Night Watch (22 page)

“Drugs?”

“Why? You find drugs on him? We don’t tolerate that here,” Sergio said, shaking a finger at us.

“Story goes you and he fought about his drug habit.”

Sergio shrugged again. “That’s not true. Is this going to be in the newspapers?”

“I don’t write the headlines,” Mike said, before asking another dozen questions about possible sources of tension between Luigi and Sergio. They all drew negatives from the very cool, dignified manager.

“You found him in the water, you said?” Sergio asked. “At the beach?”

“Not exactly the beach, but close. You know where he lives?”

“In Brooklyn, with his girlfriend. She’s got a place there.”

“You know her name?”

“The other guys do—they’ll tell you. She’s a painter, you know? An artist.”

“Okay.” Mike was halfway through the rack of veal.

“That’s why I asked if you found Luigi at the beach. The girl lives on a boat somewhere out there.”

“That’s helpful. Give me more stuff like that, Sergio.” Mike said, pushing back from the table. “I’ll go a round with you while you think.”

The older man stood up and disappeared for three or four minutes.

“What’s the point, Mike? Am I supposed to be swooning over your manliness now?”

“Relax, Coop. Take a bite of proshutt and chew on it. I’m trying to bond with the guy. And I always like to see how my witnesses handle their weapons.”

Sergio returned with two rifles. He handed Mike some bullets, and I watched as they both loaded their guns—.22-calibers—then stepped to the line in front of the row of targets.

I hated guns. Mike had tried to get me to learn how to shoot at the police range in the Bronx after a few life-threatening situations, but I had less fear of a handgun being used against me than I saw value in trying to master its control.

“Why don’t you choose the target, Detective?”

There were six of them against the wall—two with the traditional multicolored bull’s-eyes, two depicting charging wild boars, and two with the ever-popular image of the late Osama Bin Laden.

“I’m old-fashioned. Let’s go for the bull’s-eye,” Mike said. “So if this guy wasn’t stealing and wasn’t snorting coke, why’d you fire him, Sergio?”

Mike squared his stance against the target, his left foot on the painted line and his right six inches behind it. The butt stock of the
rifle was high up on his chest, his cheek pressed firmly against it. He looked through the open sight and fired, landing his shot four circles away from the bull’s-eye.

“Perhaps you winged your perpetrator, Detective, but I’d guess he’s still on the loose,” Sergio said, chuckling at Mike’s performance.

Mike ejected the shell casing and reloaded. Sergio took a bladed stance, his weaker shoulder turned to the target, like a baseball player in the batter’s box. He lifted his arms to raise the rifle, barely creasing the lines of his tux, then aimed and fired. The round landed only an inch from dead center.

“Nice shot,” Mike said.

“I’m here every day, Detective. I get more practice than you do.”

“Why’d you fire Luigi?”

“Fire him? I didn’t fire him,” Sergio said, reloading as he talked. “Luigi quit.”

“Sounds like he had everything going for him,” Mike said, raising the rifle to shoot and missing the last circle of the target completely. “Why would he quit?”

“Maybe you would do better with the boar, Detective?” Sergio said, getting even closer to the center of the eye with his second shot. “Luigi had a better offer, Mike. I tried everything I could to keep him here.”

“Where was he going to work?”

“I don’t know the name of the place. I don’t even believe it’s open yet. I heard that it’s French, which makes sense because Luigi was actually born in Marseille. His mother was French, and his father Italian.”

Mike’s third shot was the best, catching the edge of the outer ring of the bull’s-eye.

The sound of the gunshots was making me edgier and edgier. The rifles recoiled slightly on the shoulders of both men, jerking them to the side, and the noise in the confined space was magnified so that it sounded to me like cannon fire.

“Have you ever heard the name Luc Rouget?” I asked.

I could see the expression on Mike’s face as soon as I opened my mouth to speak. If he could have smacked me over the head with the rifle, he would have done it.

Sergio smiled again. “Certainly, Ms. Cooper. Mr. Rouget has been a guest here many times.”

I took a deep breath. “Recently?”

“Several times a year he comes. You know him? Quite a distinguished reputation he has back in France. He has something to do with this?”

Why had Luc never brought me to Tiro a Segno? Never told me he’d been here.

Sergio took a final shot and seemed to have nailed a bull’s-eye.

“I can’t top that,” Mike said, surrendering his rifle.

“And which member sponsored Mr. Rouget to come to dinner?” I asked, with as much personal interest as professional.

“I’m so sorry,
signora
. I wouldn’t be permitted to tell you that,” he said, making sure both rifles were empty as he got ready to store them. “I’d never have lasted this long at Tiro if I told secrets.”

“And I’d never have lasted so long as a cop if I didn’t know how to get answers out of people without having to bully them by asking the district attorney to issue a grand jury subpoena,” Mike said, talking loud enough for Sergio to hear him in the next room.

“But a subpoena for what?” he said, returning to lead us upstairs. “Luigi hasn’t been here in a month—maybe longer.”

“Even his brother’s singing to the squad that there was bad blood between the two of you.”

“
Stupido.
I don’t know his brother. I’m not going to disrespect one of our members for nonsense you hear on the street, Mike.”

“Let’s just keep it a secret between us for the time being. This member who wined and dined Mr. Rouget has something to do with the restaurant business?”

Sergio had one hand on the door to the staircase. “Not that I know.”

“What kind of business then? Something legit?”

“All our members are legitimate, Detective.”

“Then I’m surprised they let that portrait of Mussolini hang in the bar for so long before they canned it.”

Sergio’s hand was over his heart. “Insult me, Detective, and you insult my heritage and my culture. That portrait was removed before you were born.”

“So what kind of job does this friend of Mr. Rouget’s have?” I asked. Maybe there was some business link that brought Luc to this place for dinner.

“A CEO, Ms. Cooper. The chief executive of one of the largest fragrance companies in this country.”

“If you just tell us his name,” I said, knowing we could get the rest of the answers from Luc, “we’ll get out of your hair and there’s no need for us to reveal you as our source.”

Sergio looked from my face to Mike’s, for an assurance that our word was good on that promise. “Rather sexist of you, Ms. Cooper, to assume this CEO is a man.”

I was startled.

“Mr. Rouget’s friend is one of Tiro’s most distinguished members. Her name is Gina Varona,” Sergio said, opening the heavy door and holding it back for me. “And now, I must invite you to leave.”

I waited in the lobby of the club until Mike came out of the kitchen. I said the name Gina Varona aloud six or seven times, but it didn’t sound the least bit familiar to me. I couldn’t wait to get home to begin Googling her, hoping she was twice Luc’s age and had a dowager’s hump.

Mike approached me as though he was about to break into a trot, sweeping past me and going out to the street. “C’mon, kid. I got a little nugget of gold.”

“About Gina? Tell me she’s old enough to be Luc’s mother.”

“You worried about your love life or the body count?” Mike asked. “Luigi’s pals just gave me a piece of the puzzle.”

“What’s that?”

Mike took my elbow and steered me in the direction of Bleecker Street. “I’m putting you in a cab to go home.”

“And you?”

“One of the other waiters says Luigi’s girlfriend lives on a boat all right. It’s a houseboat.”

“So?”

“So it’s not an oceangoing vessel, Coop. The broad makes collages
of crustacean legs, okay? Friggin’ tiny dead crab parts glued up on painted pieces of driftwood.”

“Sounds disgusting.”

“I bet I know where she gets the little bastards. There are five or six houseboats moored all along a section of the Gowanus Canal, this guy says. Luigi’s was behind a truck lot on Bond Street. Probably illegal, which is why there’s no official address for it.”

“You’re going—?”

“To give the Harbor cops and my drone a little direction. Get the Brooklyn DA’s office working on a search warrant for the houseboat. And don’t even ask, ’cause you’ve got a big day with Blanca tomorrow.”

At the corner of the busy street, Mike hailed a cab and I got in. He told the driver to take me to my home on the Upper East Side. Then, with the door still open, he leaned inside and picked up my hand.

“I know it’s been rough for you, Coop. Just hold it together another couple of days. No whining, okay?”

I took a deep breath. “Why can’t I call Luc now?”

“Just between us, I spoke to him today.”

“You what?”

“Real short. But he’s good and I explained that it’s best he keep off the phone with you until a few things are resolved.”

“Can I start the meter running?” the cabdriver was more impatient than I was.

“Sure,” I said, turning back to Mike. “What else did he say?”

“Trust me for another twenty-four, will you? I didn’t give him a chance to say anything—that wasn’t the reason for my call. You get some sleep. I’ll phone you in the morning if we come up with good stuff.”

He let go of me and slammed the door. The driver took off and I belted myself in.

Then I speed-dialed Joan Stafford at her home in DC. “Joanie? Is it too late to talk?”

“It’s not even ten o’clock. Where have you been?”

“Just on my way home from work. I’m in a cab.”

“What have you heard from Luc?”

“Nothing at all, Joan. How about you?”

“Same here. But then, I’m not the one who skipped town on him.”

“Hasn’t he even called Jim?” Joan’s husband was one of Luc’s closest friends.

“Jim’s in Moscow on business. How about I come up on Saturday and at least we can spend the evening together?”

“Forget my birthday. We’ll celebrate another time,” I said. “But would you do me favor?”

“Sure. If you do one for me.”

“Deal.”

“What’s yours?”

“Call Luc. I mean, it’s too late now. But call him in the morning and feel him out on what’s going on. He wasn’t even at the restaurant tonight. And he didn’t answer the phone at the house.”

“Maybe he’s with his boys.”

“They’re in Normandy, with Brigitte’s mother,” I said.

“So maybe he’s in Normandy, too. I get it. You don’t want to call there because you don’t want to deal with Brigitte?”

If that’s what Joan wanted to think, it was okay with me. “Exactly.”

“Fine. I’ll call in the morning. Ready for my favor?”

The driver was weaving erratically up Park Avenue. I told him that I wasn’t in a hurry to get home.

“Sure. What is it?”

“So I think I figured out what might be behind the whole Baby Mo case, and I really think you should tell Battaglia and your colleagues about this. Your boss is getting slammed in the international press, you know.”

“So I hear. And now my beloved friend, best known for writing
fiction, is going to enlighten us before we head into the grand jury tomorrow. Shoot me.”

“You know the French think this is all a conspiracy, don’t you? A setup.”

“
Oui
, Joanie.
Un coup monté.
”

“So you get it?”

“We just can’t figure who framed the sucker,” I said, hoping the sarcasm in my voice wasn’t too off-putting. “There’s no sign of his Ivorian presidential rival anywhere in the Eurotel. No Ivorians anywhere, actually. And President Sarkozy didn’t leave any fingerprints. Totally disinterested. The guy in line to take over the WEB position worldwide seems as bored with Mo’s sexual escapades as any good economist would be. Who’s your perp in all this treachery?”

“Hold on, Alex. I’m serious,” Joan said. “Kali. His wife, Kali.”

“Of course,” I said, stifling a laugh as the cab screeched to a stop at a red light. “Kalissatou Gil-Darsin. Who was, by the way, in Paris at the time this happened. Motive? Coconspirators? I bet Battaglia will just fall in my lap when I tell him you solved this for us.”

“Who has a better motive than his wife? Are you kidding? Think of it, Alex. Suppose she knew about all this womanizing that’s obviously been going on forever. There she is, one of the most magnificent, most desirable women in the world, and her husband’s chasing every piece of tail there is. First young journalists in France, then coworkers, then the mother of the journalist. I mean, c’mon, Alex.”

“So Kali set up the maid?”

“Well, not personally. But she’s the mastermind behind all this. She hired thugs to do it. Who was in that room next to Baby Mo’s? The one the maid went in and out of, before and after? Do your guys know the answer to that?”

“How do you know about the before and after?”

“That maid’s lawyer was all over the news tonight. Even she made a statement. I’m so serious, Alex. Kali knows his weakness, his Achilles’ heel, better than anyone. He’s been embarrassing her
for years with all his affairs and his harassment of women, whether it’s at conferences or in his own offices.”

“You’ve got a great imagination, Joanie.”

“Don’t dismiss me. You promised you’d tell Battaglia.”

“As soon as I figure out why Kali would want to humiliate herself so publicly by creating an even bigger scandal than whatever has been going on with MGD for years. She could have just divorced him, Joan. Or killed him. I’d do that before I’d spend the twenty or thirty million his legal fees are going to cost.”

“Well, this is the angle that intrigues me—a conspiracy, a frame, a setup. Jim has all his sources from the African bureau at the newspaper working on it.”