“See, Mercer? Every now and then I just laser in on that sweet spot that gets her dander up. Like a drone zeroing in on a single terrorist target in the mountains of Afghanistan. I have this knack-”
“Let her talk, Mike.”
“It’s been more than ten years. If she had something to say about this, I’d have known it by now, don’t you think?”
“If I heard any woman being abused and humiliated, in front of her coworkers and friends, no less,” I said, trying to finish my little speech.
“You know I worship the ground you walk on, Coop. What the hell happened to your sense of humor? Did it get lost in the Bermuda Triangle on the flight home?”
“He loves you, Alex. Everybody on this planet sees that except you. C’mon, girl. Say your piece and let’s get back to business. The dude’s got a sick sense of humor and we all have to put up with it.”
“Whoa, Mercer, we’re not talking love here. You know, Coop, you like it mighty fine when I’m riffing on McKinney or Gunsher, when I’m pulling Lem Howell’s leg, when I’m playing with your posse of sex crimes vixens-ragging on Catherine or Marisa or Nan. Now you’re suddenly off the table? Off the charts? Off the wall?”
I flopped back in my chair and starting drinking the Scotch. I had no idea what had made me bristle at that particular moment, other than the vision of Luc swinging from a rope because I had used the first excuse offered to run away from his problems. I never doubted Mike’s respect or affection for me. We had flirted with each other for years without ever crossing the line and becoming intimate. On my part, it was an eyes-wide-open acknowledgment that we could never remain professional partners if we had a sexual relationship. With all the dark humor as an overlay, I wasn’t even sure that Mike had any interest in taking our friendship in that direction.
Dominick arrived with my bowl of pasta and plates for Mercer and Mike. I thanked him and prepared to dig in.
“Look at me, Coop,” Mike said, running his fingers through his thick black hair and staring at me with eyes almost as dark. “I apologize. From the heart. Really I do.”
“What did you say?”
“I apologize. From the heart.”
“Say it again.”
“You heard me.”
“I appreciate that.”
“But do you accept it? My apology, I mean. Ten years of teaching you everything I know about murder and street mooks, ten years of covering your ass in every conceivable situation including the dimwitted ones you got yourself into, ten years of making you look like a rock star in the courtroom when you didn’t know your opening from your closing-but then, the occasional insult? I apologize for all of it.”
“Okay, okay, okay. You really nailed me with that one. I accept, all right?”
He had pushed his pasta aside and was working on the chicken parm, his appetite no more diminished for upsetting me than it would be if a corpse fell off the chair behind him.
“Good. Because there’s nothing to say it won’t happen again.”
“Especially if I tell you that you now have marinara sauce all over your chin.”
Mike picked up his napkin to wipe it off. “I bet the French don’t even need napkins. I bet they don’t drip stuff like this on themselves ever.”
“So does Luc think this murdered girl has something to do with his business, since she used to work in the restaurant?” Mercer asked, determined to change the subject.
“He hopes it doesn’t have anything to do with his business or his personal life, but it’s his ex-wife who caught Lisette stealing from his restaurant, so Luc had to fire her. That mixes in both elements. He’s the only three-star restaurant in Mougins, which is the source of a lot of animosity in his professional world.”
“What’s the big deal with these stars?” Mike asked. “I thought Michelin made automobile tires. What do they know about food?”
“The Michelin brothers started making tires more than a century ago. In 1900, they published a guide that would help travelers find mechanics, gas stations, and tire dealers. They thought it made sense to throw in locations for good food and lodging for their customers in France.”
“Clever idea,” Mercer said. “Who does the ratings? People like us?”
“That’s the Zagat system,” I said, referring to the enormously popular series of American city guides developed by a husband and wife team in New York, using restaurant patrons to rate the cuisine and decor. “Michelin has always used professionals-trained inspectors who remain anonymous to the chefs-to rank food and service.”
“Everybody gets a star?” Mike asked.
“Oh no. If a restaurant isn’t deemed worthy of patronage, it simply isn’t mentioned in the guide. One star means a really good cuisine in its category, two stand for excellent dining, worth a detour, and three stars-very few of them every year-mean exceptional cuisine that’s worth a special journey.”
“And Luc has three?”
“There are more than fifteen thousand restaurants in France, and only twenty-six of them received three stars last year.”
“That’s impressive,” Mercer said.
“And backbreaking. You won’t believe the kind of attention that goes into every aspect of producing a great dining experience. You’ll get it firsthand when things start up over here.”
“What’s the time line for opening Lutèce?” he asked.
“Luc and his partners have bought the property-an elegant town house, just like his father created the first time.”
“In the East Fifties?”
“Eighty-First Street, actually. His partners claim the Eighties are the new Fifties,” I said, talking between delicious bites of pasta.
“My mother claims the same thing. Eighty-seven with the spirit of a fifty-year-old.”
“Your mother’s amazing,” I said. “Anyway, the space is furnished and decorated, and sometime in the next month, as soon as they’ve hired enough staff, we’ll all be invited to tasting dinners. Luc’s big season in Mougins begins now, so Lutèce won’t really have an opening until late fall.”
“So who found this woman’s body?” Mike asked, clearly fascinated by the homicide in Mougins. “It wasn’t Luc, was it?”
“He didn’t kill her. He didn’t find her. It was a night watchman.”
“Didn’t I tell you? That’s when it all happens.”
“I don’t mean a cop on night watch duty, I just mean an old guy who was hired to check the park outside of town as security.”
“Hey, that’s what night watch is,” Mike said. “When patrols were organized in the first American cities-New York, Boston, Philly, Baltimore-it was a motley crew of constables and marshals who tried to keep people safe from gangs and criminals. Even when the NYPD, the oldest force in the country, was established in 1845, it modeled itself on military organizations. Patrolmen were hired to work all day. And then, one man was hired to keep everyone safe at night-a single night watch-the sleepless sentinel who looked over the city from sunset to dawn.”
“Check your watch, Detective,” Mercer said. “Coming up on your tour of duty.”
Mike called out to the waiter. “Dominick, let me have a double espresso. Make it two. That ought to jolt me into action. You guys want anything?”
I shook my head. “Counting on catching up from my jet lag tonight.”
Most of the detectives in Homicide, Special Victims, Major Case, and other elite squads pulled night watch assignments several times a year. Because manpower in the precincts was low, the day and evening shifts were fully staffed, but often there were not enough officers to cover the midnight tour.
The result was a patchwork quilt of senior detectives and supervisors who responded to every homicide or serious crime that occurred between 12 and 8 A.M. They worked the case, made the arrest-as Mike had with MGD-and then passed the investigation back to the squad that had the original jurisdiction to complete all the follow-up.