by Al Roker
“You owe Derek no apology,” she said.
“The hell he doesn’t. You both do.”
Alan sighed and started to say something, but Madeleine interrupted him. She apparently was in no mood to hear him struggle through an explanation. “It was the night you attended the filming at Soldier Field,” she said to Derek. “Jon invited us for dinner on his yacht. Alan, Gerard, and myself. Jon and his son, the handsome one, not the parfait imbécile. We were in the midst of dining, and it happened like that.” She snapped her fingers. “Gerard stopped eating. He complained of pain in his chest. And he fell forward. Mort.”
“We were shocked. B-B-But Jon was incredibly c-c … cool.”
“He arose, approached Gerard, touched him here”—she pointed to a spot on her throat—“and shook his head.”
“I g-g-got out my phone to c-c-call nine-one-one.…”
“But Jon stopped him, suggested that we consider the—how do you?—the implication of Gerard’s death.”
“We all had a g-g-great deal riding on Gerard.”
“What are you talking about?” Derek asked. “You two maybe, but Jon only had two points in the movie. That was chump change to him.”
Alan looked even more uncomfortable. “I g-g-guess it’s g-g-gonna … come out now, anyway. He was t-t-taking over the … company. With my help.”
“Christ, Alan,” Derek said. “You know what Onion City means to me.”
His partner couldn’t look him in the eye.
“It wasn’t just Onion City,” he said. “I agreed to sell him my shares in Instap-p-picks.”
Derek looked as if a magic finger had poked a hole in him, allowing all the air to escape. He backed to a chair and sat down. “We grew up together,” he said, in a whisper.
“So much money,” Alan said. “For you, t-t-too.”
This was all interesting, in a big-business soap-opera way. But we’d wandered afield from the reason I was there. I was about to attempt to get back on track when Madeleine, brutally pragmatic Madeleine, did it for me.
“In any case, Derek, Gerard’s death would have ruined everything.”
“Just out of curiosity,” I said, “what was the ultimate plan? You couldn’t keep the man’s death a secret forever.”
“Not forever,” she said. “There would be a prolonged illness, during which Gerard would undergo treatment in seclusion. I would assist him on his writing for perhaps two years. At which time he would, alas, succumb, leaving behind several completed works and many others in various stages that I, being his collaborator, would complete.”
“The three of you concocted this plan with your husband lying facedown in his dinner?” I asked.
“That’s a crude way to put it,” she said. “But yes. Jon’s mind is, was, very agile.”
“Of course,” I said. “The agile mind of a sociopath. What about Gerard’s romance with Carrie?”
“How heartbroken would she have been to have her lover die so suddenly?” Madeleine asked.
“It could even have affected her performance in the movie,” I said.
“Exactly,” Madeleine said, my sarcasm evidently lost in translation. “So I have already been working on that. Gerard’s emails to her have been growing less and less romantic. By the time filming ends, he will have withdrawn completely, telling her, in no uncertain terms, to move on with her life.”
“Let’s c-c-cut to the … chase. What do you want, B-B-Billy?”
“What have you got?”
It was a definite eye-opener. Alan looked like I’d tapped him with a cattle prod.
“Just a joke,” I said. “Ever since I heard Brando ask that question in a movie, I’ve been waiting for an opportunity to use it. What made you think I want money?”
“You and P-P-Patton were working t-t-together.”
“How’d you come up with that factoid? Jon Baker?”
“N-N-No. A couple of weeks ago, P-P-Patton offered to recant his b-b-blog about us. For a … price. I decided to … play his game instead. I hired … detectives to follow him, see if we c-c-could get something on him. One of them was at that … t-talk show. He saw you and him … getting all … c-confidential after the show went off the air. The next day, P-P-Patton went … to your hotel.”
“Your guys Heinz and Killinek saw all that, but they didn’t see Baker’s sons go into Patton’s house to kill him?”
“They figured he was in for the … night, so they went home.”
“Some sleuths. Why’d you sic ’em on me?”
“The … morning after P-P-Patton’s … murder, some … g-guy called, offering to sell me something P-P-Patton had that would … c-clear our … c-company’s reputation. I thought it was you.”
“They tried to kidnap me. Twice.”
“I’m sorry about that,” Alan said. “But I assumed you were a b-b-blackmailer and maybe even the guy who’d t-t-tortured and killed … Patton.”
“What about that crazy who attacked me and Carrie?”
“He was only … supposed to scare you, f-fire over your head. It’s why Heinz … dropped him off. He was worried a d-d-drive-by might be too risky, hitting a … pothole or something.”
“The paper said the guy was a hired killer,” I said.
Alan shrugged. “Heinz … p-picked him. Anyway, how do we m-m-make all of this go away? What do you want?”
“Transparency.”
It was the code word Bollinger and I had picked.
The door to the Winnebago opened, and he and Ruello sauntered in, followed by several uniformed officers.
Not much later, as we watched the blue-and-whites take Alan and Madeleine away, and the police techs had removed the wireless transmitter I’d been wearing, Bollinger said, “Not homicide but a clean bust for all that. Guess we owe you a couple, Blessing.”
“Always glad to help.”
He offered his hand. I shook it, and he strolled off.
“I’m an even bigger fan now, Chef Blessing,” Ruello said. He lowered his voice. “Frank’s birthday’s coming up. I think I’ll get him one of your cookbooks. Maybe the barbecue?”
“Good choice,” I said.
And Ruello hugged me. The first time I’d been hugged by a cop and, considering the NYPD, probably the last.
Before leaving, I turned to look back at the Ferris wheel. It was aglow with light. The camera, high on its crane, was aimed at the two actresses sharing a seat. Carrie and Adoree. Glamorous. Poised. Playing their roles in a make-believe world that was about to collide with the real one.
I was partially responsible for that collision. But at least I’d eased Carrie’s burden a little by turning her and my red files to ashes and letting the Windy City have its way with them.
I was sorry my promising beginning with Adoree had gone so haywire. Had I behaved like an idiot? Or was she just too French, and an actress to boot?
I sighed, realizing that my chauvinistic, not to mention jingoistic, second question had provided an answer to the first.
Chapter
FIFTY-TWO
Shortly before I departed Chicago, J. B. Kazynski called, ostensibly to wish me an uneventful trip back to the first city. But after the pleasantries, and a brief update on her cousin (he and his wife were now happy as clams with their Instapicks money), she began to question me about my network, Worldwide Broadcasting Company. It seemed her landlord’s niece had suffered a diabetic seizure while watching Who’s Your Daddy?, the new hit comedy set at a Hollywood school for celebrity offspring. What she specifically wanted to know was if WBC used subliminal messages to sell high-fructose kids’ breakfast cereals. I told her that my understanding was that the network held the line at product placement. At least for now.
Kiki and the rest of the Wake Up, America! team returned to New York on Friday, after our last show. I stayed for another day, to attend Mantata’s funeral service at the Greater Salem Baptist Church on the South Side, the house of worship where Mahalia Jackson began her professional singing career
. When she died, fifty thousand mourners passed her coffin at the church. The number of Mantata’s mourners was closer to fifty, but his sister, Olivia Hudson, had arranged for the kind of elegant send-off, complete with a gospel choir, that the old boy would have appreciated.
After the ceremony there was a reception at Olivia’s home, where tea and coffee and cake were served and people spoke in hushed tones. Trejean, Hiho, and I ducked out of that quickly and held our own celebration with beer and deep-dish pizza at a nearby joint. I enjoyed listening to their stories about Mantata, real or legendary, and stayed with them until their arguments and laughter grew so raucous we were asked to leave.
My flight to New York was scheduled for ten that night. I was at O’Hare early, nursing a soda in the frequent-flyer lounge, when Cassandra called from the Bistro.
“When do you arrive?” she asked.
I looked at my watch. “My flight leaves in forty minutes. You’ll have to do the math. I’m too tired.”
“We had an excellent night. Full up, both sittings. It’s been like that ever since your participation in the Winnetka Wipeout went viral.”
“I can’t believe that name stuck. Winnetka Wipeout,” I said. “It sounds like a headline for a paper-towel ad.”
“I’m thinking Charmin,” she said.
“That, too.”
“Phillipe made another move tonight,” she said.
“Roaches, rats. What was it this time, locusts?”
“He tried to put something in the soup du jour.”
“What was it?”
“A very nice lobster bisque,” she said.
“Not the soup. What did he try to put in it?”
“We won’t know until next week. It has to be analyzed. He says it’s just Epsom salts. He wasn’t trying to kill anybody. Just give ’em the runs.”
“Who stopped him? The security guy?”
“She’s a security woman,” Cassandra said. “But it was Maurice who stopped him.”
“Oh?” Maurice Terrebone, my hot-tempered kitchen supervisor. “How’d that work out?”
“Billy, he tried to chop the boy’s right hand off.”
“He was probably just throwing a scare into the kid.”
“No. The security woman almost had to use her Taser to get him to drop the cleaver. But he definitely did scare the kid. Scared him straight. Phillipe wrote out a very readable detailed confession that rests on your desk, signed and notarized.”
“Where is Phillipe now?”
“In a hotel room with one of A.W.’s male agents. They’ll be serving papers on his employers tomorrow, at which time he can go wherever he wants.”
“How much is this costing me?” I asked.
“Well, Unca’ Scrooge, a lot less than if he’d put the laxative in the soup.”
She continued rattling on about the efficiency with which A.W. had taken care of the problem. But I was barely listening. Unless I was imagining it, a lady seated at the bar with her back to me was Adoree.
I stood and clicked off the phone while Cassandra was still talking. I walked across the room until I was beside the woman and tapped her on the shoulder.
She turned. Definitely not Adoree. But nearly as beautiful. I was about to apologize, using the old “I thought you were someone I knew” line. But I didn’t have to. She smiled and said, “My goodness. Aren’t you the television chef, the one who helped solve the murders?”
“That would be me,” I said, taking the seat beside her. “You aren’t flying to New York, by any chance?”
“Yes, I am. And I want to hear all about the Winnetka Wipeout.”
Funny how much better that name was beginning to sound.
ALSO BY AL ROKER & DICK LOCHTE
The Morning Show Murders
The Midnight Show Murders
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
AL ROKER is known to more than thirty million viewers each week for his work on NBC’s Today show, a role that has earned him ten Emmy awards. He also has his own show on the Weather Channel, Wake Up with Al. He is the blockbuster New York Times bestselling author of Don’t Make Me Stop this Car!: Adventures in Fatherhood. An accomplished cook, Roker also has two cookbooks to his credit, including the bestselling Al Roker’s Big Bad Book of Barbecue. Roker resides in Manhattan with his wife, ABC News and 20/20 correspondent Deborah Roberts, and has two daughters and a son.
DICK LOCHTE is the author of many popular crime novels, including the award-winning Sleeping Dog, named one of the “100 Favorite Mysteries of the Century” by the Independent Booksellers Association. His crime-fiction column ran for nearly a decade in the Los Angeles Times and earned him the 2003 Ellen Nehr Award for Excellence in Mystery Reviewing. He lives in Southern California with his wife and son.
