Lucky Catch

by Deborah Coonts

  “Thank you.” At my nod, Desiree preceded me into the car, disappearing into the cavernous interior. Once settled, she reached for her nephew. I passed the boy to his aunt. As I bent to lower myself into the car, Paolo, the Babylon’s head chauffeur, bounded around the front of the car, muscling the valet off the door handle.

  A short, dapper man with jet-black hair combed straight back, smiling dark eyes, and a thousand candlepower grin, Paolo bowed dramatically. “Ms. O’Toole, allow Paolo.”

  I slipped the valet a twenty and turned my tired smile on Paolo. Even at this hour, his pants held a sharp crease, his shirt and jacket were unrumpled. A twenty-five-year service pin, his only accessory, sparkled in his lapel. Just standing there, he oozed so much energy, I felt that if I grabbed his hand, my hair would stand on end. “Are you driving us tonight?”

  “But of course!” He gave a smart, efficient nod, which, due to the frequency with which he trotted it out, had probably become a learned tic.

  “Great,” I said, as I lowered myself into the car. I loved Paolo, I really did, but in anything other than small doses, he wore me out. Somewhere in his DNA lurked the solution to the world’s energy crisis.

  The door closed with a thunk, plunging us into relative darkness. Window tinting dark enough to attract attention from even the most casual passersby was de rigueur in Vegas. The whole thing made me feel foolish—an impostor dashing the expectations of those hoping to catch a glimpse of someone important.

  I sat facing forward and Desiree sat across from me, with her nephew sprawled across her lap.

  Once ensconced behind the wheel, Paolo slid down the dividing glass and waited. I gave him the address and general directions. They were probably an insult: he prided himself on knowing the city better than the hordes of rats that infested the suburbs. Yes, we have rats, thousands and thousands of them, as large as toy poodles—some of the local wildlife not touted in the visitor guides. When I was a kid, I used to sit on the back porch at dusk and pick them off with my air rifle. Alas, with the growing human population, that was a magical childhood that my children would never know—assuming I ever had any children, which was in serious doubt at this point.

  As we started rolling, I leaned my head back and closed my eyes, savoring the first peace of the day. With the lights of the Strip fading to a glow behind us, I felt myself relax. After taking a few deep breaths and marshaling my panic-scattered thoughts, I felt the prod of unanswered questions. Raising my head, I focused on Jean-Charles’s sister—the resemblance was striking, of course; after all, they were twins. “Do you feel up to helping me out a bit?”

  “But of course.” A perfunctory response—outward willingness covering Gallic coolness.

  While we glided in comfort through the quiet residential streets of Vegas, I asked her all the questions I could think of, and all that were appropriate in the presence of a five-year-old. Desiree answered with a strong voice that didn’t sound at all like prevarication—and I’d had a lot of recent experience with that, so I should have been able to recognize it when I heard it. As I wound down, defeated, she relaxed back into the comfortable seat cushions.

  “I am so sorry, but I cannot think of anything about my brother that seemed unusual or stressed lately. He can handle very much, so for him to be upset would be very much out of the ordinary—I would’ve heard the tension in his voice. We are twins.”

  “A special bond, a connection the rest of us don’t have. Or so I’ve been told.” As I talked and thought, a miracle at this hour, I pulled my phone from its place at my hip and punched the screen to life. No messages, no calls. No joy. I put the thing back where I’d found it.

  “We can finish each other’s thoughts.”

  “I wish you could conjure each other’s location.” Glancing out the window, I recognized the neighborhood as Paolo eased the big car down the off-ramp of Summerlin Parkway, then stopped at the red light at Town Center Drive. We were close. “Did you know the chef who was talking with Christophe?”

  “No.” She shifted under the boy, who had fallen asleep across her lap. “She said her name, but it was not familiar to me. Why?”

  I looked out the window, staring up at the stars. I felt like wishing on one of them, but I wouldn’t know what to wish for first. “Just curious. None of my business, really. So, tell me about Adone.”

  She let out a long sigh. “He is impossible, brilliant, arrogant, a wizard in the kitchen.”

  “A bad boy.” I nodded. I had one of my own. “You loathe each other.”

  “Loathe, what is this?”

  I could see the pain on her face as the car passed under the street lamps. “Hate.”

  “Oh, no, I love him.”

  “Even worse.” What was it with strong, smart women and the stupid romantic choices they made? Christ, it was almost a bad joke . . . almost.“Adone was happy being Jean-Charles’s second?” I raised my voice at the end in question.

  “He knows how this business is. I am sure he was thankful for the chance—no one else would give him that, not after he spat on the Escoffier, especially on U.S. television.”

  “Change, it always makes some uncomfortable.”

  “In France, cooking is a religion.”

  “So, spitting on the Escoffier is like crucifying Christ a second time?”

  Although she seemed a bit taken aback at my crude metaphor, she gave a curt nod and a wisp of a smile that dissipated quickly under the worry in her eyes. “This is so.”

  I could only imagine the bloodshed in this country that a change of such magnitude would bring. For an uncultured American, it was hard to imagine food enflaming such passion, but I took her word for it—the French were odd that way.

  “And what was Fiona Richards’s angle, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  Desiree looked out the side window. In the muted glow of distant lights, her expression was impassive, but she didn’t look happy. The French may embrace a European freedom when it came to monogamy, but women were women, no matter their nationality. And sexual freedom always exacted an emotional toll—a piece of one’s soul. When the one you loved chose another . . . that pain, I knew.

  “Men, they are always thinking that having sex with a woman is a sign they are still wanted, they are still attractive.” Her eyes sought mine. “But men do not understand, if the woman is not worthy, they have gained nothing.”

  Other than a good time, I thought, which might have been the sole goal, but I thought better of trotting that little observation out. “Some women will prostitute themselves for what a man can give—money, power, prestige, knowledge. But accepting the trade does not make a man a better man.”

  She nodded once. “But just because a man is weak does not mean he is not worthy of your love.”

  My personal jury had reached a different verdict, so I didn’t offer a response. “So, what did Fiona want with Adone?”

  “I am not sure.” Desiree turned once again to stare out the side window, but I doubted she was admiring the passing landscape. “He is good in the bed.” She gave me a half-grin, then glanced quickly down at her nephew—he was asleep, so she needn’t have worried, but her concern was nice to see, nonetheless. “But it was something more—it does not take a special man to fulfill one’s physical appetites.”

  Personally, I thought divorcing the physical from the emotional was a recipe for disaster, but, for once, my mouth obeyed my brain and the words remained unspoken. “More?”

  “Yes, I thought it was the truffles. And when Jean told me there was some trouble with some of my shipments, I came immediately. Mine is a business built on reputation and an ability to deliver.”

  “You suspected Fiona Richards?”

  Desiree’s eyes flicked to mine, then back out the window. “She seemed the most obvious one to consider.”

  “Did you have a chance to talk to her?”

  Again, the flick of a glance. “No.”

  A chill washed over me. For the first time tonight, my
gut told me she was lying.

  * * *

  Paolo eased the limo next to the guard shack at Jean-Charles’s gated community—I didn’t remember the entrance being quite so grand. The guard had to step out of the hut and walk the length of the car to talk to me through the back window. I told him my name—luckily Jean-Charles had put me on his permanent list of allowed guests. “Have you heard from Chef Bouclet?”

  The guard’s gaze rose from his clipboard and held mine as he gave me a hard stare. “Not since he put you on this here list. You want I should call him?”

  I almost said no, then I reconsidered. “Yes, yes, please. Try his cell. You have the number?” If Jean-Charles was avoiding my calls, which the fact that when I dialed his number it rang once, then flipped to voicemail, would indicate, perhaps he wouldn’t be so cavalier when it came to a call from the security guard assigned to guard his house . . . and his child.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  As the guard turned his back and ducked into his little shack, I urged Paolo to move forward so I could watch and hear. He eased the car forward, the front bumper almost touching the closed gates, but he managed to maneuver me close enough as the guard picked up the phone and dialed.

  Desiree met my eyes as we waited through one ring, two, three . . . We both whirled when the guard said, “Chef Bouclet? Yessir, yessir, your family’s fine. No, your house isn’t burning down, no one has broken in. Why? There’s this lady . . .”

  I launched myself through the open window. Hanging half out of the car, I grabbed the phone from the guard and pressed it to my ear. “Jean-Charles? Are you okay?”

  The guard tried to reclaim the phone. Desiree shut him down with a sharp non. He recoiled, snatching his hand back as if a viper had bitten him.

  “Lucky? Oh, Lucky.” Jean-Charles’s voice hitched. “I am okay. You will know all soon. Christophe?”

  I calmed down and tried to wiggle back into the car, tough to do with one hand. “He is safe. Where are you? Are you okay?”

  “I cannot say.” He sounded tired, scared, a bit exasperated. “You must watch behind you.”

  “Look over my shoulder?”

  “This is it.” When he got like this, his English deserted him. “Do not trust anyone.”

  “Jean-Charles, what the hell is going on?” I glanced at Desiree. Her stoic stare stopped me cold. “How can I keep everyone safe? How can I help, if I don’t know what’s going on? I don’t understand any of this.”

  “You will. I can’t say more. Somebody might be listening. I must go.”

  “Listening? Who?” I was having trouble keeping up.

  “I will find a way to show you. I am only figuring it out myself.”

  I tried to wiggle more fully into the back of the car, but the phone cord brought me up short. “You need to tell Romeo what happened.”

  “He would not believe me. I must fix this.”

  “Fix what?” My head spun, my thoughts whirled. Desiree looked at me, and her stoic façade slipped into an intense look I couldn’t read. She didn’t reach for the phone.

  “Please keep Christophe safe, and Chantal. Desiree, she is difficult, but she is my sister. You be safe. Keep looking over your shoulder. People are not what they seem.”

  “Jean-Charles, don’t . . .” The line went dead.

  Holding the receiver to my ear, I waited, willing his voice to return. When the dial tone sounded, I thrust the receiver back to the guard. “Thank you,” I said, my manners in place, but my wits gone.

  His brows lowered, he took the instrument, then backed away from the car. “Anything I should know?”

  He would be horrified at all the things he didn’t know. But I tried to smile as I shook my head. “Perhaps if you could alert the patrol to be on the lookout for anything unusual, that would help. There have been some . . . threats. The police are on it, but their manpower is stretched thin. They would appreciate your help, I know.”

  The guard nodded. “Yes, ma’am. The police are already here.” He eyed the card I handed him, then punched a hidden button, and the gate eased open. With a wave, he motioned us through.

  As we wound through the neighborhood, the trees shrouding the street, deepening the night gloom, my heart beat faster with the irrational hope we would find Jean-Charles at home. Stupid, I know, but hope springs eternal—I’m foolish that way.

  I scanned the driveway for a car, the front of the house for signs of life, but hope fled as quickly as it had risen. Except for one lone light in an upstairs window, the house was dark, the driveway empty. A Metro cruiser lurked in the shadows on the opposite side of the street and down a bit. I didn’t know whether that was a good thing or a bad thing, but I did take some comfort in the protection for the kids.

  Using her cell phone, Desiree called her daughter, whispering a few hushed words. Lights sprang on, and within a few moments the front door flew open and the girl bounded out—brown curls like her uncle’s, a guarded look like her mother’s. With thin-limbed teenage energy, she took a few strides, then grabbed her mother in a bear hug. It was a good thing I had taken Christophe, who now was dead weight in my arms, his head on my shoulder as he slumbered. Kids could succumb to the siren call of sleep with singular speed anytime, anywhere. A skill that adulthood, with its worries and demands, banished. I felt sleep niggling at me, but with frazzled emotions and tangled thoughts, that so wasn’t going to happen.

  Chantal looked at me over her mother’s shoulder, her eyes wide with confusion. “The police were here. They had a piece of paper. Did Mother tell you?”

  Desiree glanced at me, then her gaze slid from mine with a guilty look. Jean-Charles implied I could trust her, but she wasn’t making it easy. “No, what did they say?”

  “They looked in Uncle’s office and through his room and the kitchen.”

  “I’m sorry you were here alone.” I smoothed a curl from her forehead. “Did they take anything?”

  “Nothing.” Her voice cracked as her brave front crumbled. “Where is Uncle? What is going on? Something is wrong, no?”

  “Have you heard from your uncle?”

  Before the girl had a chance to answer, her mother cut her off. “Come,” Desiree announced. “We should get inside.”

  Their arms looped around each other in the casual yet fierce embrace of parent and child, Desiree and Chantal turned in unison and ambled toward the light streaming though the open door. Heads bent together, Desiree talked to her daughter in hushed, somber tones. The glow in the dark reminded me of the light at the end of the tunnel. If only it were so. . . . Given recent events, the glow was more likely from the headlight of an onrushing train.

  Desiree’s voice was so low, I could barely hear. French was such a beautiful language it made even death sound melodic. I strained to capture the words and to translate, but couldn’t do much of either. Of course, I knew the story, or at least some of it. The rest, I’d have to discover when I could get Chantal alone and put the thumbscrews to her.

  We trouped in tandem up the walkway. In the front hall, we parted company. The two of them disappeared through the kitchen toward the family room in the back of the house, while I turned and headed up the stairs with Christophe still slumbering in my arms. I welcomed the growing silence as the sound of their voices dimmed with the distance.

  Christophe’s bedroom was the second right at the top of the stairs—if I remembered correctly. When I flipped on the overhead light, the pile of stuffed animals looking at me with their vacant stares confirmed my memory was indeed accurate.

  Memories. I felt the echo of last night as I laid Christophe in bed, gently taking off his shoes and pulling the covers over him. Removing his clothes wasn’t going to happen. He looked so peaceful—I didn’t have the heart to awaken him. As I tucked the blanket around his chin, I smoothed the hair back from his eyes. He blinked to a moment of consciousness and gave me a smile that pierced my heart. I bent and kissed his forehead. “Sweet dreams, sweetie.”

  His lids c
losed. “Pancakes? With happy faces?”

  I had shown him how to make a smile out of chocolate drops. Had it only been this morning? It seemed like a lifetime ago. “Happy-faced pancakes, of course.”

  “With Papa,” he whispered as his lids fluttered closed.

  Turning the light off, I left the door open. If Christophe had a bad dream, I wanted to hear him. My hand trailed along the bannister as I retraced my steps down the stairs, the memories of last night echoing around me. Laughter as Jean-Charles tickled his son. Shouts of joy and competition during a hotly contested game of Wii tennis. Chantal, a curious mix of child and young adult, trying to remain above the childishness, but giving in eventually. A vigorous bath time for Christophe . . . with bubbles.

  Then adult time. With a different kind of bubbles.

  At the foot of the stairs, I turned right, pushing open the double louvered doors to Jean-Charles’s suite. The smells of the night lingered—the scented candles; his cologne, sensual and earthy; the musk of sex. I breathed them in. Savoring, absorbing, remembering . . . dreaming.

  A dangerous game, and I knew it. I was hurt, needy, reaching for hope, hoping for love. So willing to buy into the fantasy.

  Leaving myself open, raw . . . had I misjudged?

  How well did I really know Jean-Charles? He’d told me people are not what they seem. Who? Who had something to hide or a grudge worth killing for? Adone? He’d already voiced his lack of affection for Jean-Charles. And I couldn’t say I blamed him. When folks climbed on high horses, I got testy, so I understood the young chef’s frustration. But kill?

  Who else had a bone to pick? Desiree? The others? The killer could be any of them. And Jean-Charles, could I trust him? Should I trust him? My track record proved I was way too trusting. And now, was I grasping at straws, desperate for someone to be who they said they were?

  God, I couldn’t even trust myself.

  I sat at the foot of the bed and lay back. Staring up at the ceiling, I ran my hands over the beautiful fabric as if making a snow angel. The textures, the smells, the sounds, all hit my heart and opened me wide.