The Grave Gourmet (13 page)

T
hree days later Alexandre had one of his caprices and insisted on taking Capucine to a late dinner at Hand, the latest hot spot for
le tout Paris
.

“I thought you hated this place,” Capucine said when they arrived.

“I absolutely loathe it. Its überchef Armand Duval's latest attempt to squeeze a few more euros out of the world of haute cuisine.”

“So why are we here? Although you have to admit the decor is kind of cute.” Capucine sat on a banquette strewn with Bargello needlepoint throw pillows while Alexandre reclined in an enormous wicker throne. The tableware consisted of lacquered Japanese bento boxes equipped with ergonomically designed cutlery as well as expensive-looking ebony chopsticks.

“‘Know thine enemy,' as has so often been said,” Alexandre said with a smirk. Capucine was almost disappointed she was not treated to his Asian Sage face. “And Duval is definitely the enemy despite his unquestionable talent. He maintains that this restaurant responds to the current need for culinary zapping. There's no real menu. You pick something from column A, something else from column B, and maybe another something from column C. He calls it ‘modular mix and match.' If you want béarnaise on your salad along with sushi doused in pickle relish, why, just go right ahead! This is Fusion 2.0.”

“Sounds like fun. If I ever get pregnant this is where we'll come. I still don't understand why you hate it so much.”

“Let me put it this way. Jean-Louis once told me that he thought he was the only one of his three-star peers who really deserved to be called ‘Chef,' and I think he's right. All the others have become mere businessmen. They want to open as many operations as they can, and so they opt for formula restaurants in far-flung corners of the world that are based on grossly overpriced fashion food and outlandish decors. Jean-Louis likes to say he would rather sell crepes from a street stand in front of a department store on the boulevard Haussmann than spend his time flying to Las Vegas in a private jet. That way he would at least have the feel of food in his hands and the smell of cooking in his nose.”

“Poor Jean-Louis. A little giggle now and then wouldn't hurt him. Especially right now.”

Despite Alexandre's muttered stream of invective, Capucine was delighted with her dinner. From the youmkoumg consommé brimming with squid and shellfish to Hand's version of a BLT—Batavia lettuce, watercress, heirloom tomatoes, and grilled pancetta on a brioche roll delicately anointed with balsamic mayonnaise—to her dessert of bubble-gum ice cream, she loved it all. Alexandre, even though he didn't admit it, also seemed to enjoy his squid with a sauce of chopped preserved lemon followed by a designer version of mac and cheese. As Capucine pecked at her ice cream Alexandre ordered sh
ch
, which the waiter assured him was the classic Japanese worker's liqueur. It arrived in a thick-bottomed shot glass that would have been at home on the set of a Western.

“This is a long, long way from Diapason but probably better than their staff meal, isn't it?” Alexandre asked.

“Actually, the food was not bad at all. The problem was that just as I was getting them to loosen up Perrault made them all go back to work. It was highly frustrating. I'd love to get my hooks back into that restaurant but Tallon's dead set against it.”

Alexandre sipped his sh
ch
and made a face. “Bleech. This stuff tastes like watered-down vodka. What do you mean Tallon's against it?”

“His new thing is that he's got his heart set on tagging Martin Fleuret. He ordered me to stop everything else and has my three brigadiers, as well as six others he's assigned to the case, following Fleuret around the clock. He even got Madame d'Agremont to sign off on level-one wiretapping, which is a huge deal because it means that real people listen to his phones all day long instead of the usual computers. In the Police Judiciare world this is a full-court press.”

“And has all this produced anything?”

“Of course not. What we did find out is that Fleuret's a workaholic. At his desk by eight, lunch in his office or something gobbled at a café counter, home by nine to eat a dinner prepared by his housekeeper. No social life. The phone taps yielded nothing more arousing than conversations with his clients and corn-fed good-night chats with Karine Bergeron. If you ask me, there's no way this Fleuret can have had anything to do with the murder. Tallon's wasting our time. The solution is bound to be somewhere in the restaurant. I told Tallon. Actually, we even had words about it.”

“Your first tiff, how charming” Alexandre said sweetly.

“I know I'm a newbie at homicide and he's the grand old man with the brilliant reputation, but I still know I'm right. I trust my instin—” She was interrupted by the quiet buzzing of her cell phone.

“Lieutenant!” Isabelle said with suppressed urgency. “He just drove out of the underground parking lot in his car. We follow him, right?”

“Absolutely. Get going, but stay on the line.”

Capucine heard the sound of running footsteps, a car door slamming, the distant voice of Isabelle talking to someone, no doubt Momo, who never relinquished the wheel.

“Okay,” Isabelle said, “we're on him. That was totally weird! We could see the light of his TV and it sure looked like he was hunkered down for the evening, but all of a sudden he comes tearing up the ramp in his big fat-cat Mercedes 500. Now he's doing sixty down the avenue Henri Martin. We're a couple of hundred yards behind.”

Capucine pressed the
MUTE
button on her phone and turned to Alexandre. “Maybe Tallon was right after all. This is my three musketeers. They're chasing Fleuret across Paris.”

“This is going to be better than the movies. Do you want some popcorn or will a drink do?” Alexandre beckoned the waiter over, pushed the still-brimming shot glass over to him, and mouthed “Cognac” with two fingers raised.

For the next fifteen minutes Capucine listened to Isabelle's slightly breathless reports and commented them to Alexandre. The brigadiers followed Fleuret out of the Sixteenth and into the avenue de Neuilly, a broad avenue lined with small office buildings erected on tight plots that had formerly held stately townhouses.

“Okay,” Isabelle said, “he's just turned down a ramp into the garage of one of these office buildings. All the window are dark. Looks kind of deserted. What do we do now?”

“You and David get out of the car and stake out the front. Have Momo drive around the block and see if there is a back entrance.”

Three minutes later Isabelle was back on the line. “There's nothing in back. The only ways in and out are the front entrance and the garage door.”

“Good. Tell David to use his post-office passkey and get into the lobby, but have him stay out of sight and be sure not to turn on any lights. Have him watch for any movement of the elevator. You and Momo stay outside in the car and watch the front of the building.”

“What's this about a post-office passkey?” Alexandre asked.

“I thought everyone knew that. The postal service has a passkey that opens every apartment building in Paris so they can get in to deliver the mail. The post office was kind enough to give us a few copies.”

“The things I learn, even at my age.”

Capucine picked up her cell phone. “Oh, yes, and have David call me on 06 23 26 89 97 and leave the line open. I don't want to call him and have his phone ring while he's staking out the lobby.”

“That's my number!” Alexandre said.

“The show's going to get better. From now on it's surround sound. I'm requisitioning your phone.”

In less than five minutes Alexandre's phone buzzed like a bee trapped under a glass and scuttled sideways across the table as it vibrated.

“Hey, Lieutenant, it's David. I'm in the building lobby. Both the elevators are here on the ground level and they just wouldn't be programmed to return automatically. The building's way too small to have elevators that sophisticated. I have this feeling that our boy's still down in the garage. There's some weird shit going down here.”

Capucine did not answer. She stared fixedly at Alexandre without seeing him. After five seconds David asked nervously, “Lieutenant, are you still there?”

“Sorry, I was just thinking. I can't imagine why a high-priced lawyer would be hanging around the garage of a empty office building, but, still, I think you might be right. Look, can you guys open the garage door?”

“Of course. The post-office key always works on those, God knows why.”

“Okay. I'm going to have Momo drive the car down the ramp and see what's going on. You stay in the lobby. I'm coming down there. Call me if anything happens.”

Capucine stood up and pecked Alexandre on the forehead. “You can grab a cab, right? And you don't need your phone, right? I'm off.”

“You women are all just the same: any excuse to stick us with the check.”

Capucine barely heard. She was striding urgently across the restaurant.

Capucine had parked the Clio with its front wheels on the sidewalk in front of the restaurant, a parking habit unchanged from her student days. Of course, she told herself, the beauty part was that she no longer had to worry about parking tickets. She put both phones on the passenger seat and bounced the car off the curb. There was nothing but silence during the ten-minute drive to Neuilly.

When she arrived at the address, the front was deserted. She picked up Alexandre's phone and asked, “David, are you still there?”

“Oui,” came the whispered reply.

“What's happening?”

“I don't have a clue. I heard the garage door roll open and I guess Momo and Isabelle got down there. Me, I'm sitting here staring down the elevator display lights. And they're staring back at me. Two big zeros, like tiger's eyes. So far neither one of us has blinked.”

“Don't get poetic on me, David. Hang on. I'm going to check out the garage door.”

Capucine walked down the ramp and pressed her ear against the metal door. It was unexpectedly cold. Capucine had the fleeting sensation she was listening at the door to a morgue cubicle. She could hear a man screaming, “
Salaud!
Traitor! Whore's son! You deserve to be killed. You worm of no honor. You're like a mangy, maggot-infested dog!” She hammered violently on the door. There was no response. Exasperated, she walked to the front entrance and banged on the glass door. Again no response. In a rage, she walked back to the Clio and picked up one of the phones. “David, will you open the fucking door!” No response. She realized she was yelling into her phone, not Alexandre's, and tried again. “David. It's me at the door. Will you hurry up and open it, for Christ's sake.”