rare gem. From the corner of the room, the piano played a cadenza from Mozart's piano concerto no. 20. In D minor, if Berger wasn't mistaken. And he wasn't mistaken, since, like Wittgenstein, he had the gift of perfect pitch.
Berger expertly parted the warm shell with his thumbs and scraped free the slick, pale yellow meat. The loud, guttural sucking sound he made as he popped it into his mouth momentarily drowned out the Mozart.
Berger slowly chewed, maximizing the mouth feel. He loved fresh mussels. So tangy, so of the deep blue sea. The mussels tonight had been accented with a simple and perfect broth of lemon, white wine, and tarragon. The damask napkin tucked into the collar of his shirt was absolutely drenched in the heady broth. It actually heightened the experience.
Most nights, he liked a variety of food courses, but sometimes, like tonight, a fancy would take him, and he would fixate on one item sometimes for hours at a time.
It was like a contest of sorts, a culinary marathon.
He swallowed and burped and dropped the empty mussel shell into the brimming bowl beside him. So many mussels, so little time.
He was lifting up the next dark sea jewel when the music changed. Waiters came in from the kitchen pushing an immense white birthday cake on a rolling silver tray. The sparklers on top sizzled brightly in the dimness of the dining room.
'Nous te souhaitons un joyeux anniversaire,' the staff sang. 'Nos voeux de bonheur profonds et sinceres. Beaucoup d'amour et une sante de fer. Un joyeux anniversaire!'
It was 'Bon Anniversaire,' the French version of the 'Happy Birthday' song.
Berger waved his mussel along to the music like a conductor's baton. It was their way of saying good-bye, he realized. This was his last meal.
After the song was over, and the staff was about to depart, Berger rang his seafood fork loudly against his wineglass.
'No, no. Please. Everyone wait,' Berger said. 'Sommelier, please. Glasses for everyone, including yourself. Fetch the champagne.'
A moment later, carts piled with antique silver ice buckets were wheeled in from the kitchen. Inside the buckets were bottles of '97 Salon Le Mesnil Champagne, the best of the very best. Behind the champagne came the entire staff, all the servers, the table captain, sommelier, maitre d', the chef and prep cooks, even the dishwasher.
Berger nodded. Corks were popped. Glasses filled.
'Over the years, you have treated me with such service, such grace,' Berger said, raising his glass. 'The happiest moments of my life were spent here in this room with you. You have provided me with a luxury, in fact, an entire life, I would never have had or even dreamed of without your impeccable assistance. For that, allow me to say, Skol, Salud, Slainte, and L'Chaim to you all.'
The servers smiled and nodded. The sommelier and maitre d' and the chef clinked glasses and drank and set their glasses down. One by one, everyone filed past and gave Berger their happy regards before departing.
The maitre d' and chef were the last ones to leave.
'My brother, the caterer, will come tomorrow for the tables and chairs, sir,' said the maitre d'. 'It's been a pleasure coming here, into your home, all these years to serve you in this unique way. I hope you were happy with our approximation of a fine dining experience.'
'You did a wonderful job. Truly excellent,' Berger said, impatient to get back to his last plate of mussels.
'Mr. Berger, please just allow me one more moment,' Michel Vasser, the tall, bearded chef said. He was a native of Lyon, had trained at le Cordon Bleu, and had actually won the Bocuse D'Or in the early eighties.
'It really has been a pleasure serving you over the past ten years,' the talented chef said. 'You've been more than generous, especially in your compensation package, and I just wanted to say that-'
As the man prattled on, Berger could take it no longer. He lifted the bread plate beside him. It made a whistling sound as it whizzed past the chef's ear and smashed against the wall.
'Au revoir, mon ami,' Berger said, waving the asshole away.
He waited until he heard the front door open and close before he cracked open another shell.
Chapter 62
'Hey, did a toy come with this Happy Meal?' I asked as I stole a French fry from the Mickey Dee's bag on the dash of Emily's Fed car.
'I wouldn't know. That bag was there when I signed the car out,' Emily teased as she flipped through my notes.
We were now parked down at the West 79th Street Boat Basin. On the dark mirror of the water we could see bobbing sailboats, the black mass of an anchored tanker, and the romantic chandelier-like lights of the George Washington Bridge off to the right. It was a nice secluded parking lot right smack on the Hudson. A notorious lovers' lane, and I knew we'd have it all to ourselves, since we had yet to catch the still-on-the-loose Son of Sam copycat.
As usual, Emily looked amazing, buttoned up in her business-hottie-with-a-nine-millimeter style. She looked fresh as a daisy, even though she'd been busting her tail all day. I could think of worse people to hang out with in a prime make-out spot.
I spat the cold fry into a napkin and looked over at my attractive FBI colleague with feigned hurt.
'Back to business now. Question one: You spoke to the Bronx stabbing victim, right?' Emily said.
'If I don't answer, will you waterboard me?' I said.
'I'd watch my step if I were you.'
'Fine, Aida Morales. Yep, spoke to her. She had a complication with one of her stabbing wounds, so she was actually still at Jacobi Hospital.'
'Did you show her the sketch and Photo Pak of the suspect?'
I nodded.
'She actually spent a lot of time with him, so even though he was wearing a curly Son of Sam wig when he attacked her, she was pretty sure it was the same guy.'
Emily wrinkled her brow at the pages.
'What, if anything, about the victims' families jumps out at you as a possible link?'
'Not much,' I said, looking out at the water. 'Especially on the surface. I mean, we have eight victims, right? Aida Morales, the four people killed in the Grand Central bombing, the double murder of the professor and his lover in Queens, and poor little Angela Cavuto. Four females, four men, five of them blue-collar types, three a little more upscale. You couldn't get a more disparate bunch.'
'But like we agreed,' Emily said, 'only two of the people who died at the newsstand-the owner and the girl who worked there-can be considered targets. The officer who was killed wasn't on his regular post, and the homeless man wasn't known to frequent the area.'
'Okay, fine,' I said. 'Six victims, then, but there's still no obvious connection. Maybe we're digging a dry hole.'
'Family dynamics are one thing we haven't fully looked into, Mike. We have to keep looking.'
Emily stared at me and then started flipping through my notes again. To make myself useful, I started looking through hers. The interview parameters were extensive: socioeconomic status, brothers, sisters, parents, birth order, status of parents, employment history, education.
When the words started to blur, I slapped the folder closed.
'I'm not feeling it. I can't think here. Start the car. I know just the place.'
