‘Trust me.’ Luc removed his glasses, revealing damp eyes. ‘I’m finished here.’
Cathy sat down beside him. ‘Luc, why?’ She kept her voice low. ‘Tell me.’
His mouth trembled. ‘Because everyone who got sick ate my fondant au chocolat.’
‘Are you sure?’ She saw his nod. ‘But they’ll have eaten other dishes first. It might not even have been food, it might have been wine, or …’
Gabe joined them. ‘What’s up? Apart from the obvious.’
‘Just my career,’ Luc said.
‘He thinks the people who got sick ate his chocolate fondant.’
Gabe drew up a chair on Luc’s other side. ‘Did you put drugs in it?’
Luc’s eyes widened. ‘Of course not.’
‘Then it has nothing to do with you.’
‘Why?’ Cathy asked. ‘Gabe, what do you know?’
‘Not much.’ Gabe shrugged. ‘But I’m thinking it could have been something like acid.’
‘God,’ Cathy said.
‘They’ll still think it was me,’ Luc said.
‘Why should they?’ Gabe asked.
‘Because I always screw up,’ Luc said softly.
Gabe smiled wryly. ‘Don’t we all?’
Sunday evening, and Mrs Hood had summoned her Crusaders for another limo get-together.
Different pickup points.
Different parking lot for the conversation, near another Domino’s.
The mood inside the stretch intense.
Leon’s answers to the boss’s questions about the Dickens Avenue mission appeared satisfactory. They’d left the kill house separately, had walked different routes to get back to the 2009 Chevy Traverse that Mrs Hood had provided for the job. No one had been seen peering through a window or from a passing car. Leon had taken the guns, pitiful jewelry and cash and equipment, Jerry had ditched the SUV. All to plan.
Two dead.
‘Two and a half,’ Jerry had put it.
CB had wanted to kill him then. After all, he’d told himself, he knew now that he was capable of it. Had aided and abetted in the murder of nine human beings.
He couldn’t stand to think about the unborn baby. Not coping real well all in all, wondering if the others could tell.
If Mrs H could see it in his eyes.
‘So, Boss?’ Leon said now.
‘Yes, Leon.’ She smiled at him. ‘You’ll be wanting your rewards.’
‘We’ve done three jobs now,’ Leon said.
‘And?’ Mrs Hood said.
‘You said that after three, we’d get our first real payment,’ Leon said.
A ripple of relief rolled through the others, because he’d said it for them.
‘So what do you think we’re doing here now?’ Mrs H said.
Her right hand delved inside her large brown bag – which Leon had identified on his PC as a Monogram Louis Vuitton tote, liked their cash coming out of that – and withdrew one fat, cream-colored envelope.
‘One for you.’ She gave it to Leon, dipped back into the bag, brought out another. ‘One for you.’ She handed it to Jerry. ‘Look if you must, but please don’t count it now. In the first place, it isn’t polite. In the second, you all know where to find me.’
Two more envelopes. One for Andy and the last for CB, who felt glad to be last, wished it meant he was less wicked, knew it did not.
‘So, everyone satisfied?’ Mrs Hood asked.
‘Yes, ma’am,’ Leon said.
‘Very,’ Jerry said.
‘Thank you,’ Andy said.
CB echoed him.
‘Is that it?’ Jerry asked.
‘For today,’ Mrs Hood replied.
‘No treats?’ Andy felt emboldened by his envelope, though any second the boss or Leon might take out a gun and kill him and take back the cash, but the question was out of his mouth now, too late to take it back.
‘You’ve got your pay,’ Mrs Hood said equably.
‘Yes, we have.’ Leon shot Andy a look.
‘What about the next time, ma’am?’ Jerry asked.
‘You’ll hear from me,’ she said. ‘In the meantime, you know the rules. Numero uno: keep it zipped.’
‘We do,’ Leon said.
CB, whose jaw was throbbing worse than ever, was tempted to ask about the dentist, because the work hadn’t been finished, but for one thing, he didn’t dare ask, and for another, he was beginning to think that if there was a next time, if another gun was placed in his hand, he might just shoot himself through his diseased mouth, which would hurt a whole lot less than another visit to the dentist.
Mrs Hood smiled at him.
A little pity in the smile, he thought, but a lot more contempt.
She’d told them that so long as they kept their part of their deal, she’d always take care of them, but CB thought that if and when it suited her, she’d probably hang them out to dry without lifting so much as a manicured finger to help them.
Mrs Hood swiveled in her seat, tapped on the dividing window.
The limo began to move again.
June 17
It had gone on until the early hours of Monday, Nic asking everyone to stay until he and Jeanne had spoken with them privately. The upper floor slowly emptying out. No indication yet that the police had been notified, though since all three diners had been taken to the Hopital de Brousailles, it seemed unlikely now that they would not ultimately become involved.
Nothing in the kitchen or restaurant was to be disposed of, nothing more washed up, all receptacles containing traces of food or drink secured until they could be tested at a laboratory. And as soon as he’d arrived just after midnight, Nic’s détective privé, Jac Noël, had requested that all gloves, uniforms and footwear be given to him for sealing, labeling and possible testing.
‘They’re treating us like suspects,’ Michel Mont, collecting his jacket after his interview, said to Gabe. ‘Not nice. Not cool.’
‘I don’t see why the police aren’t here,’ Carnot complained, ‘rather than the boss’s privé, and how long have I worked for Nic?’
‘I guess they can’t make exceptions,’ Sadi said.
‘Do we know yet?’ Luc asked Michel, his voice low. ‘Did they all eat my fondant?’
‘They all ate the mushroom velouté and the fondant au chocolat, and they all drank coffee.’
‘See?’ Cathy said to Luc. ‘Not just your dessert.’
‘But they all ate it,’ he said.
‘Gabe?’ Jeanne appeared in the doorway. ‘Nic and Joe would like to see you.’
When he returned, almost an hour later, he was pale and angry.
‘Seems I’m prime suspect,’ he told Cathy and nodded at Luc. ‘So I guess you’re off the hook.’
‘We did ask that you not discuss our conversation.’ Jeanne had come up behind him.
‘After what I’ve just been put through, screw what you asked.’ He looked at Cathy’s stunned face. ‘Jeanne knows things about us. She certainly knows things about me. Private stuff, like what I grow at my lopin. From which she and Nic seem to have deduced a whole load of what I can only call shit.’
‘Gabe, you need to calm down,’ Jeanne told him.
‘You need to tell Nic and his fucking private eye to go to hell.’
‘Gabe.’ Cathy reached out to touch him, but he shook her off.
‘I don’t understand,’ Luc said.
‘That makes two of us.’ Gabe looked at Cathy. ‘I’m leaving. Do you want to come with me or stay here?’
‘I thought they said we have to stay,’ Cathy said.
‘Do you see any cops? Locked doors?’ He laughed harshly. ‘Not yet.’
‘Gabe, I think it’s better if we do stay, see this through.’
‘Maybe you’re right,’ he said. ‘You maybe do need to stay, find out what Jeanne has on you – you might be surprised.’
‘Gabe,’ Luc said. ‘Why don’t we sit, have a drink, talk?’
‘I’m not staying here one se
cond longer.’ Gabe looked at Cathy. ‘Are you coming?’
‘We need Cathy to stay,’ Jeanne said.
‘Cathy?’ Gabe ignored Jeanne.
‘Gabe, I don’t want to just walk out.’
‘OK,’ he said. ‘Got it.’
And left.
Bad feeling ran on through the night, spreading through the slowly dwindling employees like a virus. Almost five a.m. when they were done. Luc and Cathy both interviewed, neither experiencing the sense of accusation that Gabe had felt, but still Cathy had stuck around, hoping to find some cast-iron way of clearing his name.
It was crazy for anyone to think that Gabe would do such a thing.
Le Rêve was closed until further notice. Nic was still behind closed doors with Jac Noël, the private detective. No police yet, but Jeanne was more grim-faced than Cathy had ever seen her.
‘What can I do to help?’ Cathy asked her.
‘Just what we’ve asked everyone,’ Jeanne said. ‘Keep your phone switched on in case we need you.’ She paused. ‘I’ll give you the new code for the back door in case you want to visit with Luc.’
‘Do you have an idea who might have done this?’
‘If you’re asking about your boyfriend, I have nothing to tell you.’
‘You surely can’t think for a second that Gabe would do something like this.’
‘Your conviction is touching,’ Jeanne said. ‘I hope you’re right.’
‘I am,’ Cathy said, feeling angry too now, realizing suddenly how it must have been for Gabe, how insulting or worse. Her own guilt growing.
She should have jumped all over Jeanne while Gabe was still there, should have told them all they ought to know better than accusing a loyal employee.
She should have left with him.
Half an hour later, just after Luc had gone to bed and Cathy was stressing about what to do next, Gabe called her cell phone to say he was at the rear entrance.
‘Would you come open the door, please?’
He was outside, leaning against his Ducati, arms folded.
‘Coming in?’ she asked.
‘Am I allowed on the premises?’
‘Oh, Gabe,’ she said. ‘Come on.’
‘Who else is here?’
‘No one except Luc, and he’s upstairs. Please come in so we can talk.’
She walked ahead of him back through the kitchen and bar into the dining room, feeling suddenly intensely weary, the events and the long night bearing down on her.
‘Hey,’ Gabe said. ‘You should sit down.’
He pulled out a chair from the closest table, pressed her down onto it, and just his touch on her shoulders brought relief, showed he still cared.
‘You didn’t trust me.’ He sat down opposite her. ‘How could that be, Cathy?’
‘Of course I trust you, though you sometimes make it hard.’
‘How’s that?’
‘By not being open with me,’ she said.
‘Oh my God,’ he said. ‘This again.’
‘Of course this again. Everything’s such a mystery: your uncle and his farm, your lopin, your joke – maybe not – about growing marijuana there. How am I supposed to know why or what you’re keeping from me?’
‘I did not put drugs into anyone’s food.’ His eyes were cool. ‘I wouldn’t conceal dope in a brownie, let alone play that kind of insane trick.’
‘You were the one who brought drugs up last night.’ Cathy rubbed her face, recalling. ‘Acid, you said.’
‘You’re still doubting me. I’d never doubt you.’
‘Perhaps that’s because I’ve always told you everything about myself.’
Gabe leaned back. ‘So let’s say it’s OK for my girlfriend to doubt me. Now tell me why I would do such a thing?’
‘I’m not doubting you,’ Cathy said tiredly. ‘I just said you were the one who’d brought up drugs.’
‘Because I’ve seen that kind of reaction, and it’s not a good thing to behold, and I’m sure it’s fucking awful to experience. And I can damned well promise you that I would never do such a thing to anyone.’
‘I know,’ Cathy said. ‘I know.’
‘Unless …’ He stared at her. ‘Were you thinking that everything – all the mean tricks – might have been down to me?’ He stood up. ‘Jesus.’
‘Gabe, of course I didn’t—’
‘The roaches, the ants, the verdigris – why not?’
‘Gabe, you’re being crazy.’
‘I’m feeling pretty crazy right now, because that’s what this whole thing is. Because my girlfriend hasn’t gotten to share every last piece of me, she thinks … Jesus, I don’t know what she thinks—’
Cathy was silent, staggered.
‘Nothing to say?’
‘Plenty, if you’ll let me get a word in.’
‘Maybe,’ Gabe said. ‘Some day. Not now.’
Cathy stood up. ‘For God’s sake, Gabe, this isn’t fair.’
He was breathing hard as he started back toward the kitchen. ‘Make sure you don’t give me the new entry code,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘I wouldn’t want to get accused of anything else.’
‘You’re being a complete horse’s ass!’ Cathy shouted.
‘Better than a traitor!’ Gabe yelled back.
She heard the back door close, then, seconds later, the roar of the Ducati.
‘Bastard,’ Cathy said under her breath.
And burst into tears.
Don’t move, Chauvin told himself.
Don’t even breathe unless you have to.
He was keeping his breathing shallow and relaxed, his training helping, but it was dusty up here and he couldn’t risk sneezing or coughing, and no matter what else happened below, no matter who else came, how upset she got, he could not afford to move a muscle.
Because if he did, everything would be spoiled.
All those preparations, all the waiting.
If she heard so much as a creak, she’d tell someone, her plump friend upstairs, or maybe she’d phone her boss or the manager, or maybe she’d come check it out herself, and as exciting as that prospect was, he was not quite ready for that yet. It wouldn’t be perfect.
It had to be perfect.
And it would be.
He’d only learned about this ceiling cavity because Jones had shown him and some other journalists and photographers around the restaurant as part of his plans for his big publicity drive – and Jones had seemed impressed by his portfolio, and he was gifted, no matter how often his father tried to discourage him. Jones and Mme Darroze had been demonstrating the stringent precautions constantly taken for hygiene: every microscopic insect put to death, everything repeatedly swept and disinfected – and Jones had pointed to the ceiling above the bar area, had shown his visitors the small trapdoor where the pest control company accessed the ceiling space, had noted a small crack and asked the manager to have it sealed, but when Chauvin had arrived yesterday, the crack had still been there – so not so perfectly efficient, madame – and it had made a wonderful spy hole for him.
He’d come for lunch yesterday as a customer, knew Catherine’s shifts by now, and there’d been no way to be positive that she wouldn’t see him, but she was stationed in the kitchen, not in the dining area, so he’d felt reasonably secure. He’d paid his check, then gone to the men’s room, fairly confident that no one would check for stay-behind intruders (and if they did, he could invent an upset stomach, leave and regroup); and no one had checked, so he’d had enough time to find the quiet ten minutes needed to access the ceiling space and make himself at home.
As it had turned out, he’d certainly had more than his money’s worth.
All that drama last night, and he’d been OK with the long haul, had come prepared for most eventualities: a small pillow, Evian for hydration, the empty bottles to pee in, glucose tablets for energy, and it wasn’t safe to use a torch or even his phone while the place was occupied, so he’d made do with thinking of Catherine rather th
an looking at her photos.
The last half-hour had been really special. Listening to her fight with Gabe Ryan.
They’d passed right below his spy-hole, and he’d observed their body language, had seen how altered it was, and as the conversation had continued, it had become patently clear that the trust between them was almost gone.
And once Catherine’s tears for the waiter dried, she’d be able to see what real love looked like.
And learn to love him back.
For now, he had to wait, watch and listen until she left, finally, and locked up.
So he could move again.
Go on preparing.
Getting ready.
The squad room on Monday morning felt like a war room. Combat to prepare for, enemy and battlefield still unknown. Calls and tips – including abundant ‘sightings’ of the four wanted men – flowing steadily in, followed up where they seemed of possible interest, as yet leading nowhere.
In a rare quiet moment, Sam took another look at the victims up on the whiteboards. Photos taken in the lives and after the deaths of nine people. Plus a monochrome enlargement of an ultrasound scan performed on June 8 of a female fetus, perfectly developed at that point, no anomalies visible.
Baby Munro. The tenth victim. A little girl deprived of her first breath by a loathsome creature calling itself ‘Virginia’.
Two big differences in this latest case. Wedding rings and watches the only things apparently stolen – and agent Susan Cohen had said that, so far as she knew, the kids’ most valuable possessions had been their musical instruments, not taken. And neither Lorna Munro nor Jay Sandhu had appeared, in words or photographs, in The Beach. No connection, therefore, to the Benedict family.
They had, however, received publicity: two mentions in the Biscayne Times and one in the Miami Sun Post, and in fall of 2011 they’d had a tiny piece in Ocean Drive Magazine, and Susan Cohen had told them, weeping, how proud she’d been to help achieve that for them. Sam hated to think that she might come to realize that the publicity might have flung them into the killer’s radar.
Hildegard Benedict now had a whiteboard of her own as a person of interest – though it was mostly the continuing absence of any trace of her, dead or alive, which was compounding their continuing curiosity.
Nothing from the Clear database search. Nothing from the Florida court clerks’ office checks. Nothing from drivers license checks or FBI fingerprint inquiry. No recent documented travel from ICE; same from Transport Security Administration. And still no death certificates.
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