Perforating Pierre (Jane Delaney Mysteries Book 3)

by Pamela Burford

  “Of course,” I said, just to have something to say.

  “It isn’t real yet.” He yawned. “I’ve been going, going since the detective called. I had just gotten home from work. I threw a few things into a bag and drove straight to Roissy.” At my quizzical look, he clarified. “Charles de Gaulle Airport.”

  If the circumstances were different, I would have made small talk. Instead I let the silence stretch out. It was a comfortable silence. Victor must have thought so, too, because a couple of minutes later I glanced over and saw he was asleep. I did the arithmetic. It was about seven a.m. in Paris.

  Naturally, Kari had wanted to accompany me to pick him up. I’d firmly vetoed that idea and made her go to bed before I left the house, assuring her I’d be back within an hour and a half, tops.

  Thankfully, she was sound asleep when we got home. I was glad to see Sexy Beast lying curled on her bed. I offered to make Victor something to eat, but he was only interested in laying his head on a pillow.

  I managed to snag four hours of less-than-satisfactory shuteye before my alarm told me it was time to get Kari up for school. The girl’s curiosity bubbled over as she passed the bedroom Swing’s brother occupied. “Just let me take one little peek,” she whispered. “Pleeease!”

  “Don’t even think about it.”

  To my relief, her mood had improved from the night before. Apparently, midnight pancakes and girl talk with her dad’s first ex had been just the ticket. She made noises about skipping school, but I sensed she’d be better off going, and when I pointed out that I had a busy day planned and she’d have to spend the day with one of her parents, she relented.

  “I wish I lived here,” she announced while pouring her third bowl of Fruity Pebbles. “My mom never lets me have this stuff.”

  Please don’t tell her, I silently begged. Lana and I got along well—heck, all of Dom’s exes got along, even if we weren’t what you’d call besties—but I wouldn’t want to strain the relationship by letting her know I was the Bad Ex feeding her kid sugary breakfast foods. At least she was eating it with milk, so it was, you know, kind of okay.

  The Bad Ex gave Kari a late note and drove her to school in time for second-period physics. When I returned home, it was clear Victor was still asleep—nothing but silence from the second floor—so I decided to get a head start on the medical-device project. Step one would be photographing the antiques at my client’s home, but I’d gotten a good look at the collection and had a fair idea of what I was dealing with. Meanwhile it wouldn’t hurt to scour the Internet for resources to help me identify and price the items.

  Over the past few weeks I’d begun using the cozy maid’s room down the hall from the kitchen as a sort of office. And yeah, Irene had turned one of the three guest rooms upstairs into a combined library and home office, with sleek, expensive furnishings, state-of-the-art equipment, and yet more modern art masterpieces, including a spectacular Georgia O’Keefe. Yet somehow I never felt comfortable in there. It was Irene’s space. Whenever I tried to work in that room, I always felt her peering over my shoulder, telling me what I was doing wrong. Having known Irene for more than two decades, I could very well believe she’d choose to haunt her former property specifically to micromanage it, and me, from beyond the grave. Don’t misunderstand me. I’d loved her, she was like a surrogate grandma, but I’d be lying if I claimed she’d been the easiest person to get along with.

  So it was the maid’s room I found myself in that morning, curled up in the overstuffed chair with my laptop and my dog. The world of antique medical devices proved more strangely absorbing than one might imagine—I now knew more about cupping lamps and trepanning drills than was probably healthy—and by the time I detected activity upstairs, more than two hours had passed. A few minutes later, I heard muffled footfalls on the carpeted steps.

  Sexy Beast sprang off the chair and raced out of the room, intent, no doubt, on separating the dastardly intruder from his jugular. In short order the barking morphed into submissive whimpers as my houseguest cooed to him in French. So much for my fiercely protective watchdog. Victor switched to English to offer SB a treat, as if the language made a difference. He must have correctly deduced that the phony-baloney pepperoni in the glass canister on the counter wasn’t intended for human consumption.

  He made nom nom sounds, teasing SB by exclaiming how delicious the doggie treat was. From my chair in the maid’s room I pictured him pretending to eat it. Sexy Beast gave the sharp, imperative bark that meant, Stop messing around, I know that stupid trick, just give me the darn thing already! Apparently Victor complied, because SB lapsed into satisfied silence.

  Yesterday had been horrendous for the man, and the next few days, as he dealt with the police investigation, the funeral, and settling his brother’s affairs, would be trying, to put it mildly, but at least my dopey little dog had managed to give him a few moments of pleasure just by being his dopey little self. The thought brought a dopey little smile to my face.

  I heard cabinets opening and closing and knew my guest was looking for a mug. I’d left a half carafe of coffee for him. I closed my laptop and padded down the hall. As I entered the kitchen, I asked, “How did you sleep?”

  Victor jumped in surprise, splashing coffee from the carafe onto his bare toes. They weren’t all that was bare. My houseguest wore a pair of snug black boxer briefs and nothing else.

  “Oh,” I said.

  “Ow,” he said, balancing on one foot as he grabbed a paper towel to blot scalding coffee off his foot. His hair was rumpled and his stubble was even more pronounced.

  With great reluctance and through sheer force of will, I averted my gaze. I’m telling you, this was a genuine mind-over-matter moment. My eyeballs had to be dragged kicking and screaming from the sight of the gorgeous, sleep-tousled, nearly naked Frenchman hopping around my kitchen.

  And really, it was so wrong of me to even register his hotness quotient, considering what the poor guy was going through. Not to mention that he had to be, what, seven or eight years younger than I was.

  Wait, I forget. That’s supposed to make him less appealing why?

  We started talking simultaneously. I motioned to him to proceed.

  “Apologies,” he said. “I assumed you’d be at work.”

  “I work from home,” I told the refrigerator. “So, uh, yeah.” Then I said, “Sorry, I should have warned you,” because it was the right thing to say, although between you and me I was not in fact at all sorry. Yeah, big surprise.

  “I’ll go grab a shower.” He headed toward the foyer.

  “Great. I’ll start breakfast,” I said. “French toast sound good? Wait. What do they call that in France? Do they have it in France?”

  “Pain perdu.” Victor turned and regarded me seriously, apparently unembarrassed by his state of undress. Which made sense because, let’s be honest, the man had nothing at all to be embarrassed about. “I appreciate the offer, Jane, but there’s something I need to do first.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I need to see my brother.”

  I stood speechless for a moment, then managed, “You, um… There’s no need to officially identify him if that’s what you’re thinking. They already, um… That’s been done. If you can wait a day or two until they release him to a funeral home—”

  He shook his head, looking so bleak something in my chest squeezed. Quietly he said, “I need to see him.”

  I took a deep breath to steady myself. “Of course. Of course you do, Victor. If it were me…” I swallowed hard. “I’ll make a couple of calls. I’ll find out where we need to go.”

  *

  WHERE WE NEEDED to go, as it turned out, was the Forensic Sciences Building in Hauppauge, a big, modern structure about twenty miles east of Crystal Harbor that housed the medical examiner’s office. Despite what I do for a living, I’d never before had occasion to visit the place. I’d phoned an old college pal, Sheryl Singer, who worked as a forensic investigator at the crim
e lab there, where specialists investigate stuff like DNA, drugs, firearms, and microscopic trace evidence. Sheryl was waiting for us by the time we arrived about an hour later. She was a zaftig woman of thirty with long blond hair.

  Victor cleaned up nice, which was no surprise. He’d presented himself clean-shaven and fresh-scrubbed, wearing khakis and a long-sleeved navy sport shirt made of some soft, drapey material that was probably part silk. Or maybe part linen. Or maybe silk and linen.

  No, I didn’t run my hands over it to check! Jeez, why would you even think that? Okay, I know why you would think it, but give me some credit.

  Naturally, he’d insisted my presence wasn’t needed, he knew I was a busy person and I’d already gone above and beyond and yadda yadda. Get this, he thought I was going to let him take a taxi to the car-rental place. Yeah, that might happen. I discovered there really was a Pushy American deep down inside and that she liked to come out and play.

  Sheryl led us into the viewing room, located immediately off the building’s large first-floor lobby. Someone had taken pains to make the space look homey and welcoming. There were sofas and chairs in a soothing shade of green, a few simple decorations, and an adjacent bathroom.

  And a big interior window. We couldn’t see what was beyond the window because of the concealing screen behind it. My mouth felt dry and I took slow, calming breaths, grateful Victor hadn’t let me make us a big breakfast of French toast and bacon. Why was I nervous? I’d already seen the worst of it. I knew Swing had been autopsied the day before but felt sure they’d make him as presentable as possible.

  I glanced at Victor, at his stolid expression. I placed my hand lightly on his arm.

  “Are you ready?” Sheryl asked.

  He nodded. She pushed a button next to the window. The screen slowly rose to reveal a small room and a sheet-draped gurney. Swing’s face was exposed. After the briefest glance, I looked away.

  Victor drew in a long breath and slowly let it out. He stood there unmoving for a minute or two. Sheryl didn’t rush him.

  At last he said, “They beat him.”

  “What?” Automatically I looked at Swing again and saw what he’d noticed: the livid bruises on the pale, slack face.

  Victor cleared his throat. “Whoever killed him. They…” He gestured limply toward his brother’s body. “They beat him. Do you see?”

  “Um, no,” I said. “That happened before. Two days before. I can explain. Later, okay?”

  Never was I happier to drive away from a place. Victor, sitting in the passenger seat, emitted a deep sigh. He placed his hand on my shoulder. “Thank you, Jane. I know I said I could do it alone, but I’m very glad you were with me.”

  My throat tightened. “I was glad to do it, Victor.”

  He smiled crookedly, the first genuine smile I’d seen on him. “Liar.”

  “Okay, truth? That particular adventure was not exactly high on my bucket list. You know what that means? ‘Bucket list’?”

  “Sure. I lived here for three years. Earned my graduate degree at Columbia.”

  “Really? What kind of degree?”

  “M.Arch. Master of Architecture.”

  “So that’s why you’re fluent in English.” I didn’t add, Yet you never lost the swoon-worthy accent. “You’re an architect, then? In Paris?”

  He nodded. “The firm I work for handles a lot of international projects, especially for U.S. companies. We have branches in San Francisco, D.C., even right here in New York, down in SoHo.”

  “Why did you get your degree here instead of France?” I asked.

  “To be near Pierre. He was all the family I had.”

  “He told me your parents died a long time ago. In a car accident, I think?”

  “That’s right,” he said. “I was twelve. Pierre was ten years older. I was a handful, let me tell you. I got into every kind of trouble you can imagine. The world had dealt me this terrible tragedy and the only way I knew to deal with it was to lash out at everyone and everything. Even at my brother, who loved me.”

  I thought of Kari and the shrieking, sobbing vitriol directed at her father, the ugly, unjust accusation of murder, which she had to know deep in her heart couldn’t possibly be true.

  “Did you do your undergrad in New York, too?” I asked.

  “No, I went to school in Nice. That’s where I met my wife.”

  Ah. A wife. He didn’t wear a ring. Maybe they did things differently in France.

  “Pierre had already received his training by then, he’d apprenticed with important chefs,” Victor said. “When I went away to college, he left for New York. He felt he had a better chance of breaking out here, becoming a culinary star.”

  “And he was right,” I said. “I understand he was close to getting his own show on the Food Network.”

  “They offered it to him.”

  I failed to restrain a gasp. I could think of nothing to say except, “When?”

  “A few days before he died. His agent was negotiating the details. Chloe Sleeper—I haven’t met her yet. They were supposed to finalize the deal and start production very soon.” Victor lapsed into silence, staring out the windshield as we merged onto the parkway. Finally he said, “There’s one thing about New York I miss more than anything.”

  “Pizza rats on the subway tracks? Drunk tourists puking in Times Square?”

  “Real New York diners. I’m certain you make delicious French toast.” He said this last with an over-the-top American accent that made me laugh out loud and pray my speech didn’t sound like that to him. “But what do you say we find a diner? I haven’t had a black-and-white cookie in years.”

  “You have to wash it down with an egg cream. It’s the law. Don’t worry, I know just the place.”

  Twenty minutes later we slid onto padded vinyl benches while our surly waiter cleared away the detritus of the previous meal, set down paper placemats and coffee mugs, and slapped a couple of five-pound menus on the table. Our booth had a view of the parking lot. A toddler at the next booth was screaming and throwing toast. An elderly couple at a nearby table argued loudly about whether eggs were good or bad for you this week.

  It was perfect.

  Victor turned to the breakfast page of the menu, glanced briefly at it, and set it aside.

  “That was fast,” I said.

  “Western omelet. Sausage. Home fries. White toast. Orange juice. Lots of black coffee.”

  “The man knows what he wants. I still have my heart set on French toast, plus they make it with challah here.” I slapped the menu shut. “Done deal.” Pancakes at midnight, French toast at noon. I’d have to count calories for a week to make up for this carb-fest.

  Victor waited until our food had been set in front of us before saying, “The bruises.”

  I sighed as I poured syrup. “My ex-husband did that to him. Dom. Dominic Faso.”

  He forked up a mouthful of Western omelet, patiently awaiting details.

  “Okay,” I said, “so the thing I want you to know is that Dom is a nice guy. Really. This was an aberration.”

  Mouth full, he gestured for me to continue. Sunlight slanted through the window, illuminating his silver-gray eyes. It me took a moment to get my brain back on track.

  “Um, what happened is that, well, Dom thought Swing—I mean Pierre—”

  “It’s all right, I know everyone called him Swing,” he said. “It’s funny. He liked it.”

  “Okay, well, Dom thought Swing was, um… involved with his daughter.”

  “His daughter,” Victor said. “Not yours?”

  “No, our divorce was ages ago,” I said. “We never had kids. I still don’t.” Why did I feel a need to tell him that? “Kari is his second wife’s daughter.”

  “So…” I could almost hear him doing the math, applying his big architect’s brain to the task of guesstimating the girl’s age.

  “She’s sixteen,” I said.

  “Then no.” Victor put down his fork. “Not a sixteen-year-old
. Not Pierre. No way.”

  “I didn’t think so either. I talked with Kari. Don’t worry, she says nothing happened, and her dad will figure it out if he hasn’t already.”

  “What does it matter now? Pierre’s dead. It’s not as if he could be arrested for statutory rape.” He sat back against the blue vinyl, regarding me steadily. “How badly did your Dom hate Pierre?”

  My Dom? Did something in my tone give away my lingering feelings for my ex? I glanced around and lowered my voice. “If you’re asking whether Dom could have murdered your brother, the answer is no. He doesn’t have it in him.”

  “He thought Pierre was sleeping with his underage daughter,” he said. “He was enraged enough to beat him up. Why are you so sure he’d stop there?”

  “Because I know this man.” I told Victor about Kari’s cooking lessons, the lessons Swing hadn’t known she’d kept secret from her parents until Dom stumbled upon the two of them at Dewatre and went ballistic. “Dom was caught off guard. He regretted it later. The thing is, the detective in charge of the investigation is thinking along the same lines as you. I have to tell you, he thinks Dom did it.”

  Victor stared out the window. He scrubbed a hand over his jaw.

  “This detective, Paul Cullen,” I said, “he’s not even looking at anybody else. He’s lazy and out for a quick solve.”

  “Are there no other suspects?” he asked.

  “Well, I’m sure you know about that animal-rights organization,” I said. “The Society for Endangered—”

  “Yes, of course. Is there any evidence they were involved?”

  I hesitated, recalling all too vividly how the killer had staged Swing’s corpse: the platter, the parsley, the acronym SEAR spelled out in balsamic syrup. The police had instructed me to keep those details to myself, and for that I was grateful. I had no desire to share them with the victim’s brother. Instead of answering, I said, “Cullen refuses to consider that SEAR could have anything to do with Swing’s death.”

  He sat awhile, thinking, then picked up his fork. “I’ll speak with your Dom. I’ll see if I agree with Cullen.”