“Hey, Joey,” he yelled out to one of the others. “Who owns this place?”
He waited for an answer. “It’s not people that’s moving in, lady. It’s a corporation that owns it. I’m not trying to be difficult with you.”
Joey shouted back. “The name’s on your pay stub.”
I walked down the steps behind the guy I was talking to and went inside. The walls had been freshly plastered, and I could smell the coat of paint that had been applied yesterday.
“Look around, lady. Suit yourself.”
The parquet floors had been laid but not finished. That would wait until after the paint job. There were no furnishings at all yet, and the space flowed freely from one area at the front of the house to the next.
“You guys do nice work,” I said. “Do you have a card, in case we need any help?”
“Your workers would throw a fit if we elbowed in on them.”
“You just never know when you need to bring in someone from the outside. I think they’re running way behind schedule.”
The painter reached deep into his back pocket for his wallet and removed a card for me. Then he unrolled a piece of paper—the pay stub of his check—and showed it to me. “That’s who’s gonna be your neighbors.”
I looked at the name: GINEVA IMPORTS. I played with the letters and said it aloud a couple of times, but it didn’t mean anything to me.
“Would you mind if I looked around the basement?” I asked.
“Right over there. Most people want to see the upstairs. They made it a nice space—three bedrooms on the second floor with three baths. Really spiffy. Two on the floor above that.”
“Any lights down here?” I was on the staircase, and the bare bulb shining overhead only got me halfway down the staircase.
“I got a flashlight,” the man said. “Whaddaya want to look at?”
I was flustered and trying to think of an answer. “We’ve got a wine cellar in the basement of the restaurant, and that’s where our sound system will be,” I said, making up the second part. “I’m just wondering where it will abut, because of the noise late at night. I’d hate to cause any trouble after all this construction is done.”
“I wouldn’t give it a second thought, lady. The walls down here are like Fort Knox.”
“How so?”
“We just got in to start the paint job this week,” he said, running his hands over the rough stones that formed an entire length of wall adjacent to the basement of Lutèce. “They had some bricklayer come in and install this just before we started working.”
The flashlight exposed the bricks, and I could see that they were heavy and real, not a veneer.
“Tell your friend his clients can make all the noise they want because the folks on this side of the wall won’t hear a thing.”
“I’ll do that,” I said. “Would you just shine that light over this middle area again?”
“You’re a real stickler, lady. On second thought,” he said good-naturedly, “don’t be so quick to call if you need a paint job.”
He directed his flashlight to the area I pointed out. I looked closely and could see that the bricks were riddled with dozens of tiny holes and that a thin metal rod hung from a hook on the ceiling above—just like at the seamlessly invisible entrance to the secret door in the wine cellar designed for the ‘21’ Club.
FORTY-ONE
“Where are you, Coop?”
“In my office, about to go into the conference room to do battle with Blanca Robles.”
“Something change since I saw you last night?” Mike asked.
“Yeah. Everything’s upside down. Blanca’s cred is crumbling by the minute. Mercer and I are going to have another go at her in a few minutes.”
“Is that why you called?”
“No. But I’d like you to run down some other stuff for me.”
“Like what?”
“I stopped by to look at the building next door to Lutèce on my way in this morning.”
“The doppelgänger town house?”
“Yes, it’s a doppelgänger except for the wrought iron fence with spikes on top that would keep out the most daring second-story man—and the secret door that connects to Lutèce.”
“The what?”
“Last night, when you were parked out in front, did you happen to notice that the other building was being renovated, too?”
“Yeah, Mercer and I were talking about it. Like what it must cost to gut and redo a pricey home like that.”
“Well, it made me curious, too. I mean, not everyone would want to move in next door to a restaurant, with people coming and going all day and into the night.”
“Maybe that’s why they have the stay-out-of-my-house fence,” Mike said.
“That’s one good reason for it. But then I asked the workmen for a quick tour. I was particularly interested in the basement.”
“Why?”
“’Cause Luc’s doing one of those wine cellars, too. Like ‘21’ and Patroon.”
“What did you find?”
“I think you need to do something I can’t manage, Mike. I think you need to take Luc back to the restaurant today and have him show you the place, from top to bottom.”
“Sure,” he said. “But why?”
“Because in the basement of the adjacent building is a brick wall—just installed last week—and I think it’s got a concealed connection to the basement of Lutèce.”
“Does Luc know about it?”
“He’s never said a word about anything like that.”
“Wait a minute, Coop. Does Luc own the other building?”
“Not that he’s told me. That would have cost him a fortune that he doesn’t have. It’s bad enough he’s relying on these other people for the loans to build out the restaurant. It’s all smoke and mirrors to me, Mike. I’m afraid he’s going to lose his shirt.”
“He’ll be fine. You’ll be eating bonbons for a long time to come, kid.”
I lowered my voice. “What I’m really afraid of is that Luc’s in way over his head. I didn’t know about any of this—backers and silent partners putting up millions of dollars—until the murders started unraveling things. I’m afraid that Luc’s been caught in the middle of something ugly.”
“Like what?”
“I’m trying to figure that out, Mike. Like a financial fraud—a Ponzi scheme,” I said. “Do these people who want a piece of his business just manufacture money or what? I don’t care how much Luc charges for three courses and a superb magnum of expensive wine, he’ll never get out of debt with what he’s got to put out to keep the business afloat.”
“So you want me to check out what he’s hiding in the basement?”
“For starters. And I want to see how he reacts when you find the hidden door. I mean, if that’s what it really is.”
“I can barely make out what you’re saying, Coop.”
“I’m whispering. I don’t want Laura or anyone else to hear.”
Mike chuckled. “You know what you sound like? You sound like Nancy Drew and the secret staircase. You’re getting all twitchy on me, blondie.”
“Laugh all you want, Mr. Chapman. I’ll call the Attorney General’s Office myself.”
“For what?”
“I want to know everything there is to know about Gineva Imports—when the corporation was created, who owns it, when they bought the building next to Lutèce. Everything that’s on file with the AG. Not to worry yourself about, Mike. I’ll have nothing but time on my hands after I watch Blanca Robles implode. I’ll do it myself.”
“Wait a minute. What’s Gineva Imports?”
“The corporation that owns the town house.”
“You know anything about them?”
“Just a guess.”
“Bring it on.”
“Word play, Mike. Gineva,” I said, spelling it for him. “Take the ‘gin’ from Gina Varona and the ‘eva’ from Peter Danton’s wife. Gin and Eva.”
“You probab
ly won the spelling bee, too.”
“Not my strong suit.”
“What do you think they’re importing, besides African art?”
“If I were an optimist, I’d say great wines. Or maybe they’re just betting the restaurant will be so successful that Luc will need to double its size before too long.”
“But you’re not an optimist, Coop.”
“That’s why the whole setup makes me sick to my stomach.”
“You’ve had a hard-on for Gina since you first heard about her.”
“Women’s intuition, Mike.”
“Grow some testosterone.”
“Well, what if they’re importing something that would get them locked up for the rest of their natural days?” I said. “That’s what’s eating at my guts.”
“Like what?”
“Think about it, Mike. Gina Varona is one of Brigitte’s best friends, and Brigitte is still blowing coke. And Eva is married to Peter Danton, who travels to West Africa every month to buy art—but—well, now that part of the world is the go-to place for cocaine smugglers.”
“And you’re thinking that one of them is responsible for the cocaine glued to the bottom of Luigi’s houseboat, right? Now,” Mike said, “we just have to figure out who that is.”
FORTY-TWO
There was no stopping Byron Peaser this time. He led Blanca Robles into the conference room and he wouldn’t leave.
It was eleven o’clock on Friday morning, and the team was stationed around the table, ready to take on the troubled accuser.
Robles and Peaser sat next to each other with their backs to the row of windows facing Centre Street. I didn’t want her to have any visual distractions when she talked to me.
Pat McKinney sat at the head of the table, ready to referee the match.
Mercer was at my side, with Ellen Gunsher behind him, her chair against the wall, and Ryan Blackmer was behind me.
“Good morning, Blanca.”
The angry woman met my gaze straight on but refused to answer.
“She’s not interested in talking to you, Ms. Cooper,” Peaser said.
“That’s no longer your choice, Blanca.”
“I’ll tell you what,” Peaser started to say.
“No, sir. I’ll tell you what. You’re here as an observer. There are a few things that have come to our attention since your client testified before the grand jury, and we need to straighten them out right now.”
I started with the money that was in the five bank accounts in her name. Blanca didn’t respond to any of my questions, until Pat McKinney leaned in and told her that she had no choice but to answer if she wanted us to go forward with her case.
I asked her again whether she knew there was half a million dollars in those accounts. Her expression was deadpan as she told us no. Peaser looked like he was going to fall off his chair.
“When is the last time—the most recent time—you went to Citibank to take any money out?”
“As God is my witness,” she said, “I didn’t take no money out.”
I asked the same question about six different ways, then took the withdrawal slip from Ryan and put it in front of Blanca Robles.
She refused to look at it and threw back her head in defiance of my questioning.
Peaser was craning his neck to try to eyeball the slip of paper.
“April third,” I said. “Nine-oh-six A.M., Blanca. You withdrew eleven thousand, five hundred dollars.”
“That wasn’t me,” she said.
“In another hour, I’ll have a photograph that was taken when you were talking to the teller. That might jog your memory.”
If looks could kill, I’d be a dead woman.
Blanca let go of the handle of the purse that she was clutching on her lap with both hands and jabbed a finger on the table. “As God is my witness—”
It seemed to me that the greater the need to lie, the more she invoked the Lord’s name.
“When was the last time you paid your income taxes, Blanca?”
“Excuse me, I didn’t finish explaining to you about the money.”
“Tell me about your taxes first, Blanca.” I wanted to keep the pressure on, jumping from subject to subject to keep her off guard.
“Last year. I think it was last year, or maybe the year before. Maybe I forgot last year.”
I turned to Ryan and asked for another folder. We didn’t have any written report from the IRS yet, so this morning I had borrowed a file from one of the prosecutors who’d just convicted a swindler in a bribery case.
The array of numbers on the page was dizzying. I held it close to me, on the table, and Blanca leaned over in an effort to see what it was.
“What’s that? That’s not my taxes,” she said.
Ryan jumped in. “No, ma’am. It’s a government form that lists returns from everyone named Robles in New York State. You’re not anywhere on here.”
“Show me and I’ll tell you.”
“I’d prefer that you tell me first,” I said, “and then I’ll show you.”
“Tell you what?”
“When you paid your income taxes last? Why you aren’t on this list?”
Blanca’s nostrils flared and her eyes widened. She pointed at Ryan and raised her voice. “You’re lying. That’s not what those papers say.”
Ryan stood his ground. “It certainly is.”
“I don’t have to talk to you, ’cause you a liar.”
Mercer spoke for the first time, in his deep, ever-calm voice. “What is it, Blanca? Are you the only one who’s allowed to lie? Is that it?”
Her head swiveled toward Mercer. “I get confused. I don’t lie.”
“From the first time I met you, Blanca, I believed in you. You know that, don’t you?”
“You supposed to, Detective. It’s your job to believe me.”
“No, Blanca. That’s not what I’m supposed to do. My job is to find out the truth.”
“She told you the truth about what the defendant did to her,” Peaser said.
“One more interruption, Mr. Peaser, and you can wait in my office,” I said.
“Pat,” Peaser said, hoisting his palm in my direction. “Can you talk some sense into this woman?”
“Alex is right, Byron. We’re long past the time for games.”
“What did you tell your boyfriend, Blanca, when you called him in prison? What did you say to Hector?” I asked.
“I can’t remember,” she said, both hands firmly attached to the handle of her purse.
“Did you assure him that you were all right?”
“I did.” She gave me a sideways glance, as if to see why I had tempered my tone.
“Did you tell him you were taking your attacker to court?”
“I did.”
“Did you tell him anything about the man? About Baby Mo?”
“When I called my friend—Hector’s not my boyfriend, you know.”
“I see. He just gave you half a million to watch over while he’s in prison?”
“Yeah. Because he can’t trust nobody else. He’s my friend.”
“I see. So did you tell him anything about Baby Mo?”
“Why should I? I didn’t know who the guy was. I didn’t know nothing about him.”
“Not even on Monday, after it was all over the newspapers and television that the man who attacked you was famous? That he was wealthy?”
“That didn’t mean nothing to me.”
“But did you discuss it with your boyfriend?”
“No. I didn’t tell him nothing about that.”
“Ryan?” I said. “Would you play that portion of the tape?”
Ryan Blackmer had the microcassette he had taken to Queens in the middle of the night. It was primed to a particular point in the conversation between Blanca and her incarcerated lover.
Ryan put the small recorder on the table and hit the play button. Blanca’s voice was unmistakable. Although I couldn’t make out a single word of the Mayan dialect
, we listened to that segment of the tape three times.
“What were you talking about there?”
“You don’t know my language, any of you. I was saying how upset I was, okay? I was very upset that day.”
“Ms. Robles,” Ryan said. “I found an interpreter last night. Someone from your country who understands your language. A man who told me every word of this conversation.”
Blanca slammed her handbag on the table. “See? You’re telling lies again. You’re not allowed to do that.”
Ryan fast-forwarded the tape. The next speaker gave his name, address, and date of birth, and the village he came from in Guatemala. He summarized the conversation that Blanca had earlier in the week.
The back-and-forth between the accuser and her boyfriend sounded flat and unemotional. The part that interested us most was translated by Ryan’s witness. “Don’t worry. This guy,” Blanca had said on the call, referring to MGD, “he has a lot of money. I know exactly what I’m doing.”
Ryan flipped off the recorder.
“Is that a fair description of what you said?” I asked.
“It’s not fair.”
“What she means is,” Mercer said, “is that what you told your boyfriend?”
“I don’t remember. I said that to you before.”
“But these are your words, Blanca,” he said. “It’s your voice.”
She had no comeback for that, no one else to blame. She didn’t respond.
I leaned back and let Mercer take over the questioning. “All these things, Blanca—your application for asylum, your taxes, your bank accounts, your relationship with Hector—they don’t have anything to do with Mr. Gil-Darsin.”
“I know that. I’m not stupid.”
“But if you can look me in the eye and lie about those things, Blanca—those things that don’t really matter today—how can I trust you to tell me the truth about every little detail that does matter.”
“Like what, Mr. Mercer? Like what do you want?”
Mercer took his time, slowly and clearly going back to the moments immediately after the attack—crucial points in time that the jury would have to be made to understand.
“First, Blanca, you told me you ran out in the hallway and waited for Mr. Gil-Darsin to leave the room.”
Night Watch Page 30