“So you shot the foreman?” I asked.
“When I drove into the parking lot, I recognized him. He’s always been perfectly friendly before. This time he was running into the shed, but came back out when he saw me get out of the car. He threatened me, actually. He was carrying a shotgun and told me to stay away.”
“Why?” I said. “Did he say?”
“Just that Peter had set off the panic alarm, and he was going to open the door. I asked him if that was unusual—I mean, had it happened before—and he said it never had. When I asked him who was inside, the guy said there was a detective and—well—you must have been the young woman he mentioned. I didn’t have a clue what was going on, but I didn’t like the sound of it,” Gina said. “But I obeyed him.”
“You did?”
She smiled. “Well, I returned to the car, anyway. I came back with my rifle, but he didn’t notice me coming because he was unlocking the vault. I got up real close behind him, and when he realized I was there—and armed—he really didn’t like the sight of that.”
“So he refused to open the door?” I said.
“I nudged him a few times, but he wouldn’t change his mind. Most men don’t take me seriously until they see me shoot,” Gina said. “I just grazed him, Alex. It got the job done.”
Mike was making his way back over to us.
“Before I came into the shelter, did Peter Danton tell you anything at all about the skulls?” I asked him. The ancient bones had haunted me since I first saw them in the moonlight in Mougins.
“I never got to that, Coop. They must have been a diversion, cooked up by Lisette and Luigi to keep everyone’s attention on the restaurant wars. Luc would be so busy looking for enemies around town that the drug trafficking wouldn’t get any attention. It was a good ruse. The bones were old enough so the police didn’t have to worry about dead bodies, but spooky enough to be a distraction.”
“The one you brought to my apartment, Mike,” I said, “was that the only one on the houseboat?”
“Yeah. I guess Luigi just wanted a souvenir.”
“How did he get it on a plane?” I asked.
“It was sitting on a Mylar blanket—you know, the kind runners use after a marathon? It probably didn’t even scan going through X-ray. And in customs, it was tagged with an ‘antiquities’ stamp, so nobody even looked inside the wrapping.”
I glanced over at Luc, being questioned by one of the police officers. “Poor Luc, the skulls alone made it look like he was connected to both murders. Those skeletons worked for the bad guys on every level.”
Mike turned his attention to Gina. “I haven’t thanked you properly for what you did in that vault. I’ll find a way to do that.”
“It’ll be easy, Detective. I’ve got lots of time on my hands.”
“In the meantime, I know these guys have questions for you,” he said. “And I told them how cool you were under pressure, Gina. I had that gun pointed right at you and you didn’t blink.”
Gina Varona started down the rise toward the parking lot. “I wasn’t worried for a second, Mike. Sergio called me after you’d been questioning him about me at Tiro the other night. He told me, after he’d seen you shoot in the basement there, that you couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn.”
FIFTY-EIGHT
By six o’clock, we had been taken over to Kenner Stables by the local police, joined by Mercer, who had arrived soon after the town cops.
Patti Kenner, one of the kindest, smartest women I’d ever met, was doing her best to calm and comfort us. She had called her personal physician to come tend to the soles of Mike’s feet, cleaning out the teeny glass fragments from the broken bottles he’d stepped on and bandaging them with an antibiotic ointment.
Mercer, Mike, Luc, and Gina were at Patti’s kitchen table. She had canceled her dinner party and was feeding all of them the delicious meal she’d prepared earlier in the day—individual chicken pot pies in small cast iron skillets. I was on a sofa at the far end of the room.
After the police had interviewed Jim Mulroy, he’d brought a case of 1982 Mouton Rothschild Pauillac for Patti before heading home. He told us it was from Peter Danton’s personal stash. We were on our third bottle by the time the doctor arrived to check me out.
Gina Varona was explaining her long friendship with Brigitte Rouget. “Luc and I were the two steady influences in Brigitte’s life,” she said. “I’ve spent a lot of years trying to keep her drug-free, keep her on track for her family.”
“You were serious about backing me, too,” Luc said. He was leaning back in his chair, his long, thin legs stretched out in front of him. I’d never seen him look so sad.
“We should never have let Peter get involved,” Gina said. “I think he was feeding coke to Brigitte all along. Bringing it to her from Africa even a decade ago. You trust everyone, Luc. That’s your problem.”
“And Coop doesn’t trust anyone,” Mike said.
“When did you get worried about Peter Danton?” Mercer asked Gina.
She frowned as she answered. “I was really fond of Luigi. I mean, I only knew him from the club, but I thought he was a bright kid, a hustler with a great future. I really liked that Luc was willing to give him such a big break. So first I heard that Luigi was going over to Mougins—to meet Luc—I thought it was really a good thing for us.”
“Well, that was the least of it,” Luc said.
“Next thing Peter tells me, after Luigi comes home, is he thinks Luigi killed the girl.”
“Lisette?” I asked.
“Yes, Lisette. And she used to be Brigitte’s supplier. So suddenly, it seemed so obvious to me that there was a drug connection at the base of all this,” Gina said. “And then Luigi was found dead in the water.”
“Josh Hanson rolled over on Peter while we were waiting for his ambulance to come,” Mike said. “Snitched on him. That’s how he won himself a free ride back to Brooklyn, with the detectives, as soon as he’s treated and released.”
“Peter Danton slit Luigi’s throat?” Gina asked.
“Yes, for the same reason Luigi killed Lisette. Too much cocaine went missing. Luigi slipped Luc’s matchbox into her pocket, just to make it look bad for Luc. Josh said Peter bragged about doing the same thing to Luigi, who’d told him he’d done it. It’s a dangerous game, trafficking in drugs,” Mike said. “Maybe the most dangerous game.”
“But you must have known about Gineva Imports?” I asked Gina.
“We set up a corporation because we had a lot of legitimate goods to bring into the country,” she said. “Cocaine wasn’t one of them.”
“Nor were women,” Luc said. “Escorts or prostitutes, or however you want to call them.”
“Wine, cheese, truffles, escargot,” Gina said. “We had quite a list of good things to import. The corporation was set up in my name and Eva Danton’s. Peter was the vice president. I’m sure you’ll see he’s signed off—or forged our names—on everything else.”
“The building next to Luc’s restaurant?” I asked.
“What building would that be?” She answered my question with a question.
“I didn’t know about it either,” Luc said, drawing in his legs and burying his head in his hands. “Apparently my design to restore the dignity and civility of the great Lutèce was the least important part of Peter’s plan.”
“Has his link to the prostitution ring based in Lille been confirmed?” I asked.
“Interpol will have an answer by Monday,” Mercer said.
“It hardly matters at this point,” Luc said. “The dream is ruined. There’s no point going on.”
I stood up to walk over to him. “They’ll get this all separated out from you.”
He waved me off. “I was stupid, Alex. I was so driven to create this fantasy for myself—for my father—that I let myself lose sight of everything that mattered. I need to go home, darling. I need to go home and figure out what’s left of this.”
The chief of police opened
the back door of Patti’s kitchen. “My men are ready, Mr. Rouget. If you’re going to get to JFK for your flight, you’ll have to leave now. We need to stop at your hotel for your passport and bags.”
“Why don’t you stay one more day, Luc?” Gina asked.
He stood up to shake hands with Mercer and Mike, and to thank Patti Kenner.
“I think it’s better for everyone if I leave now,” Luc said. “Whenever the police need me, I’ll come back.”
“Let me walk you to the car,” I said.
Luc laughed, trying to defuse the tension. “Just come out on the steps to say good-bye.”
“Who wants a refill?” Mike asked, trying to distract everyone from watching me, I was sure.
The Washington Township patrol car was backed into the drive, the two officers seated in front with the motor running.
I held on to the railing as I went down the stairs after Luc. I was on the bottom step and he was on the ground when he turned to embrace me.
“I’m so sorry I brought such a sordid mess into your life, dear Alex. It was the last thing I ever intended to do.”
“No apologies, Luc. There’s nothing to be sorry about.”
“I had such very different plans for this evening, darling. Someday soon I’ll tell you what they were, and maybe by then we can even laugh about it.”
“Maybe so,” I said, wiping the tears from my eyes.
Luc pulled my head toward him and kissed me—first on each damp eyelid, then on the tip of my nose, and then my mouth.
I hated good-byes. I hated emotional good-byes of every kind. I willed myself to think that this wouldn’t be the last time Luc held my face between his hands and told me that he loved me. But I knew better than to believe that.
FIFTY-NINE
Mercer was driving us back to the city in his beat-up old station wagon. He’d moved Logan’s toys off the backseat, and I stretched out to nap for the ride, with one of Patti Kenner’s quilts covering me.
I fell asleep somewhere in the rolling foothills of Connecticut—maybe a little too much red wine after all the excitement of the day and the personal drain of Luc’s departure. Mike and Mercer were dissecting the details of the crimes and the investigation, but I would have to hear it all again the next time we were together.
“Are we there yet?” I asked.
“You sound like my kid,” Mercer said. “Getting closer.”
I dozed again, waking up at the tollbooth and then drifting back to sleep. The cool night air and the darkness as I looked out the window were soothing to me.
The next time I opened my eyes, I could see that we were whipping past overhead lights, obviously on a highway.
“The FDR Drive?” I asked. It was the last stretch before we’d reach the exit for my apartment.
“Yes, ma’am.”
I started to push back the quilt. “I’d better wake up, guys. Almost home.”
Mike looked over his shoulder at me. “Keep your head down, kid. We got a slight detour to make.”
“What time is it?”
“Eleven-fifteen.”
“Can’t the detour wait till tomorrow?”
“Just not possible, Coop.”
“Keith Scully?” I asked. “The commissioner?”
I couldn’t think of any other command appearance we’d have to make at this hour.
“Like that.”
I closed my eyes and rested. “You think Luc’s airborne?”
“Yeah,” Mike said. “He texted to say they made the flight.”
“That’s good.” It relaxed me to know that he was on his way back to France and his sons.
I rolled onto my back. Now I could see many more lights strung out above me, close together. They were hanging from huge cables, arcing up from the roadway to tall columns far above, so I knew we were on a bridge.
“Please don’t tell me, guys,” I said. “Brooklyn?”
“Brooklyn it is,” Mike said.
“Scully insists on talking to us in Brooklyn because of the Gowanus murder?”
“Just go with your imagination, Coop. Let it run wild.”
It wasn’t long until we were off the bridge, driving down the exit ramp. Mercer knew where he was going, so I just rested and tried to conjure up images more pleasant than those of the day.
Three or four minutes later, the car came to a stop. It seemed to be dark all around us. I pushed the quilt off and sat up, trying to get a sense of our surroundings.
I could see that we were between the Brooklyn and Manhattan Bridges, facing the spectacular outline of Manhattan Island, magically lighted against the dark night sky.
Mike got out and opened my door. I slipped my moccasins back on and stood up.
He took my arm and walked me around the station wagon, and all of a sudden hundreds of lights came on just fifty feet in front of us. I gasped at the sight—a gigantic glass box—the size of a small building sitting on the water’s edge, with an old-fashioned carousel inside.
I watched in amazement as the carousel began to turn and the antique painted ponies started to trot. The traditional music of the calliope played, as if the entire scene had come alive just for us. Against the cold facades of the restored warehouses of DUMBO—the Brooklyn neighborhood Down Under the Manhattan Bridge Overpass—this stunning confection stood out like a fairy tale brought to life.
“It’s your ride, Coop,” Mike said. “Let’s get moving.”
“But it was all dark a moment ago.”
A workman was at the door, holding it open for us. The writing in front said JANE’S CAROUSEL. I’d read about it when it opened a few months back. It was a 1922 theme park attraction that had been lovingly restored and installed by the Walentas family, for more than ten million dollars.
“Well, it’s open for business now. You work Night Watch in Brooklyn and pretty soon you find out the world’s your oyster.”
“I’ve got nothing to complain about, Mike,” I said, leaning on his arm. “But let’s forget about oysters and French food for the time being.”
“Pick your pony, Coop.”
The horses were each more magnificent than the others. They were side by side as the carousel spun around, some painted in soft pastels of lemon and coral, one dressed in the armor of a knight’s steed, another outfitted for a cowboy. There must have been close to fifty of them, spinning around inside their dazzling jewel box of a showcase.
Mercer had crossed the street and come back with a large shopping bag. When he returned, they both helped me get up on the moving carousel and held me steady while I climbed onto a palomino every bit as handsome as the horses I’d seen today at Stallion Ridge.
I was riding in the outer lane, beaming as though I’d won the lottery.
Each time we circled, I made out another landmark in the distance. I could see the towers of the criminal courthouse, where yesterday’s slaughter had occurred, and the glittering gilded statue of Fame, high above the municipal offices facing City Hall. The Empire State Building was bathed in its own bright lights, and I could even see the high-rise apartments of the Upper East Side forming a backdrop against the horizon.
Mercer rested the brown bag on the floor next to me. He took three cupcakes out of it, along with a candle and a matchbook.
“Is it still my birthday?” I asked, as I watched him light the single candle.
“You got another twelve minutes to enjoy it, Alex,” Mercer said.
Mike started to sing while Mercer held the cupcake in front of me. I grabbed the pole with one hand and Mercer’s shoulder with the other, gliding up and down with my chosen pony.
“Close your eyes and make a wish,” Mercer said.
“Eyes wide open, guys. I have everything I want right here with me tonight.”
“You’ve got us for life, kid. The three musketeers.”
“They’re too French, Mike. Give me another image.”
“Well, did you hear the man?” Mike said, getting down on his knees, fumbling with some
thing I couldn’t see. “Close your eyes. Wish or don’t wish, that’s up to you.”
I closed my eyes. And as long as they were closed, I made a wish. Then I opened them and blew out the candle that Mercer was holding.
I looked down and saw that Mike had uncorked another bottle of wine, and he handed us each a paper cup full.
“Cheers, Coop. Happy birthday,” Mike said.
“Happy birthday, Alexandra,” Mercer said, as the city spun around before me.
“What did you wish for?”
“If I tell you, I’d have to kill you.”
“That serious?” Mike said, with a laugh, climbing up on the horse next to mine. “Then let me be the last to know.”
“You usually are,” Mercer said, leaning his back against my pony to take in the view.
“You’re forgetting one thing,” Mike said. “The ring.”
I sat bolt upright, like I’d been punched in the gut. “Look, I don’t know what you know about that, but this isn’t the night—”
“Keep your cool, Coop. Lean over next time around. The brass ring is yours if you can pick it off.”
The brass ring of the carousel, I thought to myself. Not Luc’s birthday surprise for me, that Joan Stafford had alerted me to.
Mike was talking about the classic carnival prize—happiness, long life, great friends, good luck.
“You just keep this carousel going till I reach it,” I said.
“Dizzy yet?” Mike asked.
“Not a chance of it. I’m just beginning to feel good again.”
I handed my cup to Mercer, basking in the lights of the city I loved so much. I could see the brass ring hanging from a leather strip on the carousel’s frame, and I grabbed for it every time we circled around.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Jane Stanton Hitchcock is one of my favorite writers. Since I first created Alex Cooper, Jane has helped me plot my way out of difficult corners at all hours of the day and night, allowed me to put words in her mouth as Coop’s friend, Joan Stafford, and feted me with every completed book. Her brilliant husband, Jim Hoagland, has generously tolerated endless conversations about our fictional alter egos. This time, Jane and Jim introduced me to Mohammed Gil-Darsin and set my backstory in motion.
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