French Pressed

Nineteen

Rayburn Way had been a dead end all around. We waited at the scene for the ambulance and police to show. Then we piled into Mike’s weather-beaten Dodge and headed back downtown.

By six o’clock, it was already dark, and the temperature was plunging fast. Mike double-parked his sedan in front of the Blend and climbed out. Our good-bye was brief, because the Brigitte mess and then rush-hour traffic had tied us up for hours. Mike was barely on time for his job.

“Today was a bust, but don’t worry,” he said after opening the car door for me. “We’ll find Keitel’s killer, Clare. We will. It’ll just take a little more time.”

Standing on the sidewalk, looking up at him, I summoned a weak smile.

Mike’s words were real; I knew he meant them. Even though I’d watched him feed baloney to that super in Washington Heights, I could tell he wasn’t just “handling” me now. I could hear the experience in his voice, the steely confidence that came from years and years of enduring as much failure as success. I could only imagine how many frustrating hours he’d gone through on investigations that dead-ended and got dropped into cold-case files.

I was willing to do almost anything now to keep Joy’s case from going cold. But I wasn’t a hardened professional with over a decade of investigative experience under my belt, so even with Mike’s pep talk, I was feeling pretty discouraged.

“If you learn anything new, leave a message on my answering machine,” Mike said. “I’ll be on duty all night and into the early morning, but we can follow up any lead you come up with after my tour’s over. We’ll do it together, Clare. Together. Okay?”

“I’m grateful to you. I am. But you can’t work double duty forever, Lieutenant. You have to sleep some —”

Mike swept me up in his arms, covered my mouth with his. For a few seconds, my feet were off the ground.

“Good night, Clare,” he whispered.

Then he released me, and I was sinking again, back down to earth. My gaze followed him as he returned to his car, slid behind the wheel. I continued to watch as he restarted the engine, checked the rearview to pull out. When he noticed me watching, he shot me a smile. I nodded from the sidewalk, unable to move until he drove away. Then I turned and pushed through the Village Blend’s beveled glass door.

The coffeehouse was busy on this Saturday night. A fire was burning in the hearth, one of Gardner Evans’s jazz CDs was playing over the sound system, and the aroma of our freshly brewed French roast was stimulating the air.

Esther Best looked up from a table she’d just cleaned.

“Welcome back, boss,” she said, drying her hands on her blue apron. “How’s it going?”

“Okay, Esther. How are you? Your big date’s tonight, isn’t it?”

“You know it! Tucker and Dante are in at seven, and then I’m gone!”

Esther regarded me through her black-framed glasses. I guess I must have been wearing my emotions on my face, because she frowned. “You okay, boss? I mean, I heard about Joy from Matt. I’m really sorry about that. You must be wrecked. You want to talk?”

I needed to unload, so I told Esther everything, starting with Tommy’s murder, the details of Joy’s arrest. I even told her about my futile search today for Brigitte Rouille, and the state in which we found the sous-chef and her lover.

By the end of my story, Esther’s mouth was gaping. “Listen, boss, why don’t you sit down, and I’ll bring you a nice fresh espresso. After all you’ve been through, I think you need to relax. Decompress, you know…”

“But I was going to help out—”

“No need. Gardner’s got the bar covered. And I’ve bussed the empty tables, emptied the trash, and restocked the coffee bar. Any espressos that need to be pulled between now and seven, Gardner can handle. Take a load off. Go sit by the fire.”

Esther grabbed my long gray overcoat. “Let me hang this up, too.”

“Okay. Thanks. I appreciate this,” I said, and couldn’t resist adding, “though it proves you must be in love; either that, or the Esther Best I knew has been replaced by a really sensitive and caring pod person.”

“Don’t tell anyone,” Esther whispered. “Especially not Tucker. I’ve worked for years to cultivate the image.”

“What image?”

“Snark bitch extraordinaire, of course!”

Esther took off for the coffee bar; I crossed our wood-plank floor and dropped into an overstuffed armchair near the hearth. I stared at the flames for a few minutes, then Esther brought over my espresso.

I sipped it slowly, letting my mind have time to absorb the caffeine slowly, calmly, reasonably. In the end, I knew Esther was right. I needed to decompress.

When I heard my cell go off, I fished inside my handbag for it and was surprised at how stuffed the thing was. Then I realized it was still packed with the papers I’d snatched from the kitchen in Brigitte Rouille’s Washington Heights apartment.

The phone was Matt again. He was at his mother’s apartment, updating her on Joy’s arrest and the lawyers’ opinions. The latest legal word was that the district attorney’s office would probably be throwing the book at Joy— second-degree murder, two counts—in hopes of getting her to plead down to manslaughter.

“But she didn’t kill Tommy or Vinny. Why should she admit it to get a reduced sentence for something she shouldn’t have been charged with in the first place?!”

My voice had gotten a little loud. A few customers glanced curiously in my direction. I slumped down in my chair.

“Clare, I’m not suggesting our daughter cop a plea. I’m just telling you the lawyers are discussing this as an option.”

“I know, Matt. You’re right. I’m sorry I bit your head off.” I massaged the bridge of my nose.

“It’s okay, Clare. I know you’re stressed, worrying about her. I am, too. How did you make out today? Did you get any closer to finding Keitel’s killer?”

“I hit a dead end…” I could hear the exhaustion in my voice, the disappointment, the dread. “But I’m not giving up. I’m not…”

Matt must have heard the shakiness of my own conviction because his voice suddenly sounded stronger. “Of course you’re not giving up. You never gave up on me, did you? You saw me through my rehab. And you were always there for Joy, year in and year out; day in and day out; through the hard times and dull times—unlike yours truly…Clare, all I’m trying to say is…I know you; I know the stuff you’re made of; and I know you won’t give up…”

As Matt’s voice trailed off on the digital line, I sat speechless for almost a full minute.

“Thank you, Matt,” I finally replied. “I mean it.”

“I’ll see you later, okay?”

“Okay.”

As soon as I hung up, I moved myself, my espresso, and my bag stuffed with Brigitte’s papers to an empty café table. With renewed determination, I pulled out the thick wad of wrinkled and dog-eared pages and spread them across the coral-colored marble surface.

Most of the papers were months and even years old—things that should have been tossed—shopping lists, directions, reminders to do this or that chore.

There were recipes here, too, some clipped from magazines, but most handwritten in a flowing, delicate hand. Some were simple fare: a peasant omelet, baby peas à le française, a sole normande.

Others were detailed instructions for preparing more complex dishes and even entire courses. I found a three-page recipe for pâté en croute featuring woodcock, foie gras, and truffles. A lengthy description of how to prepare ballottine d’agneau, stuffed and braised shoulder of lamb. Even instructions for a roasted pig stuffed with boudin noir and