Night Watch

by Linda Fairstein

  Then, as though turbocharged with an extra measure of juice, Luc jammed on the brakes, leaned sharply to his left with me hanging on tight, and turned the Ducati a full one-eighty, as on a dime, regaining the shoulder of the highway to continue northbound.

  One of the bikers wiped out completely in an effort to copy Luc’s move. I saw him hit the ground and skid along, trapped beneath the deadweight of the heavy motorcycle, which slammed with him into the base of a tree. The other guy swerved off the ramp to avoid a car coming directly at him. The last time I looked back, he had come to a stop beside his fallen mate, whose screams I could hear over the roar of Luc’s racing engine.

  EIGHT

  Luc must have seen the accident in his rearview mirrors. His whole body, which had stiffened with tension somewhere early along the route, relaxed against me. He took his place in the line of cars—as though it was an ordinary ride—until we reached the next exit, on the far side of Mougins.

  “Stop now,” I said, practically screaming into his helmet as we turned onto the tranquil road a mile north of the village. There were brasseries and small shops and endless places with parking lots in which Luc could have pulled over to explain to me what set him off.

  “Home” was the only word I understood when Luc responded.

  I was sitting upright behind him, distancing myself as far from his body as one could on a motorcycle. It was another five minutes before we finished the circular climb up to the center of town, and Luc nosed the bike down into the alleyway to park it beside the door to his property, right where I had found the stack of bones.

  I ripped the helmet from my head and was off the bike before he had it positioned. “That was insane. That ride was terrifying and unnecessary and totally insane, Luc. Do you see how I’m trembling? Can you make any sense of this to me?”

  I turned away from him and pushed open the heavy door. By the time he’d locked the Ducati and followed me inside, I was sitting on the old stone wall that overlooked the valley. Gaspard, the sloppy basset hound, was cuddled beside me offering solace.

  “Are you all right, Alex?” Luc came up behind me and put his hands on my shoulders. “I apologize for alarming you.”

  “Alarming me? Alarming me would have been telling me you had a hair-raising ride home this afternoon. I wasn’t alarmed, Luc. I thought we were going to die—at your hands or theirs, whoever they were. What have I walked into here? What is it you aren’t telling me about your life?”

  He sat down beside me, much to the dog’s obvious delight, and pulled the band out of my hair, combing his fingers through it, pulling at the blond wisps that had curled up under the heavy helmet.

  I reached for his wire-rimmed glasses and took them off, folding them and putting them in his shirt pocket.

  “I have no explanation for what’s going on, Alex. Only that you’ll have to trust me. You arrived Friday and everything was as calm as the sea was today. It all started in the middle of last night. I don’t know why that is, and I certainly don’t know how to make it stop.”

  “Could it be personal?”

  He took my chin in his hands and made me look at him. “You’re my personal life, Alexandra. You and only you. Do you understand that?”

  “I’m trying to. Does Brigitte?”

  “I don’t think of you as the jealous type.”

  “I’m not.”

  “She was my wife. She’s the mother of my children.”

  “She’s also the reason you fired Lisette Honfleur,” I said. “And Lisette’s dead.”

  “Then let’s try business. I know you don’t think of my work as having the gravitas of yours, darling, but this is serious business in France. Chefs have killed themselves over losing a Michelin star. No reason others wouldn’t kill to get one.”

  “You’ll have to help me with all this,” I said, scratching one of Gaspard’s long ears to avoid making eye contact with Luc. “I know we can’t talk about it at dinner because we’ll have guests.”

  “And right now I’d really like to go see my kids.”

  “Sure. That means tomorrow. I want to understand everything that’s going on with the restaurant here, and what the status is of the plan in New York. Don’t worry,” I said, switching to the other ear. “I’ll feed the dog while you’re gone. But you really do need to tell me about the guys on the motorcycles.”

  Luc stood up, reached for his glasses, and cleaned the lenses with the sleeve of his shirt. “I don’t know who they are.”

  “Why do you think they were chasing you?”

  “Didn’t you notice them?”

  “Before the highway? No, I didn’t.”

  “They were parked directly across the street from the staircase down to L’Ondine. On their bikes, faced out, like they were waiting for someone to appear just as we were leaving. I mean, I didn’t think they were waiting for us, until I pulled out of my space and turned onto La Croisette.”

  “And they came after us?”

  “Immediately. I zigzagged through a couple of the back streets that I don’t usually take—a very indirect route to get back here—and they were along for the ride. I reached the boulevard and they were still behind me. I put on some speed and so did they.”

  “So instead of stopping, instead of pulling over into a gas station where there would be people around, you could have gotten us both killed by driving through the traffic like a maniac.”

  What was unspoken between us was the story that I had told Luc about my first love, Adam Nyman. He had been killed in an accident on the highway driving from the hospital at which he was doing his residency to Martha’s Vineyard, the night before we were to be married at the home we’d just bought. I’d never known whether it was speed or exhaustion or being forced off the road by another car that sent Adam to his death, but I had a lingering fear of losing control on the road.

  “I had a split second to make the decision to accelerate, Alex. I saw something in the man’s hand when the one on the lead bike tried to get on our tail.”

  “Something?” I asked. “Do you know what you saw?”

  “I was looking in the rearview mirror. He pulled a pistol from his jacket so I could see it, then shoved it right back in and charged the bike.”

  “A pistol? You actually saw a gun in his hand?” It was my turn to stiffen and sit upright.

  “Yes, I did,” Luc said. “No mistake about it. And the only thing between the gun and me, Alexandra, was your back.”

  NINE

  It was eight-fifteen when Luc called from his office to ask me to meet him at Le Relais. After brooding for a couple of hours, I showered and changed into a navy-blue sweaterdress with white piping that showed off my newly acquired tan.

  I pulled my suitcase from the back of the closet and—despite my promise to Luc—took out my BlackBerry. I felt too disconnected from events in the office to ignore Mike completely. The phone had gone dead, of course, so I plugged it in to charge during the time we were at dinner.

  I left the house for the short walk to the restaurant, intending to bypass the main entrance and go directly into the bar. I hadn’t counted on the mild night to have attracted a crowd to the outdoor tables on the terrace.

  As I got closer, a woman called out and waved to me. “Alex! Come join us.”

  It was Gretchen Adkins, a Wellesley classmate married to a Parisian, who’d been at the party the night before. I walked to the short hedge that separated the terrace from the cobblestone street and greeted the couple.

  “I can’t sit, Gretchen. I’m late to meet Luc.”

  “He’s got his hands full inside. Just have a drink with us. We’re waiting on another couple.” She was kind and warm, and loved to gossip. It was comforting to see someone from home, and I would have liked to catch up with her, but I learned months ago that Luc had a reason for me not to sit with his clients.

  “They buy you a drink,” he chided me gently one night last fall, “and I end up buying them dinner. People mean well when they in
vite you to sit with them, but when the bill finally comes, most of them figure they deserve something for entertaining you while I was hard at work.”

  “Let’s plan lunch before I leave next week. I’m really running late,” I said. “Did you enjoy Luc’s bash?”

  “Wasn’t it just divine?” Gretchen said. “Of course I paid for that good time today. Wicked hangover, and I didn’t get out of bed until two. The phone rang all day with people dying to know how to get on the list for next year.”

  I blew kisses to her and kept on my way, interested that she hadn’t heard anything about a corpse dressed in white or the scandalous news from New York.

  The bartender must have seen me approaching and alerted Luc, who opened the door and bowed his head to me, taking my hand to kiss it and welcome me inside.

  This was the showmanship that Luc Rouget thrived on. He looked dashing in the crisp white chef’s coat with his name embroidered in green thread that was exactly the same shade as the paint trim in the dining room. He wore clogs as his father had decades earlier, long before Mario Batali popularized them as the celebrity chef footwear of choice. Regulars and first-time diners seemed to watch all his movements, curious to see who he favored and whether any glimpse of his mercurial temper would flash.

  Every table in the bar, except for the four-top in the far corner, was occupied. The crowd was more youthful and hip, on most nights, than the guests interested in the full experience of the haute cuisine served next door.

  Luc escorted me to the table, and I slid into the brown leather banquette against the wall. He called to the bartender, asking for deux coupes, and within seconds there were two glasses of champagne on our table.

  “Are the kids okay?” I asked.

  Luc hovered over me, leaning one arm on the door frame between the rooms, but he had his eyes set on the action in the restaurant. He would lavish most of his attention on the high rollers who were paying through the nose for the hard-to-get reservation.

  “They’re fine. They don’t know anything yet.”

  “And Brigitte?”

  “What’s to say? She hasn’t seen Lisette in years and doesn’t want to be part of any investigation involving her death. She’s taken the boys out of school for two weeks while she goes to Normandy tomorrow, where her mother is.”

  “I take it you’re not happy about that.”

  Luc looked down at me and nodded. “I’d prefer they be here. I’d like to be with them, especially before I head to New York.”

  “I know that,” I said, sensing tension after his meeting with Brigitte. “Did you have an argument with Brigitte? I mean about taking the kids with her.”

  “Brigitte never argues. She’s used to getting her way.”

  She left Luc a few years ago for reasons he had never articulated. He wasn’t over her, and maybe never would be. I expected photographs of his two sons to be all over his home—Luc adored them—but I had no clue why he still kept a picture of Brigitte in the single drawer of the table beside the bed.

  “Have you spoken to Jacques Belgarde?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Not even to tell him about the guy with the gun?”

  Luc glanced at his watch. “Trust me. He’ll be in before the kitchen closes. He’s got a better nose for black truffles than most pigs, and we’re serving some tonight.”

  “Why don’t you sit down with me?” I said, tugging at the sleeve of his jacket. “You look so anxious.”

  “Shortly, darling.”

  The headwaiter crossed the threshold from the dining room. “Monsieur Rouget, the guests at table six would like to see you.”

  “Problem?”

  “Not at all. A little stroking perhaps,” he said with a wink. “They knew your father. I think they just want to reminisce.”

  “Papa’s my lucky charm, Alex. I’m bringing him to New York for the opening. His old customers will come out in droves,” Luc said, the spark returning to his eyes. “This is a world he created, and he’s electric at making it work.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  “As soon as Jim—my wine guru—arrives, I’ll bring him in and we’ll order. Think of something fabulous the kitchen can create for you.”

  My thoughts were everywhere except on the dinner menu. I opened my evening bag and took out the small notebook that I carried everywhere. My list-making habit was almost obsessive, and within minutes I had worked up a full page of questions I wanted to ask Captain Belgarde about Lisette and his findings. I was still jotting down ideas when I heard Luc’s voice, and stuffed the papers away.

  He reentered the bar, followed by a tall, stocky man who looked more like a fullback than a wine merchant. Luc motioned him to the seat beside me, and I slid over to let him in as he put the two bottles of wine he was carrying on the table.

  “Alex, this is Jim Mulroy.”

  “Happy to meet you,” I said.

  “My pleasure. Luc’s talked about you a lot.” He rubbed his palms together and smiled at Luc. “Open these up, will you? I think I’ve found something unusual for New York.”

  While he examined the labels, Luc signaled to the bartender to come over and uncork the bottles. “Bordeaux?”

  “Don’t say it.” Jim held up both hands. “Pretentious, stodgy, dull. Your young customers think it’s old-school and over-branded. Taste this, my friend.”

  “Domaine de Jeuget. Never heard of it.”

  “I don’t know how I got so lucky. Three hundred fifty years this family’s had the vineyards. Just a small estate, Luc. It’s not a château. The old guy who runs it took me down in the cellars. I’m telling you, there are cobwebs on everything except the barrels, and they probably predate Napoléon.”

  Jim sniffed the cork before handing it to Luc.

  “Fresh and alive, isn’t it?” Jim went on. “There are no chemicals, no manipulation. He does it just like his father and grandfather did before him, keeps it in barrels for thirty months. No oakiness, but a nice subtle aeration.”

  Luc poured a bit into a glass. “How much does he produce a year?”

  “Six, maybe seven thousand bottles of St. Julien.”

  I was watching this dance between them and admiring Jim’s enthusiasm. “Is that a lot or a little?”

  “It’s a miniscule output.” Luc laughed at me. “Think of Mouton Rothschild. They put out something like one hundred and seventy thousand bottles of their best wine each year. They’re farming close to three hundred acres.”

  “Versus three acres for Jeuget,” Jim said. “It’s graceful, isn’t it? Smell all those violets that make up the aroma, and the minerals, too.”

  He tilted his glass toward me and I took a whiff. It just smelled like red wine.

  “I get the picture, Jim,” Luc said, explaining to me. “The major importers won’t deal with this, Alex. There isn’t enough product. They can’t buy enough of it to ship to all their clients. They can’t get a bulk price.”

  “Let me order five hundred cases for New York. You can charge anything you want for it, anywhere from one to two hundred bucks a bottle.”

  “What’s the typical restaurant markup on wine?” I asked.

  “Four, maybe five times what we pay for it,” Luc said.

  “Starting up a first-rate place in Manhattan these days, with labels you can’t get anywhere else?” Jim said. “The sky’s the limit. What do you say?”

  “I think you’ve got a point.” Luc was leaning back in his chair, swirling the glass. “Let me talk to my partners.”

  “But fast. This stuff is going to go like lightning. There isn’t much of it, and it’s got soul, Luc.”

  I laughed at Jim’s enthusiasm.

  “This will round out your cellar. It’s what you’re missing—a really profound Bordeaux.”

  “But five hundred cases? I haven’t even opened my doors yet.”

  “What you can’t use, I promise you Ken Aretsky will take off your hands. He’s got the best wine list in the city.”
/>   Ken was a longtime friend of mine—one of Manhattan’s legendary restaurateurs. He owned an upscale midtown eatery called Patroon and had become Luc’s unofficial adviser in navigating the difficult waters of the modern-day business of fine dining.

  “It’s easier for him. I’m doing classic French cuisine, so all my wines have to be from over here. Ken’s got superb American fare—steaks, pork, fish, lobster—so he can draw from the California vineyards just as well. You understand, Alex?”

  “I do now.”

  “So where are we storing all this wine, Jim? Have you figured that out yet?”

  “Solved.”

  “Not some warehouse in the city, is it? Nobody’s got the right conditions.”

  “Try this. It’s subterranean and it’s secure, for starters. Everything a good bottle of wine loves. Dark, no vibrations, and a steady temperature of fifty-five degrees.”

  “How pricey?”

  “If you’ve got more than a hundred cases, it’s only a dollar twenty-five a month per case.”

  Luc looked intrigued. “Hard to believe, Jim. What is it?”

  He reached for his glass. “A 1962 bomb shelter, in the boonies of Connecticut. Vintage Cold War paranoia built by a rich man on his estate. No more boxes of food rations, just lots of great wine. I’ll take you up to see it when you’re over next.”

  Talk of the new business venture had made Luc more vibrant than he’d been since the party last night. He was eager to get started when the headwaiter returned to take our order.

  “You know what you want, darling?”

  “I was thinking about veal.”

  “Forget the menu,” Luc said to me, before addressing the waiter. “Tell the chef Alexandra would like veal, however he wants to prepare it. Something very special, no?”

  “Make it two,” Jim said.

  “And I’ll have a carpaccio of tuna. Salad for all of us,” he said.

  “Monsieur Rouget,” the waiter said, instead of turning away to place the order. “What would you like me to do about table three?”