“Want me to go inside and see what they’re up to?” Mechanic asked. “My French is still pretty strong.”
“Stay put, monsieur,” I said. “Wait till they come out for their next adventure before you make your move.”
“Which will be?”
“I have absolutely no idea. Let me think this through a little; then I’ll call you back.” The last sound I heard was Barefoot Contessa’s calming voice saying Jeffrey would be home soon with the radishes.
I WOKE UP to my phone jumping on the floor and Stryker barking as if ten intruders were trying to rob us at gunpoint. Barefoot Contessa had already served her dinner party, and everyone had gone home. Mechanic’s number flashed across the screen.
“Where the hell are you?” he said. “I’ve called you ten times.”
“I’m in my apartment dreaming about Jeffrey’s radishes.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Never mind. What’s the latest?”
“They left the restaurant about thirty-five minutes ago.”
“Sounds like a nice long lunch,” I said, looking at my clock. It had been almost two hours.
“But they left in separate cars,” Mechanic said. “I wasn’t sure which of the three you wanted me to follow.”
“Three?”
“Another lady left with them. White, middle aged, uptight. She walked out at the same time, and they all embraced each other.”
“Then what?”
“Valet brought the doctor’s car around, and she got in and left. A Bentley sedan came and picked up the Gerrigan woman. She left. The third woman got into a sporty little BMW convertible, pulled a U-turn, and drove off heading south. You weren’t answering, so I took some pics for you.”
“Who did you decide to follow?”
“The doctor, of course. She’s the prettiest.”
I went up to my office and turned on my computer. I found a street map of Englewood and spent the next ten minutes looking around the area where Chopper’s body had been found. I used the functionality on Google Maps that allowed me to move through the streets and see the various buildings and businesses that were in the vicinity. I wasn’t sure what I was looking for, but I was hoping something would jump off the screen.
My computer chimed. I had email notifications. I minimized the Google browser and opened my email box. Mechanic had sent me three emails. I opened the first. Dr. Patel and Violet Gerrigan stood in front of a bright red building, carried away in conversation. There was no sense of urgency in their faces. The second email had a photograph of them hugging each other in front of Patel’s Audi as the valet stood with the door open. Mechanic had said that Patel had left on her own and that Gerrigan had been picked up in a Bentley.
The third email also contained a photograph. This was the third woman who had been driving the sporty BMW. She stood behind Patel and Gerrigan with oversize sunglasses covering most of her face. I knew I had seen her before. I moved the mouse and zoomed in. It was Cecily Morgan, Hunter’s mother.
I knew that Violet and Cecily knew each other but never expected that Cecily knew Patel or that both women found it all right to socialize with Randolph Gerrigan’s mistress. The mistress angle was starting to make less sense as things unfolded. All that bullshit Patel had given me about patient-doctor confidentiality was nothing more than a shield.
She was part of the team. Which meant it was more than likely she knew what these two families were hiding and why.
45
BURKE ASKED ME TO meet him that afternoon and suggest a place where we could stay under the radar. All that he would say over the phone was that it was urgent. I suggested Peaches at the corner of Forty-Seventh Street and Martin Luther King Drive. Cedric Simpson, who ran point on my high school basketball team, had opened it with his girlfriend a year ago. The no-fuss southern home-style cooking had made it a local overnight sensation. No one from downtown would venture this far south for lunch.
Burke was seated in the back of the restaurant at a table not visible from the door or the windows. He sat by himself with his cap off and his arms bulging out of his crisp white shirt. One of his plainclothesmen sat by the front door, pretending to blend in. I had spotted him the second I entered.
“Coffee’s damn good here,” he said as I took a seat. He had already ordered a freshly squeezed orange juice for me.
“Better not let the Dunkin’ Donuts Association of America hear you say that,” I said. “They’ll file a class action lawsuit and terminate the universal cop discount.”
“Don’t get all high minded with me,” Burke said. “You seem to forget how long those shifts can be now that you spend most of your time swinging at some yellow flag with a hole underneath it.”
The waiter came to take our order. Burke selected peach bourbon french toast with biscuits and gravy and two sides of bacon. I ordered a waffle and asked that they make sure it was still warm when it arrived at the table.
“So, why are we off the radar?” I asked once the waiter had left.
“In my official capacity, I’m here to instruct you to stand down. Stay away from the Gerrigans and anyone or anything that has to do with them.”
“Is this an order?”
“I can’t give you an order. You don’t work for me. It’s a strong and carefully worded suggestion.”
“Suggestion duly noted,” I said with a nod. “Now what do you want to tell me in your unofficial capacity?”
“This total thing is a shit show,” he said. “Lots of high-paid cooks in the kitchen and no one even knows how to boil water. We’re spinning our wheels on Chopper’s murder and not
