Perforating Pierre (Jane Delaney Mysteries Book 3)

by Pamela Burford

  For sure this had to be a worse commute than what he was used to in Paris: an early-morning car ride to the local Long Island Railroad station, followed by an hour-and-a-half train ride, followed by a trek through crowded Penn Station to catch a packed subway to Spring Street in SoHo, followed by a final walk to his office building. Close to two and a half tedious hours, and that’s if things ran smoothly and on time. Throw a canceled train and/or funky weather into the mix and hilarity would ensue. And then at the end of the day, Victor got to do the whole thing in reverse.

  I was kind of surprised he’d decided to remain at my place rather than move into the city, closer to his job. He must have friends in town from his grad-school days who’d be happy to put him up. On the other hand, Crystal Harbor was the best location for looking into his brother’s death and settling his affairs. And I hadn’t been lying when I’d told him I was glad for the company. The big house would seem like a tomb when he finally moved back to Paris.

  And then there was that other thing. The thing that had been simmering between us during the four days since Romulus Tooley had tried to turn Dewatre into a pile of smoking rubble. Oh, you know the kind of thing I mean. No? Try sticking a capital T on it.

  Yeah, that’s right. A Thing.

  We didn’t talk about it. And we didn’t do anything about it. It was just there. Like when we squeezed by each other in the upstairs hallway. Okay, yeah, it was a wide hallway, but somehow it was never quite wide enough. Or when my fingers brushed his as we both reached for the last cookie on the plate. Or when his fingers brushed something else as he lifted Sexy Beast out of my arms. The narrow-eyed look SB gave him was eloquent. Real subtle, my friend. You owe me a Vienna sausage for that one.

  So anyway, I was curious about who Victor had just let into the house, but as I mentioned, I was also distracted by the front page of the Harbor Herald. The feature story applauded Crystal Harbor High’s swim team for its victory over a neighboring school during a recent meet. The article was accompanied by a photo showing several boys poised to dive off the edge of a pool.

  Tucker Nearing stood smack in the center, his sleek, broad-shouldered body balanced on a pair of long feet. I stared at those feet. Maybe they were twelves. Or fourteens. Yeah, they were pretty big, they could easily be fourteens. No way were they thirteens, though. I was almost certain.

  I tossed aside the paper and followed the sounds of conversation to the living room, where I found Detective Paul Cullen sitting on the same pretty, linen-upholstered armchair he’d occupied more than a week ago. Had it been only nine days since Swing’s murder? Since his brother had taken up residence in one of my guest rooms? It felt like the distant past.

  The detective had produced his little notebook. The hairs on my nape leapt up and shrieked dire warnings. Clearly those hairs knew something I didn’t.

  “Detective Cullen wants to get me up to speed on the investigation,” Victor said.

  “Uh-huh.” I took a seat next to him on the sofa. Sexy Beast had curled up on Victor’s other side, but as soon as I joined them, he bestirred himself, stretched, got a good shake on, and daintily tiptoed across our laps to smoosh himself close to my side, his chin propped on my thigh. SB liked Victor well enough, but let’s face it, he was no alpha female.

  “You don’t need to be here,” Cullen told me.

  “I live here.”

  He opened his yap to explain to my dense self that he meant I didn’t need to be present there in the living room while he spoke with Victor, but something about my expression stopped him. Maybe it was the stony, don’t-mess-with-me stare I fixed him with. Yeah, I’m thinking that was it.

  Our little stare-down wasn’t lost on Victor. “I’ve had a long day, Detective,” he said. “If we could get on with it?”

  “We still don’t know who killed your brother,” Cullen said, “but we’re following every lead.”

  That was it. That was his report. I looked at Victor. Victor looked at me. Sexy Beast looked from one of us to the other and then gave Cullen a single imperative bark. Quit kiddin’ around, this bark said. Tell us something we don’t already know.

  “What about Romulus Tooley?” I asked.

  “What about him?”

  “Isn’t he one of the leads you’re following? I mean, since he tried to burn down Dewatre?”

  “That was a political statement,” Cullen said.

  “Political?” I sneered. “It felt pretty darn personal to me considering I was inside at the time. Along with two other people.”

  “Yeah, and he’ll have to answer for it, him and his pals, but he was just trying to bring attention to his cause.” The two other thugs had been apprehended a few blocks from the restaurant. “He isn’t a person of interest in the murder of Pierre Dewatre, is what I mean.” He flipped open his notebook.

  “So you’re still fixated on Dom?” I demanded. “What do you know that takes Tooley out of the running?”

  “Trust me.” There was that condescending smile I’d come to loathe. “The guy didn’t do it, all right?”

  “You don’t think it’s even remotely possible,” I said, “that Tooley might have been trying to destroy evidence by burning down the restaurant? Evidence of his guilt?”

  “Five days after the murder?” Cullen said. “Five days after my boys went over that place top the bottom? You think the guy’s that slow-witted? Or lazy?”

  “So that’s it?” Victor said. I could tell he was getting steamed. “That’s what you came all the way over here to tell me? That you’ve made no progress at all?”

  “I didn’t say that. As a matter of fact, new information has come to light.” Cullen clicked his pen. “If you’ll bear with me, I have a few questions for you, Mr. Dewatre. This shouldn’t take long.”

  Those hairs on my nape? They were now slapping their foreheads and whining, Don’t blame us. We tried to warn you.

  I sat forward. “What kind of questions?”

  Cullen didn’t answer. He looked at Victor. “What was your relationship with your brother like?”

  Victor said, “Why are you asking this?”

  “Jeez,” Cullen griped, “this isn’t gonna work if all of us are doing the asking and no one’s doing any answering.”

  “I think it’s a reasonable request,” Victor said. “What does my relationship with Pierre have to do with his murder? I was in Paris when he was killed.”

  “Now, don’t go getting all worked up. No one’s accusing you of anything. I’m just following up on new information.”

  I said, “New information, huh? I assume it involves Victor?” I turned to Swing’s brother. “Just so you know, you don’t have to—”

  “I know,” he said, “I don’t have to say anything. I’ve watched plenty of American cop shows.” He turned to Cullen and patiently waited for him to fill in the blanks.

  An angry flush mottled the detective’s face, but he managed to keep his cool. After a few moments he said, “It seems you and your brother didn’t get along so good.”

  “We got along very well.” Victor’s voice was tight.

  “Not according to his former partner,” Cullen said. “She says he was afraid of you.”

  “What?” I cried. “That’s ridic—”

  Cullen held up a palm. “Miss Delaney, did you ever see the two of them together? Victor and Pierre?”

  “No, of course not, I didn’t meet Victor until after the… after Swing died. But—”

  “Then I’m gonna have to ask you to let me do my job. That okay with you?”

  I flopped back against the sofa with a frustrated sigh. I crossed my arms and did my best not to glare at Cullen.

  “It’s all right, Jane, I don’t mind answering the detective’s questions. Anything that moves this investigation along.” Victor refrained from inserting the phrase “so-called” before “investigation.” Out loud anyway. Turning back to Cullen, he said, “So you spoke with Leonora Romano. What other lies did she tell you?”

 
Cullen puffed himself up. “You calling Ms. Romano a liar?”

  I’m telling you, nothing gets past this crack detective.

  “If she told you Pierre was afraid of me,” Victor said, “then yes, I’m calling her a liar.”

  “The lady worked with your brother every day for years,” Cullen said. “She knew him real good. Maybe better than you.”

  Obviously Cullen was trying to get a rise out of Victor, trying to get him to slip up and blurt something self-incriminating. Sitting next to Victor, I sensed the tension in his body even as he leaned back and slowed his breathing. Good. He had no intention of falling for it.

  “What specifically did Lee say?” he asked.

  “Swing told her that if anything ever happened to him, it would be you that did it.” Cullen gesticulated with his pen. “He said you threatened to kill him.”

  “Preposterous.”

  “Really?” The detective wore a nasty, cream-lapping smile. “Ms. Romano witnessed the whole thing. The fight you two had in the kitchen there at that restaurant she used to own. She says some of her employees saw it too.” He flipped through previous notes. “Hummingbird, that’s the name of the place.”

  Victor became very still. I looked at him, at his frigid features, and shivered. Yeah, I knew I wasn’t going to like this next part, whatever it was.

  “Brothers have disagreements,” Victor said. “This happens in all families.”

  “Yeah? A guy sleeping with his brother’s wife?” Cullen said. “Is that the kind of disagreement that happens in all families?”

  Whoa, what?

  Angry spots of color marred Victor’s handsome face. “Emmie was not my wife at the time. We were divorced.”

  “Just barely.” More page flipping as Cullen located the pertinent note. “Ten months. Ink was still wet on the divorce papers.”

  I recalled Victor telling me he and Emmie had struggled from the beginning to make their marriage work. They hadn’t been suited, according to him.

  “Hey, I don’t blame you for losing it like you did.” Cullen spread his hands. “I got an ex, too, and I got a brother. If Ralphie pulled something like that, I’d want to take him apart limb from limb.”

  “It was a long time ago,” Victor said. “Seven years.”

  “Six.” Cullen tapped his notebook. “It was six years ago that your wife flew to New York on vacation. Seems that while she was over here, taking in the sights, her and your brother got it on.”

  “My ex-wife. She told me about it herself. Pierre invited her to his place for dinner. They had too much to drink and…” Victor tossed his hand to indicate the rest. “She felt awkward about it and didn’t want me to have to find out from him.”

  Cullen chuckled. “Yeah, I bet she felt awkward. What did she expect, that you’d pat her on the head and say—” he adopted an insultingly over-the-top French accent “—‘Think nothing of it, ma chère, we are French, after all!’”

  Sexy Beast’s head jerked up, making me wonder what was going on in that wee brain of his: Nous sommes français?

  “Me and your wife had a cozy little chat today,” Cullen continued. “Nice lady. Speaks English almost as good as you. She says when you found out, you were spittin’ nails. You know that expression? It means—”

  “You’re inflating the incident out of proportion,” Victor said. “It was a long time ago, as I said, and we all got over it.”

  “Maybe they got over it. You were mad enough to hop a flight to New York and storm into Hummingbird and threaten your brother with a knife.” Cullen added, “One of his own cooking knives.”

  My stomach executed a slow roll.

  “This part is not true,” Victor said. “I was angry, yes, more with Pierre than with Emmie. I flew to New York, yes. I confronted him, yes. But there was no knife.”

  “That’s not how Ms. Romano remembers it,” Cullen said.

  “As you say, there were others present,” Victor pointed out. “I defy you to find anyone else who claims I picked up a knife.”

  “Being in a highly emotional state and all,” the detective said, “it’s possible you forgot about the knife.”

  “There was no knife.”

  Cullen held up a placating hand. “Okay, we’ll get back to the knife. You don’t deny you threatened to kill him, though.”

  Victor hesitated. “This is what people say when they’re angry. It meant nothing.”

  “So, what, you and your brother have this big blow-up, then you go home and forget all about it? Like whew, glad I got that out of my system, I feel all better now.”

  “It took time, but eventually we got past it.”

  “You trying to tell me you haven’t been carrying around a grudge for six years?” Cullen said. “I mean, come on, your wife and your brother? What kind of man wouldn’t want to get even?”

  When Victor failed to rise to the bait, Cullen scratched his jaw in perplexity. “I don’t know, I guess guys are different where you come from. I guess we’re not as sophisticated over here.”

  Real smooth, Detective. Through a heroic effort of will I avoided rolling my eyes. Okay, maybe I rolled them a little.

  “The fact remains,” Victor said, “I was in Paris when my brother was murdered.”

  “You ever hear of hit men? You must have those in France, too, right? You hire a guy to do the deed?”

  “I know what a hit man is,” Victor said. “I would assume a hired killer would bring his own weapon. A gun in most cases. The man who killed my brother used one of Pierre’s own cooking knives. Let me ask you as the expert in such things. Is this not odd behavior for a hit man?”

  “Nothing surprises me anymore.” Cullen gave an elaborate shrug to indicate how jaded he’d become after so many years of tracking down dastardly killers. Meanwhile I strongly suspected this was his very first murder case.

  The good news? Cullen was no longer concentrating solely on Dom. The bad news? He’d targeted another blatantly innocent person. I mean, Victor couldn’t possibly have murdered his brother. This man had spent the past nine days living in my home, breaking bread with me, sleeping right down the hall from me. I’d know if he was a coldblooded killer.

  A memory swooped in then. Victor’s second night at my house, after I’d taken him to view his brother’s body. I’d awoken in the middle of the night thirsty—we’d had pizza with anchovies for dinner—and was headed downstairs for some orange soda, my bare feet silent on the carpeted stairs. Halfway down, I glanced into the dining room and spied him sitting there, illuminated only by moonlight.

  Had I ever seen anyone look so anguished? So bereft? I felt his soundless sobs as a stabbing pain in my own chest. Quietly I turned and made my way back to my room, unwilling to intrude on his private grief.

  Because that’s what I’d been witnessing, right? Simple grief for a murdered brother. Not something else. Not something more complicated involving guilt or regret.

  “The timing seems off, no?” Victor asked. “This argument I had with Pierre, it took place six years ago. If I was angry enough to murder him, why would I wait all that time?”

  “I have an answer for that,” Cullen said.

  “I thought you might.”

  “Your brother wasn’t so famous back then. Or rich. All that came later, especially the last few years when he had his own restaurant and was on TV all the time.”

  “So it was greed?” Victor asked. “My motive for killing Pierre?”

  “The guy was worth plenty,” Cullen said. “He died a wealthy man. I mean, you probably do okay, you’re what, an architect? So a professional, but still, a working stiff. Nine to five, am I right?”

  When Victor refrained from answering, Cullen charged right ahead. “Plus you had to be jealous—it’s only natural. I’m not just talking about the money here. Swing Dewatre was a bona fide celebrity. The mayor of New York bragged about being pals with him. And the women?” He wagged his hand. “From what I hear, he had his pick of the models, the actresses... N
ow, I’m not saying you’re a slouch in that department, you’re a good-looking guy and all, but come on. We’re talking hot and cold running—” he shot me a quick look “—female companionship.”

  “My brother was engaged to be married,” Victor said.

  “Huh? Oh. Yeah, I know,” Cullen said. “Chloe Sleeper’s one of the first people I talked to, on account of she tried to call him around the time he got killed. What’s your point?”

  “You speak of all the women,” Victor said. “I’m just setting the record straight. That was in the past.”

  Cullen wore a smarmy little smile. “What, because he was getting married?”

  “That was not Pierre’s way. Yes, he loved women and they loved him. But over the years he has had several serious girlfriends, and I can tell you that he never betrayed any of them. He had too much honor for that.”

  “Or maybe he was just careful not to get caught,” Cullen said. “Or maybe, once he was rich and famous and women were falling all over him, maybe all that ‘honor’ kinda lost its appeal. I mean, how well did you really know him? You guys lived on different continents.”

  “He wasn’t like that,” Victor insisted.

  Yeah, well. It was nice that he had so much respect for his dead brother and all, but seriously? Swing had had an active and varied sex life right up until the end, including trying to seduce my buddy Maia Armstrong a few days before he died. That’s just fact. As much as I hated to agree with Paul Cullen about anything, I had to give him this one.

  Someone needed to clue Victor in, and I wasn’t about to volunteer for the job.

  There was something else, however, I couldn’t keep quiet about. I said, “Detective, you must know that Leonora Romano had it in for Swing ever since they parted ways three years ago.”

  “I know what you’re getting at, but Swing was killed by a man.” He held up a palm. “Don’t ask how I know.”

  “I don’t have to. I’m the one who found him, remember?”

  As I waited for the genius to figure it out, I thought again about Tucker and his long feet. Tucker, who was passionately in love with Kari Faso and convinced that Chef Pierre Dewatre had been taking advantage of her youthful infatuation.