“Nice shot,” Mike said.
“I’m here every day, Detective. I get more practice than you do.”
“Why’d you fire Luigi?”
“Fire him? I didn’t fire him,” Sergio said, reloading as he talked. “Luigi quit.”
“Sounds like he had everything going for him,” Mike said, raising the rifle to shoot and missing the last circle of the target completely. “Why would he quit?”
“Maybe you would do better with the boar, Detective?” Sergio said, getting even closer to the center of the eye with his second shot. “Luigi had a better offer, Mike. I tried everything I could to keep him here.”
“Where was he going to work?”
“I don’t know the name of the place. I don’t even believe it’s open yet. I heard that it’s French, which makes sense because Luigi was actually born in Marseille. His mother was French, and his father Italian.”
Mike’s third shot was the best, catching the edge of the outer ring of the bull’s-eye.
The sound of the gunshots was making me edgier and edgier. The rifles recoiled slightly on the shoulders of both men, jerking them to the side, and the noise in the confined space was magnified so that it sounded to me like cannon fire.
“Have you ever heard the name Luc Rouget?” I asked.
I could see the expression on Mike’s face as soon as I opened my mouth to speak. If he could have smacked me over the head with the rifle, he would have done it.
Sergio smiled again. “Certainly, Ms. Cooper. Mr. Rouget has been a guest here many times.”
I took a deep breath. “Recently?”
“Several times a year he comes. You know him? Quite a distinguished reputation he has back in France. He has something to do with this?”
Why had Luc never brought me to Tiro a Segno? Never told me he’d been here.
Sergio took a final shot and seemed to have nailed a bull’s-eye.
“I can’t top that,” Mike said, surrendering his rifle.
“And which member sponsored Mr. Rouget to come to dinner?” I asked, with as much personal interest as professional.
“I’m so sorry, signora. I wouldn’t be permitted to tell you that,” he said, making sure both rifles were empty as he got ready to store them. “I’d never have lasted this long at Tiro if I told secrets.”
“And I’d never have lasted so long as a cop if I didn’t know how to get answers out of people without having to bully them by asking the district attorney to issue a grand jury subpoena,” Mike said, talking loud enough for Sergio to hear him in the next room.
“But a subpoena for what?” he said, returning to lead us upstairs. “Luigi hasn’t been here in a month-maybe longer.”
“Even his brother’s singing to the squad that there was bad blood between the two of you.”
“Stupido. I don’t know his brother. I’m not going to disrespect one of our members for nonsense you hear on the street, Mike.”
“Let’s just keep it a secret between us for the time being. This member who wined and dined Mr. Rouget has something to do with the restaurant business?”
Sergio had one hand on the door to the staircase. “Not that I know.”
“What kind of business then? Something legit?”
“All our members are legitimate, Detective.”
“Then I’m surprised they let that portrait of Mussolini hang in the bar for so long before they canned it.”
Sergio’s hand was over his heart. “Insult me, Detective, and you insult my heritage and my culture. That portrait was removed before you were born.”
“So what kind of job does this friend of Mr. Rouget’s have?” I asked. Maybe there was some business link that brought Luc to this place for dinner.
“A CEO, Ms. Cooper. The chief executive of one of the largest fragrance companies in this country.”
“If you just tell us his name,” I said, knowing we could get the rest of the answers from Luc, “we’ll get out of your hair and there’s no need for us to reveal you as our source.”
Sergio looked from my face to Mike’s, for an assurance that our word was good on that promise. “Rather sexist of you, Ms. Cooper, to assume this CEO is a man.”
I was startled.
“Mr. Rouget’s friend is one of Tiro’s most distinguished members. Her name is Gina Varona,” Sergio said, opening the heavy door and holding it back for me. “And now, I must invite you to leave.”
TWENTY-FOUR
I waited in the lobby of the club until Mike came out of the kitchen. I said the name Gina Varona aloud six or seven times, but it didn’t sound the least bit familiar to me. I couldn’t wait to get home to begin Googling her, hoping she was twice Luc’s age and had a dowager’s hump.
Mike approached me as though he was about to break into a trot, sweeping past me and going out to the street. “C’mon, kid. I got a little nugget of gold.”
“About Gina? Tell me she’s old enough to be Luc’s mother.”
“You worried about your love life or the body count?” Mike asked. “Luigi’s pals just gave me a piece of the puzzle.”
“What’s that?”
Mike took my elbow and steered me in the direction of Bleecker Street. “I’m putting you in a cab to go home.”
“And you?”
“One of the other waiters says Luigi’s girlfriend lives on a boat all right. It’s a houseboat.”
“So?”
“So it’s not an oceangoing vessel, Coop. The broad makes collages of crustacean legs, okay? Friggin’ tiny dead crab parts glued up on painted pieces of driftwood.”
“Sounds disgusting.”
“I bet I know where she gets the little bastards. There are five or six houseboats moored all along a section of the Gowanus Canal, this guy says. Luigi’s was behind a truck lot on Bond Street. Probably illegal, which is why there’s no official address for it.”
“You’re going-?”
“To give the Harbor cops and my drone a little direction. Get the Brooklyn DA’s office working on a search warrant for the houseboat. And don’t even ask, ’cause you’ve got a big day with Blanca tomorrow.”
At the corner of the busy street, Mike hailed a cab and I got in. He told the driver to take me to my home on the Upper East Side. Then, with the door still open, he leaned inside and picked up my hand.
“I know it’s been rough for you, Coop. Just hold it together another couple of days. No whining, okay?”
I took a deep breath. “Why can’t I call Luc now?”
“Just between us, I spoke to him today.”
“You what?”
“Real short. But he’s good and I explained that it’s best he keep off the phone with you until a few things are resolved.”
“Can I start the meter running?” the cabdriver was more impatient than I was.
“Sure,” I said, turning back to Mike. “What else did he say?”
“Trust me for another twenty-four, will you? I didn’t give him a chance to say anything-that wasn’t the reason for my call. You get some sleep. I’ll phone you in the morning if we come up with good stuff.”
He let go of me and slammed the door. The driver took off and I belted myself in.
Then I speed-dialed Joan Stafford at her home in DC. “Joanie? Is it too late to talk?”
“It’s not even ten o’clock. Where have you been?”
“Just on my way home from work. I’m in a cab.”
“What have you heard from Luc?”
“Nothing at all, Joan. How about you?”
“Same here. But then, I’m not the one who skipped town on him.”
“Hasn’t he even called Jim?” Joan’s husband was one of Luc’s closest friends.
“Jim’s in Moscow on business. How about I come up on Saturday and at least we can spend the evening together?”
“Forget my birthday. We’ll celebrate another time,” I said. “But would you do me favor?”
“Sure. If you do one for me.”