.”

The three of us devoured the feast prepared in the Patroon kitchen. We’d all been working so hard that we’d existed on junk food, caffeinated drinks, and pure adrenaline. The conversation was bland. We stayed away from Luc and his situation, and the latest revelations about Baby Mo.

The restaurant was only ten minutes from my apartment. I took my place in the backseat for the short ride.

“Are things so bad you’re not going to let me call Luc and say good night?” I asked. “Do you even know where he is?”

Mercer took his eyes off the road to glance at Mike.

“He’s working, Coop.”

“Where? On what?”

“He’s at Lutèce. I dropped him off at the building when we left Brooklyn. He was meeting the designer there, and some of his suppliers. You want to call? Go ahead.”

I leaned forward and took hold of the collar of Mike’s blazer. “You’re going to see him, aren’t you? You two are planning to drop me off and go talk to Luc, am I right?”

Mercer flashed Mike another glance.

“I want to come along, Mike. It’s not fair. Think how devastated
he must be. It’s another dozen blocks past my apartment. I want to see him, too. Just for ten, fifteen minutes. Just to say good night.”

“What’s the harm?” Mercer asked.

Mike twisted his neck to release my hand from his jacket. “What if—? That’s the harm. What if the Brooklyn Homicide cops are tailing him?”

“So I pop in for a visit. I say good night. What’s the big deal? They know we’re—we’re, uh—” I couldn’t manage to say that we were lovers.

“You’re what? What are you two anyway?” Mike asked.

I leaned back against the seat. “I’m not so sure anymore.”

I knew that I loved Luc, but I couldn’t articulate that fact at the moment.

Mercer continued on past 79th Street, making his way to the quiet row of town houses on the block where Lutèce was located. He double-parked near the restaurant, which had no signage and such an understated facade that it looked like just one more multimillion-dollar residence.

“It’s almost ten o’clock, Coop. Take fifteen minutes and then I’ll send you packing,” Mike said.

I got out of the car and stepped onto the sidewalk. There was someone—an adolescent, I thought—peeking out of the window of the building to the west of Lutèce. A small dog beside him, on the edge of the sofa, was barking, probably at the sound of the car door as I slammed it shut.

On the far side of the restaurant was a twin to the Lutèce building—a common architectural feature of Upper East Side Manhattan streets. They were identical in style and feature—both of Beaux Arts limestone—and Luc told me they had been part of the dowry a wealthy Englishman gave to each of his daughters when they married American financiers a century ago.

The restaurant appeared to be dimly lit from within, but I had been cautioned that the interior space had not been completely decorated yet.

I held on to the railing as I took three steps down off the sidewalk to the front door. I knocked loudly and thought I heard footsteps within. Two workmen emerged from the twin building as I waited, depositing a wheelbarrow full of debris in garbage pails on the sidewalk before locking the front gate. They saw me and both said good night.

Luc opened the door, surprised to see me. I put my arms around his neck and kissed him. “I just needed to set eyes on you once today. I know you’re expecting Mike, but I came to say good night.”

“I couldn’t be happier, Alex. Come,” he said, taking my hand. He was wearing a light blue linen shirt open at the neck, with jeans and driving moccasins. “Come see what we’ve done so far. Just watch your step over these wooden planks.”

I looked around, and in the soft light emanating from the back of the long space, the restaurant looked every bit as stunning—though much more formal—than the rooms at Le Relais. The trademark trellis that lined the walls behind the plush banquettes was the same soft green as in Mougins, and small brass sconces would no doubt be filled with tiny peach-colored bulbs that would throw the most flattering light on the women sitting beneath them.

“Oh, Luc, it’s so elegant.”

“It will be, darling, once everything is installed.”

That was when I heard voices from the darkened rear corner of the room. “There’s someone here with you?”

“Yes, Alex. I haven’t been able to get anything done during the day, so we’re making up for it now.”

As I approached the last round table just outside the kitchen door, I recognized Gina Varona. “Good evening, Gina.”

“Hello, Alex. I didn’t know Luc was expecting you.”

“He wasn’t,” I said. “But I hope he isn’t as disappointed as you are.”

“Not at all. We were just about to leave anyway,” she said. “C’mon, Josh.”

The man who stood up from the table was the same guy who’d
been waiting for me in my driveway on Monday night, the one Luc told me was an old friend.

“Alex, this is Josh Hanson,” Luc said.

My cheerful expression had vanished instantly. “We’ve met.”

He didn’t look quite as sinister now, clean shaven and dressed in a business suit.

“The last thing I’d intended was to scare you, Alex. Luc asked me to go to your place and assure you—”

“I understand, Josh. I probably overreacted.” I had no intention of apologizing for the swift kick I had delivered to his kneecap.