French Twist

by James Patterson

  Yes, we remain nervous. We are still anxious. But it is so much better to be nervous and anxious with a winning horse.

  But not only does he win, he wins decisively. We all go nuts, and for the second time in two weeks, we are celebrating like crazy people.

  The Savatiers are ecstatic, but it is also clear to me that both of them are anxious. Marguerite’s hands tremble. Her head keeps turning back and forth. Officials (including Kwame Clarke) arrive quickly to lead the couple to the presentation circle.

  “My friends must come with us,” Marguerite says to Detective Clarke.

  “No, no,” I say. “You will be well cared for, and Detective Burke and I will be standing nearby.”

  Burke leans into me.

  “Moncrief, she’s shaking. She’s a nervous mess. What difference does it make? Let’s go with them.”

  Burke’s logic is impeccable, of course.

  “Very well,” I say. Marguerite Savatier turns to Burke: “You, Mademoiselle Burke, are a very fine influence on our Luc.” Hmmm. I could swear there was a flash of romantic mischief in Marguerite’s eyes.

  So we join the owners. Then, a few moments later, the four of us join the triumphant horse and the smiling jockey. Garçon is covered in a huge blanket of yellow flowers.

  “Those are Viking poms. They’re meant to look like Black-Eyed Susans, the official state flower of Maryland,” Burke says to me.

  “Is there anything you do not know, K. Burke?” I ask.

  “Well, I don’t know how much money we won on that race,” she says with a twinkle in her eye. Then we both turn our attention to the trophy presentation, as well as the presentation of a large bouquet of Black-Eyed Susans to Madame Savatier. The old woman smiles for the cameras. Applause. Smiles. The thousands of click-click-click from cameras.

  I feel a buzz from my cell phone. I try looking at the screen as discreetly as possible. A message from Inspector Elliott.

  Where the hell r u 2?

  I text back. See u soon.

  He texts back. WTF?

  I slip the phone back into my pocket.

  The speeches from corporate sponsors and the governor of Maryland are mercifully short. Then we stand at attention—for the third time—and listen to yet another rendition of “Maryland, My Maryland.”

  Chapter 23

  The moment Burke and I break from our group and head to the after-party she says, “That message you got was from Elliott, wasn’t it?”

  “Indeed it was. He asked about our whereabouts. I told him that we would be in touch soon. Not to worry,” I say.

  “We should get back up to New York now,” she says.

  “In due time, K. Burke. For the moment, a celebration.”

  The party in the Pimlico Club room is lavish, even more so than the post-race party in Louisville. Instead of mint juleps, Pimlico serves a cocktail called the Black-Eyed Susan.

  “I think they put every fruit juice in the world in this drink,” says K. Burke.

  I ask a nearby waiter what goes into this concoction. He practically quotes Burke: “Any fruit juice you can name—orange, pineapple, lime. Then a lot of vodka and a little bourbon.”

  Burke and I each put down a few drinks. Indeed, will Burke and I ever find a race-party cocktail that we do not like?

  It should be a festive day. Garçon has won. The party is noisy and happy and fun. Instead of Louisville’s tiny hush puppy hors d’oeuvres, we are served miniature crab cakes. The crowd is elegant. The music is loud. The DJ plays Randy Newman and Bruce Springsteen and Lyle Lovett and even Counting Crows. And every song is—amazingly—a song about Baltimore.

  I pull out my phone and pull up my favorite horse-racing blog. I have to yell to be heard over the music and celebration, but I read this part to K. Burke:

  “As a Frenchman loves champagne, so does Preakness favorite Vilain Garçon love mud. Yes, Vilain Garçon easily grabbed hold of step two in his bid for the Triple Crown. This extraordinary steed, owned by a charming elderly French couple, Marguerite and Nicolas (no “h,” s’il vous plait), and ridden by the until-now unknown jockey, Armand Joscoe, won the Preakness decisively this afternoon. Not by a nose, but by a full length. The rain-drenched crowd is reacting with wild shouts. As for this reporter, I will suggest to the Savatiers that, when the Belmont Stakes comes along, that they pray for rain. If their prayers are answered, then the Triple Crown is certain.”

  Burke pretends to listen, but she’s chewing on the orange peel from her cocktail. As always, however, she is on the job.

  “Shall we check in with your buddy Kwame and the Baltimore PD?” she asks.

  “Certainly. If you ever finish your orange peel,” I say. She makes a face and puts the peel back in the glass. Then we both walk to the entrance archway where Kwame Clarke and two men in gray suits are standing, bodyguards for the Savatiers. The cut of their boxy suits immediately tells me that these are two officers.

  Introductions all around.

  “Aha, now I finally meet the extraordinary K. Burke,” says Kwame Clarke.

  Burke nods her head in my direction and says to Clarke, “You didn’t hear that word ‘extraordinary’ about me from Moncrief, I’m sure.”

  Smiles all around.

  K. Burke and Kwame Clarke shake hands. Perhaps an usually long handshake, I think.

  It occurs to me that Burke and Clarke have noticed…how to put this?…how good-looking the other is.

  Why does this annoy me?

  Clarke introduces me to the officers—Vinnie Masucci and Olan Washington. They explain that they are eyeballing everybody who comes in.

  “If the name’s not on the invite list, they’re not at the party,” says Masucci.

  We discuss the rain, of course. The weather and the triumphant Garçon are the subjects of the day. Then Clarke says that he and his “guys” are going to check out the kitchen once more.

  “We can hang here,” K. Burke volunteers.

  And we do. We even have a serious discussion concerning the merits of crab cakes versus hush puppies. Then K. Burke, who must have been reading Horse Racing for Dummies, lectures me on the wonders of American Pharoah, the most recent horse to win the Triple Crown.

  K. Burke ends her lecture abruptly and says, “I’m worried, Moncrief.”

  I shrug and say, “We have done all we can. They have put ten plainclothesmen at the stables after the training horse was killed. They put thirty officers in the crowd today, two of them directly behind the Savatiers and us. They randomly tested all the food. They did backgrounds on the caterers, waiters, band…”

  “Moncrief!” K. Burke says. “Over there.”

  She points to two young men walking toward us, wearing jeans and yellow rain slickers, carrying either side of a huge arrangement of roses. Holy shit! The floral display is identical to the arrangement Marguerite Savatier received at the Kentucky Derby.

  “Where’d these roses come from?” asks K. Burke.

  “I don’t know. Some kid, a teenager, dropped ’em off. Matt and I were just working out there, parking cars, trying to stay dry. Then this kid shows up in this shitty old van. He gives us each twenty bucks and tells us to bring it inside to the party. He says they’re for some old lady.”

  He then pulls a small gift card from his pocket and hands the envelope to Burke who then passes it to me.

  The roses are, of course, for Marguerite.

  “You know where the old lady is?” says the guy who’s helped carry in the floral arrangement.

  “Yeah, we do,” I say. “We’ll make sure she gets them.”

  Chapter 24

  Back in New York, at the Midtown East precinct, K. Burke and I receive an exceptionally warm welcome from our boss, Inspector Nick Elliott.

  “Where the hell on Christ’s green earth have you two lovebirds been?”

  K. Burke now makes a huge mistake. She talks.

  “Excuse me, Inspector Elliott. I just want to make it clear that Luc Moncrief and I are not—in any w
ay, shape, or form—involved in a romantic or…”

  Elliott interrupts.

  “Thank you, Detective Burke. Your private life is your business.”

  K. Burke won’t let go of it. Bad idea. She tries once more.

  “This is the truth. Moncrief and I have never…”

  Now Elliott interrupts loudly. No one is going to interrupt him again. He’s moved back to the work discussion.

  “As I was saying. Take a look at this. It’s a surveillance video of a drug dealer in Central Park.”

  This time I speak.

  “Inspector, forgive my rudeness, but finding a drug dealer in Central Park is as common as finding a blade of grass in Central Park.”

  “I don’t disagree, Moncrief, but just take a look.” Then he adds, “And do it quietly.” By now both K. Burke and I have annoyed him.

  Elliott motions to us with his finger from his desk chair. Burke and I move behind him and lean into the computer screen.

  The black-and-white picture portrays—in muddy shades of light and dark gray—what looks like clouds. Eventually, as the scene comes into focus, everything is more easily identifiable as an unkempt area of trees and weeds and stone boulders.

  “It looks like Sherwood Forest,” Burke says. “Is it the Ramble?”

  The Ramble is a wooded area of Central Park totally un-manicured and un-landscaped.

  “Yup. During the day you see bird-watchers with their binoculars and notepads,” says Elliott. Then, “At night it turns into a kind of playground for gay guys.”

  “I have been to this area. To the Ramble,” I say.

  Elliott looks up at me, slightly startled. Burke turns her head and looks at me. Also slightly startled.

  “No. I am not a bird-watcher. But when I began working for you, Inspector, you may recall, my first assignment was searching for criminals who stole bicycles. For three weeks myself and Maria Martinez spent two days at the Bethesda Fountain, two days in the Sheep Meadow, and two days in the Ramble, all in pursuit of bicycle thieves.”

  “And as I remember, you and your partner didn’t catch one goddamn bike thief,” says Elliott.

  “Ah, but I learned a great deal about the geography. Right now, in this video I can tell you the scene is located precisely between Harkness House on the East Side and the Museum of Natural History on the West Side.”

  “Great. Keep watching,” says Elliott.

  The camera suddenly makes a sharp downward turn. We zoom in for a medium close-up to record who is standing on the stone pathway that rambles through the Ramble.

  Burke and I study the screen. It now shows a fairly sharp image—for a police surveillance video: a teenage boy. Tall, thin, with a great deal of blond hair. Perhaps he is seventeen.

  “New York City rich kid,” K. Burke says. “A common species.”

  She is correct. He wears a blue blazer with an indecipherable gold insignia on the front pocket. A white button-down shirt of the Brooks Brothers variety. Striped blue-and-yellow silk tie in a thin sloppy knot. Gray pants.

  “In fact,” she continues thoughtfully, “didn’t we see one of those recently?”

  I am distracted. “His rucksack is bursting,” I say.

  “Speak English, Moncrief,” says Elliott. “What the hell is a rucksack?”

  Burke cuts in again. “At Miss Tweddle’s. Didn’t we see…”

  She trails off as two similarly dressed teenage boys approach. The blond boy reaches into his…backpack…and hands each of them a plastic bag.

  “No exchange of money,” says Burke. “Maybe the next customer.”

  “I think his clientele pay in advance or put it on the tab,” says Elliott.

  “The latter—the tab—that is the way the rich do it,” I say.

  No sooner has Burke predicted a ‘next customer’ than a pretty—and very curvy—brunette woman, maybe thirty years old, in athletic clothes approaches. Again, the blond boy reaches into his satchel and hands over a small plastic bag. And again no money is seen.

  “This is why I called you to look at this,” says Elliott. “Do you recognize that woman?”

  “Oh, my God,” says Burke. “The Monahans’ nanny.”

  “Mrs. Meade-Grafton!” I remember her unsettling laughter.

  “One of the officers who was at the Monahan apartment happened to be on this as well. Lucky stroke for us. Especially while you two are gallivanting around,” Elliott says, with insinuation.

  Burke’s face is very red, but she lets it pass. “What I was going to say is that we saw two boys wearing blazers and gray pants exiting the elevator when we entered Miss Tweddle’s building.”

  “Very good, Burke!” I exclaim. “I had forgotten. Your sartorial eye is getting better every day.”

  I do not think I deserve her glare.

  We watch more transactions. Most of the buyers are young. Most of them are white. The entire video will continue for twelve minutes before the blond boy leaves the frame.

  “We had no trouble identifying the teen pusher. He’s been booked before, petty thievery once. Ready for this? He and his girlfriend bolted a bill at Daniel. The most expensive restaurant in the city. Plainclothes caught them two blocks away on Fifth Avenue.”

  “Beware the couple who attend the restroom at the same time,” I say.

  Elliott smiles slightly and recites the rest of the rap sheet: Weed outside a dance club on 28th Street. Assault of another student at a school basketball game.

  “And no arrests that stuck?” Burke says.

  “No. The kid’s name is Reed Minton Reynolds. His father, Bill Reynolds, is that big deal weight-loss specialist, and, if you want, he’ll give you a side order of plastic surgery. I’ve met him twice—actually a nice guy. Full disclosure, he’s also responsible for 50 percent of the funding for the Police Athletic League.”

  “And 50 percent of the facelifts and breast augmentations in Manhattan,” K. Burke says.

  I can’t resist. I turn and say, “You sound like you know something about these procedures, K. Burke.”

  Elliott shoots me an angry look.

  “Don’t start.” A pause. Enough time for K. Burke to give a somebody got in trouble kind of smile. Elliott continues.

  “Anyway, this Reed Reynolds kid is about to graduate Dalton, and he’s signed, sealed, and soon-to-be-delivered to Yale. I’d like you two to track him for a day or two or three. Stay close to him. I want you to see where he goes, if he works anywhere else in the park. Do a ‘smother job’ on him. I’m not that interested in him, but…I think if we get a good fix on him, we can find out who’s supplying him with his stash.”

  K. Burke gives one of her energetic responses: “Gotcha, Inspector.”

  As we reach Elliott’s office door to leave I cannot resist saying: “Oh, and by the way, Inspector. While we’re in Central Park, I’ll keep my eyes open for any stolen bicycles.”

  “Get the hell out of here, Moncrief.”

  “Gotcha, Inspector.”

  The last word I hear from Elliott’s mouth is simple.

  “Asshole!”

  Chapter 25

  Monday

  3:15 p.m.

  We spent all yesterday afternoon trying to track down this kid, but only saw him as he arrived at home at the end of the day, and never came back out. But we never saw him leave this morning, either, unless he left before dawn, so now K. Burke and I are waiting on the north side of East 89th Street. We watch students straggling out of the Dalton School. Some light cigarettes. Others hold hands. Reed Reynolds doesn’t show.

  “Let’s get over to Central Park. Maybe he cut out of school early,” I say.

  “Or maybe he never went to school today,” says Burke. “I remember my own last few days of high school. Once we got accepted to college or had a job lined up, we didn’t care anymore.”

  We enter the park just south of the Metropolitan Museum. We walk over a wide grassy area where shirtless men and near-shirtless women are sunning themselves. We then make o
ur way down a small dirt pathway that leads us into a large dark wooded area. The Ramble.

  The skunky-sweet smell of weed is in the air. Burke and I quickly locate the general area where Reed Reynolds was recorded distributing drugs. A few people are around—tourists, dog-walkers—but there are others in more secluded corners, kissing and smoking. But it’s the same as the wait at his house this morning and at his school this afternoon—no Reed Reynolds.

  I suggest we walk farther into the woods. It pays off. Thank you, instinct. A slightly swampy overgrown area, a few people, a few pairs of people. And there he is, holding court on a bench, like a little kid running a lemonade stand. We watch, taking care to remain hidden in the trees.

  There he is, smoking cigarettes, an occasional finger snap to the beat of the music coming through his phone. He pauses only when a buyer comes along. Reynolds hands out his little zip-lock bags, his plastic orange bottles of bennies or red balls or good-old reliable speedballs. He’s got a steady flow of customers. He seems to know exactly what they came for. No money changes hands. In about twenty minutes he’s supplied about a dozen people.

  Who are these folks? Your basic mixed bag of New Yorkers: the old, the young, the black, the white. Some are dressed for sleeping on the street. Some are dressed for sleeping at the Carlyle. They’re as varied as the crowd at a Knicks game. People like Mara Monahan and Tessa Fulbright, two of those young women who died, would fit seamlessly into this group.

  “You’re starting to get agitated, Moncrief,” says K. Burke.

  “It is true, K. Burke. I have a great agitation to put handcuffs on this little preppy shithead,” I say.

  “Our job right now is to watch him and follow him. Nothing more. Nothing less.”

  “Oui, maman,” I say.

  Suddenly, K. Burke elbows me.

  “Take a look at that guy with Reynolds now,” she says.

  I look to see a middle-aged man in annoyingly good shape. Sinewy muscles and forearms. He is wearing a ridiculous costume: tight black lycra shorts, a colorful yellow bicycling shirt and a yellow helmet.