Night Watch

by Linda Fairstein

  “Nobody has arrived yet?”

  “No, sir.”

  “A seven o’clock reservation for four,” Luc said to Jim, “at one of the best tables in the house. A no-show, and not courteous enough to call to break it. Looks bad to leave one empty in the front. That’s my prime real estate.”

  “I’ve got two parties having cocktails on the terrace, neither of whom was able to book inside tonight. Shall I seat one of them?”

  “By all means. I’ll go schmooze when you’ve got them inside. You have a telephone number for the no-shows?”

  “Hotel du Cap, Monsieur Rouget.” The waiter bowed his head and left the bar.

  “That was another thing that got my father noticed in New York,” Luc said to Jim and me, warming up as he talked. “He couldn’t abide no-shows. Thought it was the height of rudeness when part of the attraction to other customers was filling every table and turning them over if he could. So Andre would wait till midnight, then call the offender, asking whether he wanted the kitchen to stay open in case their party was still planning on coming in.”

  “Ouch,” I said. “I guess he didn’t see many of those folks again.”

  “You’d be surprised. I think the harder he made it for people to get what everyone else wanted, the more they came crawling back anyway.”

  Luc was in his element and I was happy to see him beginning to relax. The three of us ate and drank, and told stories about our favorite food experiences. Jim seemed almost as excited as I that Luc was coming to New York to re-create Lutèce—named for Lutetia, the Latin word for the ancient city of Paris.

  I could have set my watch by Luc’s prediction that Jacques Belgarde would show up at nine o’clock. He came into the bar alone, and saw us as soon as he entered.

  As he made his way to the table, Luc tried to explain to his guest that we needed to cut the evening short. Jim Mulroy didn’t ask any questions. He got up to excuse himself and practically bumped into Belgarde, who clearly wanted to be introduced and find out about the man who was with us.

  The captain reached into his inner jacket pocket and pulled out a piece of paper, which he unfolded as he spoke. “Were you in town last night, Mr. Mulroy?”

  “I just arrived at five o’clock today. I’ve come from Lyons.”

  “Then you missed Luc’s soiree, too?”

  “My misfortune, yes.”

  “Maybe next year we’ll both be favored with an invitation,” Belgarde said. “And you, Alexandra, it looks like your colleagues think they’ve got a big case on their hands.”

  He handed me a printout that he had downloaded from his computer. It was a news headline from a French site much like CNN, with a photo of Mohammed Gil-Darsin featured in a perp walk—a uniquely American tradition for the high-profile criminal.

  Baby Mo looked the camera directly in the eye. His hands were cuffed behind his back, the collar of his dark trench coat stood up, almost as though styled for the photo op. There was none of the head-hanging or sense of shame that such moments usually engendered.

  Two first-grade detectives from Manhattan’s SVU—Mercer Wallace and Alan Vandomir—gripped his arms, one on each side.

  The text above the image was in bold caps, three inches high. I held it up so Luc could read it, too. L’AFFAIR MGD!

  “That’s unbelievable,” Luc said.

  “What is?” I asked.

  “You couldn’t do that to a man in this country. Photograph him in handcuffs before he’s been convicted of a crime. It’s—it’s indecent.”

  “So is first-degree rape.”

  “I’ll owe you the caviar for sure,” Luc said, shaking his head as he crumpled the paper. “I tell you, the French won’t be happy with your justice system.”

  “Who cares?” Jacques said. “Bébé Mo isn’t French.”

  “He certainly is. He’s spent half of his life in this country. His father’s been good to your men, Captain. He probably spends more money bribing them for favors than they make in salary.”

  “Watch your step, Luc. My guys like to eat as well as you and I do. And the Gil-Darsins—uh—they’re African, after all. They’re not French.”

  “You mean they’re black, is that it?” I asked.

  “I said African, didn’t I?” Jacques buffed the nails of his right hand on the edge of the tablecloth. “Don’t make me out to be a racist.”

  “Mo’s mother was French,” Luc said, talking to Jim Mulroy and me. “Her father owned a cocoa plantation in the Ivory Coast, and she fell in love with a local young political leader. Radical stuff in those days, sixty years ago. The Côte d’Ivoire was a French colony then. It didn’t gain its independence till 1960.”

  “That explains why we couldn’t extradite him if the plane had actually taken off for Paris. He’s a French national.”

  “Exactly. It’s the vast family wealth of Bébé’s mother that launched Papa Mo’s political career, though she didn’t live to see him become president.”

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “She was killed by rebel forces there when her son was only three or four,” Luc said.

  “Living dangerously, that lady was,” Jacques said. “And now Bébé Mo’s a problem for the Americans, not for me. I’ve got my own fish to fry.”

  In just a few short hours, I could see that the case involving MGD would be like a Rorschach test, everyone coming to the story with his or her own point of view, bringing to it preconceived notions of race, class, power, and sexism. My colleagues at home were no doubt being assaulted by journalists voicing each of these positions.

  “Do you have any news about Lisette?” I asked Belgarde.

  “I do, madame. But it would go down better if I had a drink.”

  Jim Mulroy, clearly puzzled by the different threads of conversations, said good night to the three of us as Luc told the captain to pull out a chair at our table. He called the waiter over and told him to get Belgarde whatever he wanted from the kitchen. He walked to the bar and came back with a double shot of single malt Scotch.

  “What’s the story?” I asked again.

  “The body’s at the morgue in Nice. They’re going to do an autopsy tomorrow. It’s just as I thought this morning, at the pond. They suspect she was murdered.” He winked at me and lifted his glass in my direction. “The big city flics thought I was pretty smart, actually, to know so much about drowning—pink foam and all that—so I’m grateful to you, Madame Prosecutor. À votre santé, Alexandra.”

  I nodded back at him.

  “Of course, it will take weeks to get the toxicology results. They’ll have to see if she had any drugs or alcohol in her system.”

  “That’s true, Jacques. The tissue analysis can take quite some time.”

  “They haven’t found a car yet, so they have no idea how she got to the pond. No purse, no ID, not even shoes, unless they’re under all those lotus blossoms—so if it hadn’t been for you, Luc, we’d still be struggling to figure out who she is. Just that all-white outfit, like she was heading for your party.”

  “And I assure you she was not. I printed out the guest list for you. It’s behind the bar, next to the cash register.” Luc walked over to get it.

  “You were right, too,” the captain went on, “about the stones in the pocket.”

  “Sorry?”

  “That woman you told me about who killed herself. That Fox woman.”

  “Woolf? You mean Virginia Woolf?”

  “Probably so. If you hadn’t mentioned the heavy rocks she put in her pockets, I might not have looked there.”

  Belgarde leaned forward and opened his left hand. Displayed against the rough skin of his thick palm was a small object, two inches long and an eighth of an inch thick. Its cardboard casing had shriveled—soaked in water it seemed—and the laminated paper that covered it had curled up on the ends.

  Luc put the list of names on the table between us as I leaned in to look at Belgarde’s offering. It was a matchbook—a tiny box, really—the fancy
type that restaurants gave away to advertise.

  The captain held out his pinky and straightened the paper with his fingernail. In spring green print against a sharp white background was the single word LUTÈCE. He flipped it to show the other side—Luc’s name in all caps—as he belted back a slug of Scotch.

  “Now where do you suppose Lisette got hold of this, eh? You’re not even in business yet in New York, are you?”

  Luc had on such a poker face that even I couldn’t gauge his level of discomfort.

  “It’s just a mock-up, a prototype,” he said, waving his arm around behind him. “My staff has been handing them out here for weeks, and at the party last night, we gave them away with cigars after dinner. I’ve got my friends distributing them at the newsstand in the square and at lots of the bars in Cannes. It’s just to start up some buzz.”

  “It’s done that, my friend. I assure you. Even the investigators want a word with you.”

  Luc put his hands on his hips. “For this?”

  “A dead girl isn’t the smartest way to advertise, do you think?” Belgarde looked from Luc to me as he put the glass to his lips. “You’re very quiet this evening, Alexandra. Any more tricks you want to pass on to me?”

  “I made my views about your attitude pretty clear this morning.”

  “All a matter of style, madame, and there are those who believe I have none.”

  “Je suis d’accord.”

  “So you agree with that, Alexandra. Understood. But your accent is a bit leaden,” he said, turning his attention to Luc. “They’re more interested in the fact that your ex—it’s Brigitte, isn’t it?—that your ex felt it necessary to leave town before letting the detectives get the story of her contretemps with the late lamented Ms. Honfleur. Such bad advice you gave her, my friend.”

  “You know better than that, Jacques. I didn’t advise her to do anything. I couldn’t advise her. She’s a stubborn woman.”

  “Apparently that didn’t stop you from trying.”

  “It’s my sons I went to see. You want me to arrange for the investigators to talk with Brigitte? Let me just get my boys out of the house.”

  “The officers were quite surprised to find neither she nor your children were at home.”

  “Where? At Brigitte’s? When?”

  “Eight o’clock. Just over an hour ago.”

  “Let me call her,” Luc said, holding his hand out to the bartender for the portable phone. “They’re not leaving till morning. I’ll tell her what they want. See if we can get her to be reasonable.”

  “What they want, actually, is that you stop communicating with her for the moment.”

  “She’s the mother of my children, Jacques. She’s my—she was my wife for fifteen years.”

  “It’s okay, Luc,” I said. “I’ll go back to the house and you two can work this out.”

  “Awkward for you, Alexandra, I’m sure,” Jacques said. He was chewing on a piece of baguette, amused at the thought he was stirring something up between Luc and me.

  “Not the slightest bit, Captain.” At least I hoped it wouldn’t be, if I could wiggle my way out of the banquette, sucking in what was left of my spirit. “I’m so glad Luc’s devoted to his family.”

  “Let me walk Alex home, Jacques. I’ll be back in ten minutes. I need to tell you about something else that happened today.”

  “Just don’t let me starve while I’m waiting.”

  “Of course not. Your dinner is on its way.” Luc took my hand to guide me out.

  “Very generous of you, Luc,” Jacques said. “You know, one of those big-city detectives made a very rude observation. He thinks if you hadn’t been so stingy on the alimony, Brigitte might have been able to hire a housekeeper with a little more class.”

  We were almost out the door, but Luc turned to take Jacques Belgarde’s bait.

  “I defended you to him, my friend. Told him how generous you are to my men.” Jacques’s mouth was full now, with whatever delicacy the waiter had placed in front of him. “But he says the housekeeper gave you up in a flash. Didn’t like the way you raised your voice at Brigitte, Luc. Didn’t understand why you demanded she get in the car with the boys when it was almost their bedtime and leave town so quickly tonight.”

  TEN

  We were ten steps away from the restaurant door when Luc started to speak.

  “Save it for later. I can get myself home from here, and I have no interest in what went on between you and Brigitte. Truly I don’t. You go duke it out with Jacques.”

  “Wait up for me, darling. I can explain everything.”

  The prosecutorial part of my brain had grown tired of explanations over the last ten years. I’d have been out of business if people didn’t find it necessary to give reasons for bad conduct and behavior.

  “I’ll be awake.” I was way too wired to sleep.

  “That’s my angel.”

  “Look closely, Luc. I’ve traded in my wings and halo.” I was beginning to question everything Luc tried to tell me.

  This time when I reached the bottom of the alley, the heavy door opened easily. Gaspard lumbered to his feet to greet me and escort me through the garden and alongside the pool to the threshold of the house. I left him in the kitchen and mounted the winding staircase that took me up to the bedroom.

  I undressed, got into my robe, and put on some music, then climbed onto the bed with Luc’s laptop to Google Baby Mo and the facts of his arrest.

  As soon as I pressed enter, dozens of hits popped up, starting with all the French news sources before I scrolled down to see the American, European, and African sites.

  I took a blank notebook from Luc’s desk—the kind in which I usually recorded the spectacular meals and memorable wines from my travels with Luc. It was inevitable that I would have questions for Mercer Wallace and my colleagues on his team, and maybe some ideas as well. I wanted to jot them down as I read through the press accounts.

  Some long-distance Monday-morning quarterbacking of the MGD affair—even though it was only Sunday evening—would be a pleasant distraction.

  I read the first story from the leading French news site. The impression that I got from scanning it was complete support for Mohammed Gil-Darsin. It described him as one of the most distinguished economists in the world, educated at the Sorbonne in Paris, with a graduate degree from the London School of Economics. He was, after all, a resident of France, with a distinguished heritage and a brilliant future as the next president of the Republic of the Ivory Coast.

  The second story was even stronger, headlining with the question: BÉBÉ MO—VICTIM DE COUP MONTÉ?

  I didn’t know that phrase. My legs were crossed and I was working the keyboard, searching for the Larousse French-English dictionary. Monter un coup. A setup. A frame. Could it possibly be, as the journalist suggested, that this woman knew that the wealthy man in the expensive suite had political ambitions, and had she been hired to bring them to a crashing halt with this claim? I wondered whether the cops gave any thought, as some of the French did, to the idea that this crime report was a scam by political rivals out to ruin Gil-Darsin.

  I wanted to see how the American news sources were handicapping the case. I went to the New York Times website and entered MGD’s name. The first story had been filed within an hour of his arrest. The reporting was cautious and recapped the same facts that had been given to me by Mike. The victim was described as a hardworking immigrant from Guatemala, a single mother who had sought asylum in the United States with her child after the civil war that had ravaged that Latin American country in the 1990s.

  My fingers were typing as fast as they could move. I went to a CNN story, predicting turmoil in the powerful World Economic Bureau in the aftermath of this scandal. The WEB chief’s arrest would result in a power struggle for control of the agency, amid rumors that he would have to resign if the prosecution moved forward. Deputies in line to compete for the position—from America, Great Britain, and Japan—all refused to engage in
speculation about the character of the accused.

  The Daily News had already interviewed a coworker of the accuser, who described her as a deeply religious woman. The sidebar story—MGD’S CROSS TO BEAR—OR BARE?—was illustrated with a large crucifix that observers said was always visible against the black collar of her uniform. The implication was that a woman of faith wouldn’t fabricate a claim. I fretted about how Pat McKinney would deal with that issue.

  Gaspard barked at something or someone near the house. I sat bolt upright and listened, but he quieted down, so I assumed no one was entering. I got up to stretch and reached for the BlackBerry.

  I climbed back onto the bed and looked at the tiny screen. I had accumulated 246 messages since Friday, when I left New York. Even if a third of them were spam, there were people looking for me on what I had hoped would be a quiet spring weekend.

  There was a red star on the voice mail icon. Luc wouldn’t have to know I had reneged on my promise to him, so I hit that button and listened to the recorded voice tell me that I had twenty-two messages in my mailbox.

  I had gone too far to stop myself now. Lack of curiosity would be a lousy trait in a prosecutor.

  The first messages were frisky. Joan Stafford called me on Friday night to test whether my pledge to keep the phone under lock and key had been successful and to ask me to call in with all the social gossip. Nina Baum, my Wellesley roommate and best friend, who lived in Los Angeles with her husband and young son, bet that I would never be able to fulfill the promise, and urged me to stay grounded against the fantasy of the Mougins lifestyle.

  There were six calls on Saturday—a couple of old friends who were in town on business and some invitations to upcoming dinners. Nothing had any urgency until I heard Mercer Wallace’s voice at three o’clock this morning, which would have been 9 A.M. in Mougins.

  “Alex. Mercer here. Look—I know you’re on vacation with Luc and the last thing I want to do is bust into that, but would you call me when you pick this up? It’s kind of urgent. New case. I could use your eyes on this one. Just a call please, so I can run some of the facts by you.”