Zero Dark Chocolate (A Miranda and Parker Mystery Book 5)

by Linsey Lanier

  “Very well, Chef Emile. What do you mean your niece wants her job back?”

  The chef raised his hands in a gesture of sheer helplessness. “We had une chamaillerie. A dispute. A falling out.”

  Miranda didn’t like that answer. “What kind of falling out?”

  “It is a long story.”

  Parker strolled around to his chair, sat with a deceptively casual air. “We have all the time in the world, chef.”

  The chef put a hand to his face, his lips twisting with emotion as he pulled his thoughts together. “Odette was my sister’s daughter,” he said at last.

  “Was?” Fanuzzi asked.

  “She passed away when Odette was a child.” The chef’s eyes took on a cloudy look. “My dear, beautiful Simone. She was a dancer. A lovely, talented dancer. But one day she suffered an accident and could no longer work. Not as a dancer. She fell into a deep depression and eventually…ended her own life. She was just thirty.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Fanuzzi murmured.

  He paused for a long moment as if reliving the memory. “So I took her only child and raised her as my own.”

  “Where was the father?” Parker asked.

  Chef Emile shook his head in disgust. “He left Simone when Odette was only six. A penniless, shiftless artist who could not sell his paintings. He took advantage of Simone and when she said ‘no more,’ he packed his bags and left.”

  “How sad,” Fanuzzi said.

  Miranda’s father had left when she was little. She knew how that felt. But even that didn’t give her much sympathy for the woman who was playing with Becker’s life.

  Chef Emile shifted in his chair and continued. “Odette was raised in the restaurant. The world of haute cuisine. I taught her everything and she had a talent for it. At ten she could make the best béchamel I have ever tasted.”

  Fanuzzi’s face took on a look of infatuation. “That’s amazing,”

  Miranda cleared her throat. “I appreciate the walk down Memory Lane, Chef Emile. But what has this got to do with my friend’s husband?”

  The chef’s brow creased with guilt. “Odette became as passionate about food as I am. She worked relentlessly in the restaurant. She progressed in her responsibilities. But while her dishes were impeccable, I am afraid she was not very good with people. Four months ago I made her my sous-chef. Second in command of the kitchen at Chez Amando.”

  Miranda folded her arms. “And?”

  “She could not handle the pressure. No one could live up to her exceptations. Of course we have high standards, but she went far beyond them. She micromanaged the staff, screamed at them if they could not get everything exactement. Three people quit on the same day.”

  Sounded like a real bitch. “Okay. So?”

  “So last week I fired her.” He closed his eyes dramatically. “I only wanted her to learn about the real world. Kick her out of the nest, as they say. I thought she would land on her feet, find her own place. A small boulangerie or patisserie, perhaps. If she had to run her own establishment, she would learn she could not treat people so badly and stay in business.”

  Fanuzzi’s eyes grew round as the chef’s story clicked. “You mean she kidnapped my Dave to make you give her her job back?”

  The chef lifted both hands. “That is how it seems to me.”

  “But she doesn’t even know me. Or Dave.”

  The chef’s expression turned guilty again. “Ah, but she knows when I teach, I often take a liking to one of the students. Someone who shows a special gift.”

  “Me?” Fanuzzi blinked at the chef in the dumbstruck way she used to at Parker when she first met him.

  “Oui. You, Madame Joan.” He smiled at her sadly. Then he muttered to himself, “Foolish, foolish girl.”

  Miranda didn’t like the way this was going at all. And from the scowl on his face neither did Parker. How could this Odette have known Fanuzzi was a favorite if she and her uncle were on the outs?

  “Chef Emile,” Parker said, “you can’t expect us to believe—”

  “Wait.” Fanuzzi’s hand shot up, her eyes suddenly bright. “Chef, can’t you just call Odette and straighten this out?”

  The chef’s face went through a range of emotions as he considered the idea. Finally he shook his head. “I am not sure she would speak to me. She is very angry.”

  And maybe a little crazy, too. Which made her dangerous.

  “Oh, Chef. Can’t you at least try to contact her?”

  “It appears your niece has gotten herself into trouble,” Parker added with just a hint of threat in his voice.

  Distress and sympathy for Fanuzzi in his pale blue eyes, Chef Emile nodded. “Of course, you are right. I do not know what she was thinking.” He reached into the pocket of his slacks and pulled out a cell phone.

  He pressed a number.

  They waited as the phone connected. Then it started to ring. And ring. And ring. And ring.

  The hollow sound bounced off the fancy paintings on the walls and hung in the air. The call didn’t even go to voice mail.

  There was a knock on the door.

  Chef Emile disconnected with a sad groan. “Oui?”

  The door opened and the young man from the marketplace Miranda had pegged as the assistant popped his head in.

  He’d changed into a double-breasted chef’s jacket with two rows of white buttons down the front and the school’s insignia over the heart, a short matching cap on his head. The white uniform contrasted with his dark skin and hair.

  His dark eyes had a fearful look as he bowed his head to address his boss. “Chef, I am so sorry to interrupt, but the students, they are waiting for you to demonstrate the Tarte au Citron.”

  Chef Emile rose, looking pained. “Oui, oui. With the blueberry garnish. Tell them I will be there tout de suite, Henri.” He turned to his “guests.” “I apologize. You must excuse me.”

  “What about Dave? And your niece?” Fanuzzi sounded ready to cry again.

  Chef Emile gave Fanuzzi a look of deep sympathy mixed with helplessness. “I am so sorry about your husband. But I do not know what else to do.”

  “Maybe we should try the police,” Miranda suggested.

  They’d hit Parker’s friend at French Intelligence before they did that, but maybe the idea would spur the chef into action.

  Chef Emile’s expression turned to fright. He didn’t want his niece to go to jail. But it was obvious he didn’t want to deal with her either. As much as he liked Fanuzzi, he didn’t want to deal with any of this.

  “I will continue to try to contact Odette,” he said. “I will let you know if I hear from her.”

  “Chef Emile.” Parker strode over to where the assistant still stood, as if to block the chef’s path. “You said Joan could join your class again. Would today be permissible?”

  From her fancy chair Fanuzzi stared up at Parker open mouthed.

  Chef Emile smiled down at his prize student, kindness beaming from his long features. “Bien sûr. She is most welcome to join us. Are you up to it, Madame Joan?”

  Before she could speak Parker moved to her side, leaned down to whisper to her. “I have an idea. Trust me.”

  She nodded. “Sure. Yeah. I’d love to learn to make that tart.”

  “Very well then. S’il vous plait.” And the chef gestured gallantly toward the door.

  Looking bewildered, Fanuzzi got up and stepped into the hall.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “You think there’s more to this than a disgruntled employee-slash-niece, don’t you?”

  Thoroughly frustrated Miranda stood next to Parker on the street outside Le Gastronomique Divine building where they’d left Fanuzzi and the cooking class.

  A warm breeze teasing his salt-and-pepper hair Parker nodded grimly, his gaze narrow as he searched for a cab in the noisy traffic.

  No way a woman, even a strong woman could kidnap Becker. Not on her own. She’d need help. Which made this more than just a family feud that could be sett
led with few talks over the phone. “And you didn’t want to take Fanuzzi along to see your friend at French Intelligence.”

  After a long pause Parker decided to speak. “It would only upset her further. Let her do something she loves, take her mind off the situation for a while.”

  “While we do the dirty work?” She gave him a half smirk.

  He didn’t reply.

  The coldness cut straight through her heart. “Look, Parker,” she said. “I know you’re mad at me about something. But can we set it aside until we get Becker back?”

  He turned to her and she tried to read the expression in his gorgeous gray eyes as he studied her with that penetrating look of his. There was indignation in his face. She’d just insinuated he wasn’t behaving professionally, after all. But there was something more. Worry, she decided. Like he always worried about her when they were on a case. Though this felt deeper somehow.

  Her stomach tensed. Did he know about the messages on her old cell phone Becker was supposed to track down? Did he think they had something to do with what had happened to Becker?

  She opened her mouth, about to confess all when a shout came from down the street.

  “Monsieur! Madame!”

  Miranda spun around to see Chef Emile’s assistant racing toward them, still in his white kitchen outfit.

  “Is Fanuzzi okay?” she blurted out.

  “Who?” he said catching up to them.

  “Joan,” Parker amended. “Chef Emile’s student who was with us.”

  What had the chef called him? Henri.

  Nodding Henri put a hand to his heart to catch his breath. “Mai oui. Madame Joan, she is fine. She is watching the chef’s demonstration.”

  “The lemon tart,” Parker said dryly.

  “Oui. The tart.” Henri didn’t catch the sarcasm.

  Miranda was in no mood to stand here and swap recipes. “What do you want?”

  “I—I heard what Chef Emile said to you in his office.” He waved a hand behind him to indicate the building they’d all just come from. “Something about Odette and Madame Joan’s husband?”

  Miranda glanced at Parker. He gave his head a shake.

  “Why do you want to know about that, Henri?” she asked the assistant.

  He seemed surprised she remembered his name. Then his dark cheeks turned a berry color as he looked down as his feet and shuffled them. “It is just—I used to date Odette. I know her very well. We—we used to be engaged. I am worried about her.”

  Now that was interesting.

  Parker folded his arms. “Do you know what happened between Odette and her uncle?”

  Henri rolled his eyes as if disgusted with himself. “Oui. She came to see me that day. The day the chef fired her. She has a bad temper. I have seen it before but I have never seen her so angry as that day. She swore she would get even with her uncle. I tried to calm her down. I tried to remind her how much he had done for her, how much he loves her. But she would not listen.”

  Miranda ran her tongue over her teeth. “Did she make any threats?”

  “Non. No threats. But she left as angry as when she came. I thought, give it a few days, maybe a week. She will calm down and they will get back together. They have had arguments before. But Chef Emile never went so far as to fire her before. And then I saw her again, I knew they would not reconcile this time.”

  Parker’s face went dark. “When did you see her the second time?”

  “Last week. She called and told me to meet her at Joyeux. It is a brasserie, a bar, in the Latin Quarter we used to go to. I thought she might be having a change of heart. Perhaps she wanted to get back together with her uncle. Or with me. But no.”

  The sadness in his dark eyes was heart-breaking. He really loved the hot-tempered bitch.

  “What did she want?” Miranda asked.

  He closed his eyes and shook his head as if he didn’t want to see the memory. “She was so angry. She wanted to know who her uncle’s favori was this time. His pet.”

  Neck muscles tensing, Miranda glanced at Parker. “What did you tell her?”

  He lifted his palms in surrender. “I told her the truth. It was Madame Joan. Chef Emile thinks she has great potential. I could see the fury in Odette’s eyes. She hates how her uncle dotes on his students. She is the jealous type.”

  No kidding.

  Parker reached for the young man’s arm. “Did you tell her anything personal about Joan? Where she’s staying, for example?”

  He shook his head. “Non, non. I would not do that. But it would be easy for someone to follow her when she got out of class.”

  Straight to her hotel. And watch her come out with Becker a little later to go out on the town.

  Parker studied the young man a long moment, his jaw tight. “Do you happen to have a picture of Odette?”

  “Oh, oui. From when we were together.” He took out his cell and swiped as his mouth turned down. “We broke up two months ago. She told me she was restless.” He shrugged as he held out the phone. “She was tired of me and my boring little life, I suppose.”

  Miranda dared to touch Parker’s arm and they peered down at the image together.

  Pretty. Sharp features, thin lips. Expressive black brows, dark eyes, long black hair falling silkily over a pair of thin shoulders. She had on a plain gray T-shirt and was smiling. But there was sadness in her smile, longing in her large dark eyes. A discontent.

  Parker handed the cell back to the young man. “Could you send me a copy of this photo? And her address?”

  He wasn’t beating around the bush. Miranda was glad.

  The young man looked as if he wanted to run away. “Is Odette in trouble?”

  “We don’t know yet.”

  Henri looked as if he might hyperventilate. “She is a good person. She has her flaws but she is truly a good person.”

  “Henri,” Parker said. “Odette might have kidnapped Madame Joan’s husband.”

  “Non, non, non. This cannot be. She would not do such a thing.”

  Parker’s face took on his stern fatherly look. “Henri, my wife and I are private investigators from the United States. Joan called us because her husband is missing. This is a very serious thing Odette is involved in.”

  Miranda noted he avoided the word “crime.” Poor Henri might have completely freaked out if he hadn’t.

  The young assistant’s head swung back and forth in vehement denial. “Non, non, non. Not my Odette. Oh, mon chéri. What have you done? What have you done?” Suddenly he froze, his eyes as wide as if he’d seen a ghost. “Now it makes sense.”

  Miranda grabbed his other arm, wanting to shake him. “What makes sense?”

  “When I left Joyeux that night I asked Odette to come home with me. I do not know why I got my hopes up. I suppose I thought I could save her from herself. And I failed.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “She told me non. She told me to go on home like I was a little boy. She was meeting someone else.” He shrugged again. “I thought she wanted to hurt me, take her anger out on me, since she could not hurt her uncle. But when I left I looked back at her table and saw a man slide into the booth next to her. I thought it was a date.”

  Parker reached for his phone and swiped to a photo. Miranda knew it was the one they’d gotten from the store clerk last night of Dave and the two men outside the department store.

  “Do you recognize any of these men?”

  Henri stared at the picture a long time. “Not the one in the olive shirt.”

  “We believe that’s Madame Joan’s husband.”

  “What about this guy?” Miranda pointed to the big dude with the poison green tattoos leaning against the truck.

  Henri frowned, shook his head. Then he pointed a finger. “This one. The one next to the man in the olive shirt.” He indicated the tall man with the bird’s beak of a nose. “I think that was him. The one who sat down next to Odette.”

  Chapter Sixteen

 
Miranda’s stomach was as knotted as a fancy brioche while she bumped along in the back of the taxi and stared out at the choppy blue-green waves of the Seine. Then it was through a tunnel lined with billboards to a modern six-lane highway that took them all the way to the opposite side of the city—where French Intelligence was located.

  The whole way there Parker didn’t say a word.

  They’d gotten the picture of Odette and her address from the rattled ex-fiancé and left him with a promise to keep all this to himself and to call if Odette contacted him. Miranda didn’t think she would. So the next step in Parker’s plan was the promised trip to his spy friend.

  But as they drove through another quaint neighborhood and turned down a side street, what she saw gave her a start.

  Was this it?

  The building looked like a prison.

  High cement walls, iron bars over the windows, long stretches of something akin to barbed wire atop the walls. At the entrance a pair of unassuming doors sat between two tall buildings.

  Parker ordered the cabbie up the drive, though he blabbered away in protest, Miranda assumed.

  A guard in a dark suit stopped them at the gate and peered in at them.

  Parker opened a window and began explaining why they were here in French.

  The guard shook his head and countered back with more French, too fast for Miranda to understand. Not that she could get much past bonjour.

  It took several long minutes, but apparently Parker’s persuasive skills translated into foreign languages. The guard opened the door of the cab and gestured for them to get out.

  On the other hand, maybe they were being arrested.

  Parker paid the driver and he backed up and got out of there as fast as his vehicle would let him.

  Then the guard signaled for the gate to be opened and led them inside.

  ###

  It was a creepy place.

  Long dark corridors with no windows in sight, yellowed paint on the walls, old fashioned checkerboard tiles on the floor that badly needed waxing. Twenty-year-old globe lights on the ceiling.

  The guard rode them up a creaky elevator to a third floor and led them down another passageway that looked the same as the others.