Lucky Ce Soir, page 18
A bit wobbly, I was thankful for his steadying arm around my waist as he guided me to a café table behind a glassine curtain and next to a heater. With each step, my feet sang out, reminding me of the punishment they’d taken. Various body parts chimed in on the chorus. “Nothing broken. One hell of a headache, but I feel pretty lucky that’s the worst of it.” As I put my right foot down, the heel of my shoe snapped off. I sagged against the solid chest of Jean-Charles. “One dead pair of truly righteous shoes. Add that to the list. And I’ll never get the oil and grime out of this coat. In fact, given how the whole day has gone, I think I’ll burn the whole outfit as an offering to the Goddess of Good Luck, who clearly has a beef with me. Although, for what, I can’t fathom.” I knew I was babbling but could do little to stop the run-on words. Maybe a bit of shock kicking in. Where on the Stress Scale of Bad Shit being hit by a car fit was anybody’s guess, but it packed a wallop. And then there was the whole impending marriage thing—I knew that was on there. And then the relationship thing, which sounds the same but was different, that was on there, too. Ditto a close relative with a serious health issue. I had two. According to that scale, I was pretty sure I was bumping up against the “might shit a cold purple Twinkie” category.
“You will be very sore tomorrow.” Jean-Charles turned me and eased me into a chair.
He fussed over me a bit, brushing down my coat where he could. He plucked at a bit of dark green. Wrinkling his nose, he held it aloft and squinted at it.
“Yes, it’s what you think. Something rotten.”
He flicked it away, then took the seat across from me. Two Champagne flutes, one of them empty, one nearly so, rose damningly between us. An empty bottle, upended, poked from an ice bucket next to Jean-Charles.
“Am I interrupting?”
“It’s not what it looks like.” He looked like he wished he could run. Of course, that would be throwing in the guilty-as-hell towel.
“It’s exactly what it looks like.” Emotion tugged at the half-healed scar across my heart that Teddie had left. Love and anger, hurt, sharp and fresh, leaked out. Betrayal, red-hot, seared through me. Once bitten and all of that. Trust, once broken, would it always be a Humpty-Dumpty for me? Would I mistrust everyone? Guard my heart with such vigilance that no one could get in?
Blinking back emotion that would only cloud my thinking, I tried to remember that jumping to conclusions usually ended in a fatal leap off the High Cliff of Paranoia. Despite appearances, it could all be innocent.
Old friends. Or flame rekindled?
Just last night I’d broken bread with my former lover. Perspective, Lucky. Perspective.
I sucked in a ragged breath. Right now, I had a serious beef with dainty, sultry, manipulative Emma Moreau, but it wasn’t about Jean-Charles. And my beef with him had more to do with respect and honesty and little to do with jealousy. At the very least I deserved to know…all of it. Only then could we find the bedrock on which to build a solid life.
“How are you even alive?” Jean-Charles had to steady his glass with both hands as he took a sip then offered me one.
I was grateful for even the last dollop.
“I could have lost you.” His adrenaline levels were falling fast—I knew the signs. Reality crept in, and possibilities of different outcomes had him climbing the stress ladder right behind me. “Quite frankly, you are the most confounding woman, but without you, life would be so boring, and my heart would not be whole.”
His words punched right through the case of righteous Indignation I was building. What did my father always ask me when I had a serious case of twisted knickers? Are you building a case or building a bridge?
“Reflexes. That’s all I can tell you. And some seriously great guardian angels.” At his raised eyebrow, I nodded. “I’m seriously into angels. I know they exist. Don’t ask me how, but I do. Ever since I was little, fourth grade maybe. Now as to the whole story about some fat, white guy sitting on a cloud making rules about my life—that’s a bit sketchy. God or whatever you choose to call him is bigger than that. My theory. Religion has killed more people on this planet than everything else. We need to get over it and realize we’re all simply talking about goodness. All of us. And my goodness isn’t any better than anybody’s and vice versa.”
“So, you think angels saved you? We need to get that bump on your head checked out.” His smile told me he was teasing, so I stepped down the whole Battle that Couldn’t Be Won thing.
“Does it matter? It makes me feel good. And I’m here, aren’t I? Perhaps when I shouldn’t be.”
“Yes.” The seriousness returned to his face. I loved the way it sharpened his features and made him look even sexier. I wasn’t so fond of the mansplaining that indubitably would follow. “So, tell me”—he signaled the waiter to bring another bottle—“how did you come to be chasing a man down the alley and into the Trocadéro?”
“Yes, this I would like to know as well.” Emma Moreau joined us, taking the remaining seat as Jean-Charles pulled me around closer to him. He snaked an arm around my shoulders.
I wondered who he was trying to deliver a message to—me, Emma, or himself.
I eyed my adversary. Underestimating the commissaire would be unwise. As a local, she already had a leg up. Her history with the Bouclets and the Laurents gave her insight and allies I lacked. And being a member of the Judicial Police gave her a flush when I was holding a W.H.I.P.
Assaulting a police officer. Getting hit by a car. Chasing a man to his death. And finding myself holding a cap pistol in a duel to the death. Could today get any better?
Jean-Charles painted on a smile. Emma didn’t bother.
Something niggled at me as Emma waited for my response. Something important, but I couldn’t find its storage spot in my scrambled brain. A deep breath. Another. I worked for calm, closing my eyes. Then it hit me. “As you were leaving last night with Sinjin and Desiree, I saw you speaking with the dead man at the Bouclets’.”
That took a bit of her bounce. “Who?”
After a quick glance, I hooked a finger over my shoulder toward the now-shrouded body. The police had rerouted traffic, and an ambulance sounded in the distance. “Him. He called to you from the doorway.”
Her eyes flicked from side to side as she scrambled for an answer. “He told me Desiree took Sinjin to the wine cellar.”
“What did Desiree say?”
Emma regained her footing. “I’m not at liberty to say.”
One of those phrases used by the police to stonewall us mere citizens.
“I’m assuming you searched Victor’s house?”
“The man had no I.D. We have no idea who he really was, much less where he lived.”
Apparently, there was info she was at liberty to tell me, which had my antennae up. Something in her tone told me she knew more than she wanted me to know. “And his employer? Could he offer any insight?”
“Paul Bay? He’d never heard of him.”
The waiter had yet to clear the table. From the remnants, it appeared Jean-Charles and Emma had shared an omelet, some flaky pastries, and the Champagne I’d noticed before. “I’m crashing a private party?”
My light tone didn’t fool Jean-Charles. His smile slipped away. “Lucky.”
Deciding offense was the best strategy, I turned to face Commissaire Moreau. “How dare you?”
Her face reddened. “We are old friends. Surely you are not that insecure?”
I waved that away with a chuckle. “I’m sorry; I wasn’t clear. Your history is just that. We all have one. But Mr. Desai?”
Jean-Charles pulled on my shoulder. “Who?”
“I’m not talking to you. I’m asking your ‘old friend’ here why, and on whose authority, she put a tail on me.”
Jean-Charles’s hand dropped from my shoulder. He sucked in a breath which sounded a lot like indignation. Maybe he could dig himself out of his hole with me after all. “Emma! Did you do such a thing?”
“It seemed prudent.” Her gaze darted from side to side like a scared rabbit. “She has been involved in a lot of murders.”
His eyes turned dark and stormy. I knew what that meant: run. “By that metric, so have you.” His voice was low, vibrating with emotion. Yep, I was right, indignation.
I allowed myself a tiny gloat. The man could ride to my defense. Maybe my knight’s steed was a small pony and not a fearsome white stallion, but it was something. After the day I’d had, I’d take it.
The waiter delivered the Champagne, and I settled in to enjoy an altercation that did not require my input. All I’d had to do was light the fuse. As a tactic, it bore remembering. Usually a frontal assault kind of gal, I was warming to the idea of defeat by outflanking my opponent.
“It is my job,” Emma huffed. Her excuse fell short. “Sinjin Smythe-Gordon is being held on suspicion of murder. He implicated you.”
Remembering she didn’t know the man like I did, I resisted rolling my eyes. “If he told you I was Father Christmas would you believe him? Surely, you’ve heard of a little thing called proof? I grant you, he’s guilty of something. You could probably hold him if there is such a thing as felony lying. As for me, you got nothing.” That last bit was more bluster than bullshit. Trumping up some reason to haul me to the hoosegow for interrogation wouldn’t challenge even the fair commissaire’s skimpy skills.
“Emma, the Prosecuting Judge would never have approved such a thing based on that,” Jean-Charles continued, working up a serious case of righteous indignation. “This is smelling like a personal vendetta. You cannot use your powers this way. I have told you before, you must always play by the rules. That is the only way to win.”
From Jean-Charles’s reaction, I guessed the commissaire had committed some rather large breach of protocol; otherwise, she’d be parrying every attack with a bit more vigor. France, despite appearances, protected civil liberties with way more enthusiasm than the Americans who had a camera in every bedroom and on every corner, who used phones and facial recognition to keep track of us all. National security, my ass. It was a power play, pure and simple. As a culture, we’d given up so many liberties in the name of safety. Yet, we had mass shootings so numerous we no longer responded with outrage. So, exactly how well was all that working out?
And he’d had to have this discussion with her before? That just rubbed me all over with warm fuzzies.
Emma squirmed like a castigated schoolchild as she fumed. Her anger found a target. She leaned across the table, catching my hand in hers. “You will be very careful. If you stick one finger across the line, I will cut it off.”
“Toe.”
“What?”
“Toe across the line.”
She thought about carrying her bluff further; I could see it in the way she ground her teeth.
Jean-Charles stepped in, stopping her from completely making a fool of herself by tilting at the wrong windmill. “Emma! You will stop, now! Lucky is not part of this problem.” Emma wilted under his scowl. “You will stay out of her way, or the judge will hear about your…miscalculations.” He’d chosen the word carefully. “The local police in Las Vegas count on Lucky’s inside knowledge to help in investigations. You’d be wise to do the same.”
Well that was going to make her like me so much more.
He should’ve stopped while he had his nose in front, inches from the finish line.
What I would’ve given to have been a fly on the wall eavesdropping on their little tête-à-tête before I crashed the party. From his tone and her bright eyes and quivering chin, all was not as I had assumed. I waited for the silence to get uncomfortably awkward; then I dove in. “Have you found the wine?”
Neither gave me their attention. I knew the answer anyway.
Locked in some sort of battle that had its origin in the past, they glared at each other across the tiny table. Too late, I realized I was in the middle—always an awkward position but a familiar one. “Okay, no wine. And Desiree? Where is she?” I asked before one of them picked up a knife and did something they’d regret.
Emma took a few moments and several deep breaths before she tore her eyes from my betrothed to glare at me. “She is home while we decide if we will charge her with a crime.”
“I might be able to add a bit on that one.” The comment sounded smug, but I didn’t feel a bit happy about the little stink-bomb I was about to toss to my fiancé. But it did have the effect of defusing the escalating emotion.
“The man I was chasing,” I twisted around to look squarely at Jean-Charles. “He worked in your parents’ kitchen.” As I swiveled to look at him, a man, just visible over his shoulder, caught my eye. Dark hair, high cheekbones, radiating a confident swagger. A tumbler fell into place. An inside job, he’d said. “I believe he worked with Mr. Smythe-Gordon as his inside man. Desiree was complicit. She even showed Sinjin the location of the cellar.”
“That is not true!” Jean-Charles stiffened against my back. “What is it? What do you see?” He tried to turn to follow my gaze.
I snapped my mouth closed. “Nothing. Nothing at all. Just got lost there for a moment. My head is still spinning,” I lied.
“Understandable. Are you sure you don’t need to go back to the hotel?”
“I’m good.” What were we talking about? Oh yes, the thieves and an inside job. “And you have been gone from here for a long time.” Not to mention he was also seriously into magical thinking when it came to his family. Guilty of the same transgression, I couldn’t cast the first stone. “Your father met with Enzo Laurent in the wine cellar on a regular basis. If it was a secret, then more than the family knew.”
I glanced over his shoulder again. The man was gone.
A stunned silence reverberated for a few moments. When he broke it, his voice was soft with defeat. “I do not know what to say.”
“Well, the dead man won’t be saying anything either. Do you know anything about him?”
“Only that my mother hired him based on a recommendation from Enzo Laurent.”
Was Enzo Laurent the kind of guy who would pay any attention to a dishwasher in his kitchen? “We need to convince your sister to do some serious singing.”
“How do you know this about my sister and the man you were chasing?”
“Someone saw them. They told me.” I prayed he wouldn’t ask me who. I wouldn’t tell him, but that would derail the whole conversation.
“You were at my parents’ house without me?” Spoken like a true control freak, he made that sound like a transgression.
Not well-versed in the nuances of Parisian social protocol, I’d probably committed enough sins to be banished to social purgatory, which, to this social pariah, actually sounded like a one-way trip to the beach in January. “Yes, just now. That’s how I flushed the guy in the kitchen and ended up bird-dogging him here.”
“Why were you there?”
“To talk with your father.”
“He is not well.”
“He’ll be dead if his daughter goes to jail and we don’t recover that wine.”
Acceptance reverberated in his silence. Two points for the home team. “Did you see my sister?”
I kept my expression impassive. “No. Both she and your father need to fess up, and quickly, before this thing escalates along with the body count.”
“My father?” Jean-Charles frowned at my casting aspersions on a family member.
“You need to have a discussion with him.”
“About what?”
“I don’t know, but he does. And the minute he tells you, you better tell me. No more playing hide-and-seek with the truth. It’s all the cards on the table from here on out. Got it?”
Unused to anyone getting in his face, he breathed in sharply through his nose.
“Think carefully before you speak.”
He breathed out slowly until I thought he might pass out. “I will speak to him.”
Emma had said nothing as she licked her wounds and watched Jean-Charles and me. She couldn’t really hear what we were saying, but she probably caught the gist from our postures.
She gave me a smug look. Looking for a puppy to kick, she pounced. “What were you doing in the Kléber Metro trying to go through a tunnel access door?”
“Your officer finding me was pretty convenient. Was he following me as well?” A long shot.
Her sudden silence betrayed her shock. I had a feeling she was a better cop than she appeared to be. Emotions. Getting invested in the outcome screwed with competency.
“Emma?” Jean-Charles’s question held an accusation.
“I have my team watching for her, for reports of a tall, arrogant American woman sticking her nose in where it will get cut off.” She made a slicing motion with her hand.
“You are picking the wrong fight, Emma.” Jean-Charles had his back up for sure.
While we still had the telling-me-the-whole-story thing to work on, I didn’t think we had any issues with Emma Moreau, at least not between the two of us. She was working hard to get between me and my freedom, but that was my fight. “Look, Commissaire, you can mess with me all you want, but it’s not going to get you any closer to the killer or to finding that wine. Your choice, but you’re wasting assets and risking your career. Is a personal vendetta worth it?”
She still looked ready to spit nails. “What did you speak with Enzo Laurent about?”
“Ask him. Now, what do you know about the wine? I’m assuming you didn’t find it.” Thankfully Jean-Charles refrained from giving me a war on two fronts, at least not in front of his old friend.
“I will. Enzo will tell me.” Her attitude lost a bit of bluster at my lack of intimidation. With her back against the wall, she decided to toss a few morsels to the mongrel at her feet. “My team traced the wine deeper into the sewers, but they were clever in the path they took. With the water and some...” She asked Jean-Charles for a translation.
“Cement.”
“Yes, this. Together they made it impossible to follow exactly where they went.”
“Don’t you have a map of the sewers? They had to bring the wine up somewhere.”
