“I’ll buy it.”
“Non,” he said. “A leetle loan.”
“Settled then,” Mrs. Rosovo said.
Philippe said, “I wish to know sometheeng. Who would get the little girl if”—he dramatically clutched his chest near his heart—“qui peut penser une telle chose?”
“She would be an orphan,” I said, seeing Adele Carter’s face as she sat in a wicker rocker on her porch that stifling afternoon so very long ago.
Philippe said to Mrs. Rosovo. “You have the gift of the desert, entendu. Can you help this dogged one find what she seeks?”
“Our people have searched,” Mrs. Rosovo said. “The spirits have not touched me, so they have nothing to tell me. That is all I can say.” She got up from the stool. “I must go now. Good luck, Miss Dru.”
“Give Tess my best,” I said.
Philippe took her place on the stool and ordered a pinot grigio. “Where do you begin again?” he asked after the wine arrived and he’d made all the motions of a wine connoisseur.
“I’d like to talk to Dartagnan. I thought he’d be here tonight.”
“Ah, that is le mystere.”
“He’s a cop. Maybe he’s out doing cop things?”
Philippe laughed. “Cop things jamais! He does what he wants. He is a—how you say—pariah?”
I yearned to grab his throat and stifle the phony accent and, most likely, the bad French. “Pariah?”
“A cop like no other.”
“I think you got something there, Philippe.” I looked off in the distance. “I wonder if being a pariah in Louisiana is what made him leave? You know anything about his past?”
He scratched his forehead and pulled the beret lower. “Non. I talk on and on about what I did years ago, how I learn the cooking and the baking and who was my mentor and how I grow up, but him—he never talks about his past.” He upended his wine glass, placed it on the bar, and signaled the bartender by scribbling on his palm.
“He told me about growing up in a bayou. That’s not far from New Orleans, is it?”
“Moi, I would not know.”
“Never been there? All that good food?” Lake was suddenly next to me. I asked, “Win or lose?”
“He took all my money,” Philippe said. “I will raise my prices tomorrow. For now, sleep.” He rose.
I told Lake I’d be right back and walked to the front of the casino with Philippe. Along the way, he gestured with his hands and talked nonsense to a few patrons, making them laugh. Outside he said, “You must let me prepare for you and the handsome policeman a nice dinner—juste pour deux—in your hotel room. Romantic, non?”
“You got some good vino?”
“Excellent, the best. And for you, et pour votre amour, I donate two bottles of the best in my cellars—for the future of a happy pair and success in your quest.”
I laughed. “Sounds divine. What’s on the menu?”
“Ah, boeuf of tenderloin, baby vegetables, and marrows. What is your pleasure for dessert?”
“Napoleons.”
“My especiality.”
“Just don’t send over any anise cheesecake.”
He raised his face. “Anise cheesecake?”
“The last time I ate your cooking—cooking made especially for me—I got deathly ill.”
One hand went to his heart, the other to his forehead. He nearly swooned. “Mon dieu. Mon dieu. Impossible.”
I laughed. “I’m kidding, Philippe. It was datura.”
He righted himself and looked at me with a doe-eyed stare. “Oh, the mademoiselle. Has her fun at poor Philippe.”
“We’ll take you up on that dinner. I’ll let you know in the morning.”
“Que sera parfait.”
He toddled off toward his car. I watched as he drove away.
* * * * *
We showered together. It was something we’d done many times before, but this time was different. We washed the weariness off and the lies that had dried and clung to our skins like stale sweat. Refreshed, we lay in bed and continued to explore each other, as if we’d never touched before. An hour later, Lake fell into exhausted sleep. I went outside on the balcony and focused on majestic black mountains that rose almost straight above me, serene now that my atavistic moorings were tightly wrapped.
57
The next morning, I rang Dartagnan’s cell number and got his answering machine. Twice. Three times. Four times. We rolled by the police station. No Dartagnan. Lake got us in to see Dartagnan’s superior, who said that Detective LeRoi’s work had taken him to the desert for a few days.
“The Whitney case?” Lake asked.
“Look,” Superior said, “LeRoi’s got other cases, too. You know how detectives work, being one yourself.”
When Lake smirks like that, you really shouldn’t say anything more. But when we turned to leave, Superior fired a parting round: “Remember you’re in our jurisdiction under Corlee’s direction.”
We drove by Dartagnan’s condo complex. The blinds were drawn tight. I didn’t have to be shown in by the manager to know that the interior was empty and smelled of pine sol and bleach. There was no physical evidence of the man ever having lived there.
* * * * *
“Wait until he hears this,” Gila Joe Corlee said. He was talking about Dartagnan’s superior. “He’s going to have a shit fit. His star guy’s not so starry.”
I love it when cops stick it to each other. We women can’t do it, not got the mental equipment.
Dartagnan’s print results had come through.
Twelve years ago, his fingerprints had been submitted to the FBI when he hired on as a Palm Springs policeman. They were a match for the fingerprints of a man who’d been arrested in New Orleans on a bank robbery charge. No conviction. The name he’d been booked under was Sancho Pérez.
“Sancho Pérez,” I said. “Dartagnan has a sense of humor. Anything else?”
“That’s all I got for you,” Gila Joe said. “We’ll get the shovel digging deeper.”
Lake said, “Wonder why the PSPD didn’t pick up on those prints?”
“Who knows?” Gila Joe said. “He wasn’t convicted of the New Orleans crime. He was a popular guy. Worked for Arlo when he first got here. Security. Then Arlo got him on the force.”
It being lunchtime, Gila Joe ordered sandwiches from Philippe, who personally delivered them and stayed fifteen minutes to speak half-English, half-bad-French.
When he left, Gila Joe shook his head. “You wouldn’t know it, but he’s a helluva pilot.”
“I’ll pass on his vectoring,” Lake said.
We ate while Gila Joe brought us au courant on the results of the blood evidence in Arlo’s house. The DNA was Eileen’s. There were unknown hair and fibers and a footprint. When we parted ways, Gila Joe reminded us, in his firm but mannerly way, that they’d be keeping track of our activities. “Just don’t make us look too bad,” he said with a wide grin.
We left, not having told him about Tess and Kinley. Something about him, a closed book that only opens for his own benefit.
In the four-wheeler, I called Webdog, and told him to check with the New Orleans cops, get details on the Sancho Pérez arrest. I gave him Gila Joe Corlee’s name if they questioned his credentials.
* * * * *
At Heidi’s house, Lake pushed the sandstone bell button. I expected Arlo to come through the door ready for battle, but a Native American woman timidly drew the door open. Heidi and Arlo were not home. She didn’t know where they were. No, she didn’t think they had gone back to Los Angeles. No, Tess was not in the house, either. Goodbye.
Later, Arlo called our hotel.
A half hour after that, he, Lake, and I sat in the nearly empty bar of the Palkott under the casually watchful eyes and listening ears of the bartender. “He’s diggin’ the dirt,” Arlo laughed.
“For ermine and pearls?” I asked.
Arlo tilted his head like a sad jester. “My lady was no tramp”
Lake brought him bac
k to the land of the living. “Heidi didn’t see Eileen or Kinley that Saturday, did she?”
Arlo blew out. “She says she did.”
“You asked her to say she did, didn’t you?”
“She’s not that good of a friend.”
“But she’s your neighbor, and she’s an opportunist,” Lake said.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“She’s there in case Eileen isn’t. Nothing lasts forever in never-never land.”
Arlo looked pained. He said, “Heidi thought she saw Eileen’s car parked by the smoke tree, and somebody get out.”
“When did she see this?” I asked.
“I don’t know. She told you she doesn’t look at clocks. She’s always way early for parties, or way late. She’s a little scatty.”
“Try and remember what she said about seeing Eileen and Kinley,” I urged.
“She said she saw the car as she went by. The back of a white car. She doesn’t know cars, but Eileen’s Lexus was white.”
“Was?” I asked.
Arlo was angry suddenly. “Don’t try to trip me up, Miss Dru.”
Lake asked, “Did you know that Dartagnan had an arrest record in New Orleans under the name Sancho Pérez?”
He hadn’t expected the question. He rolled his eyes. “You people. Know everything—or make it up. Yeah, but maybe no. Maybe I did. It’s been so long. No, I don’t think so.”
“Robbery,” Lake said. “Didn’t go to trial. Pérez had a partner. He was killed. The charges were dropped, and Pérez came west—as Dartagnan.”
“Didn’t know all that,” Arlo said. “But so what? He didn’t do nothing out here.”
“That you know of. Before the cops, he worked for you, right?”
“Security on the sets. Watching stuff didn’t get stolen. You wouldn’t believe how people like to break into trailers and steal costumes and props and all that crap. Dartagnan did a good job. He’d find out who was planning the op, and go get him. I told him he should be a cop. And so he became a cop. Look, my people checked his background. He didn’t get convicted.”
“No, he didn’t,” I said. “How did you meet Eileen?”
He snapped, “What’s it matter?”
“Atlanta’s a long way from Palm Springs,” I said.
“Her turd of a husband sent her out here to think things out,” Arlo said. “I don’t mind speaking ill of this dead guy because the facts speak for themselves.”
“Why Palm Springs?” Lake asked.
“Visit his friend,” Arlo said. “Dartagnan introduced us one afternoon at tennis.”
Lake said, “And you became lovers?”
“Whoa,” Arlo said, holding up his hands. “Eileen wasn’t that kind. She went back to Atlanta. She wanted to make a go of her marriage with that slimeball, but two months later she was back here, and she looked me up. Well, she came to the tennis courts and I was there. I’m always there or on the golf course. We hit it off. She told me she’d left him. She was worried about Kinley, but she couldn’t take being married to him any longer.”
“Did she think he was a pervert?” Lake asked.
“She said he was getting weirder, but she couldn’t prove nothing.”
“Where is Kinley now?”
“I don’t know. I don’t want to know.”
“Dartagnan know?”
Arlo shook his head. “Only if he followed Tess.”
“Would he?”
“Sure. If he wanted to know. He was a good cop.” Then he squinted and looked off into wherever his brain was taking him. Then his eyes found mine. “But Tess—you don’t mess with Tess. She’s got my blood, too.”
* * * * *
We were to dine on Philippe’s cuisine. But first we had business, and pleasure.
I returned Portia’s call. She reported that police and the FBI questioned Robert White. He’d been cooperative. He was Whitney’s uncle. He’d lived in Atlanta for several years—from the time Whitney established SAA.
“What’s SAA?” I asked Portia.
“Sex Addicts Anonymous. They started in a rented house by the university campus. They called the place The Cloisters. The clandestine program was based on AA, where rich men shared their problems in the hopes of finding a cure. All the therapists, doctors, clients, social workers were all cut from the same bolt of cloth—all were criminal sexual deviants.”
“Did White say what his deviation was?”
“Adolescent boys. He liked them to call him Father White.”
“I heard one,” I said. “I nearly vomited.”
“White says he didn’t know what went on in that altar room.”
“I wouldn’t expect him to put himself on death row. He say where Harry is?”
“California is all.”
“Under our very noses.”
“Keep in touch,” Portia said. “And love Lake.”
It was my pleasure to love Lake. Afterward, Lake fell asleep, and I took a shower. Sometimes I sing when the hot water beats down. Tonight, my brain stuck on a tuneful phrase: Make something happen, Make someone happen…
* * * * *
Lake had two Blue Sapphire martinis ready when I got out of the shower. Wrapped in a plush white towel, I snuggled next to him on the bed. We agreed to give the case a rest. We’d make a cocoon—regroup, refresh—for tomorrow we would make something happen.
I clicked on television, the news. Nothing new on the Whitney case. Arlo waved at the reporters as he boarded his flight to LA, Heidi in the background.
Martinis finished, we turned to each other. The longing to smother him with kisses reared like a beast. I rushed at him. “Hey!” he cried. “I’m only one man.” When the torment eased, I didn’t want his flawless body to leave mine; I needed to savor the passion, to immortalize our communion of body and soul so that it would be everlasting.
He gently rolled away. “Philippe,” he said. “Due in ten.”
Philippe arrived in ten.
The hotel allowed him to bring his food up on a cart. It was draped in white. White linen, white candles, shining chrome, brass cutlery, and domes.
Philippe flashed through his sommelier duties. “First, we open the cabernet sauvignon to let her breathe.”
“That’s an Estate cabernet,” I said.
“Indeed. Nineteen-ninety-six. You do not think I would bring you anything but the Californian?”
“Indeed not,” I said. “When in California, drink Californian.”
“Napa Valley’s very finest, vraiment,” Philippe said, fussing over domes. The rich aromas seeping from them made my mouth water.
Lake, too, enjoyed the show. He turned to me and winked. He twined his fingers in mine.
I couldn’t get over the two bottles of wine. They had to be seven, eight hundred dollars a bottle. Lake and I bought good wines, but this cab was way out of our league.
“You’re very generous,” Lake said. “I’d have to rob an armored car to afford it.”
“Eh, I think not,” said Philippe. “I have prepared a marvelous boeuf of tenderloin. It must have a good companion. This cab is perfect—tightly wound and compact.” He flipped his fingers. “She is chewy with currant and blackberry, with hints of espresso and mocha. Et, voilà, ce qui une finish!”
Lake laughed. “I’ve always wondered. What does ‘finish’ mean?”
“Ah, what it is you can taste after swallowing. The longer the taste lingers on the palate, the better the finish. Voyez?”
Truly divine, the wine lingered and went down rose-petal smooth. “I don’t know if two bottles will be enough,” Lake said.
“We send for more, voilà!” Philippe said as he dressed the plates, first with a brown sauce, then perfect rounds of rare tenderloin, framed by marrows and baby vegetables.
“I must ask the mademoiselle. Do you still desire a pistol?”
“I do,” I answered.
“When are you in the desert?” he asked.
I looked at Lake. “I be
lieve we will go tomorrow late in the day, before we go to the desert casino for our last evening here.”
Lake grinned. “She wants one last look at her prison, Adobe Flats.”
“I will be visiting one of my restaurants near there in the afternoon, and I will provide you with a gun to point at the snakes. Very bad, there, very bad. Come to my Joshua Tree restaurant and fetch your firearm.”
“Sounds good,” I said.
Philippe served while he talked compulsively. “A simple gravy, that is best. Never, non never, cover the meat, unless it is bad meat. Then why eat it? I straddle my pan between two burners and pour in red wine, not this good cab, but a good red wine, some beef broth and un peu de butter. Reduce and there, purr-fect!”
I nodded vigorously, letting the buttery beef wallow in my mouth and wondering if Philippe was going to stay through dinner.
He seemed to have read my mind. “I will just open this bottle, et je vous let you alone with votre appétit et votre diner. It is good, n’est-ce pas?”
“Excellent,” Lake and I said together.
“Underneath the trolley is the ice block and the mousse. Bon appetite.”
With that flourish, the man was gone. We leaned together and laughed. We raised our wine in celebration. “To us!” we said. “To us!”
We made love again, despite our protruding bellies and light heads.
Lake fell asleep quickly, as he’d been doing since the poisoning. I brushed his hair with my hand. He stirred, and I let my fingers run across his forehead. He was sweating lightly. I worried. He was my baby. I must keep him safe. The pain came again, a sharp needle in my breast. I’d almost lost him. Tears welled and it hurt like hell. He stirred and turned toward me, one of his legs pinning mine. I gently extricated myself and went to the balcony to look at the purple mountains below the silver gibbous moon.
Tomorrow.
“Dru?” I heard his voice. I turned. He was sitting. I came in and sat on the bed, up close and face-to-face with him. “Yes, my love.”
He ran a hand down my cheek. “Am I your love? Do you love me?”
“Yes, I do.”
He lifted my chin and smiled. “Care for some wine talk?”
“Only if it’s mushy and will embarrass you in the morning.”
“It’s wine talk. I won’t remember.”
The Last Temptation Page 29