“How romantic.”
“Paris, baby,” he said, and they raced each other bare.
NINE
Lysette Bernardin picked up Heat’s phone call sounding wary and frail, which she attributed not to age but to the soul-crushing grief Nikki had heard in the voices of so many families of murder victims over time. The old woman spoke excellent English and brightened when she learned that the caller was the daughter of her dear Nicole’s best friend, Cynthia. Her husband was at a doctor’s appointment for his new hip until early afternoon. Madame Bernardin gave Heat the address on Boulevard Saint-Germain near Rue du Dragon and they fixed two P.M. for a visit.
They took a taxi-a new Mercedes-to the Left Bank and had the driver drop them not far from the Bernardins’ apartment so they could have some lunch before their meeting. Rook had his mind on reliving the Rive Gauche writer’s experience, either at Les Deux Magots or Cafe de Flore. Both were crowded with tourists. Even the iconic sidewalk tables were hemmed in by rolling carry-on luggage. They opted for an open table across the boulevard at Brasserie Lipp, which Johnny Depp had told Rook also once served as a hangout for the likes of Hemingway, Proust, and Camus. “Can you imagine waiting on an existentialist?” asked Rook. “‘What will you have, Mr. Camus, the steak tartare or the escargots?’ ‘Oh… What does it matter?’”
Heat checked her watch. “One o’clock here. In New York, they should be in the precinct by now.” She tapped in the international code and called Raley’s cell.
“Hey,” said the detective. “Or should I say, bonjour? I was just going to call you. How’s your jet lag?”
“I have been living my life jet lagged. I can no longer tell. Why were you going to call?” Heat got out her notepad, hopeful something would be worth writing down.
“I’ll give you the good news first. Forensics called and said they confirmed gunpowder residue on that glove Ochoa found. Also paint particles that may match your front door. The pigment’s right, but they won’t know for certain until this afternoon.”
Nikki covered the mouthpiece and relayed the information to Rook, then said, “OK, Rales, let’s hear the bad news.”
“Hang on.” After some rustling and the sound of a door opening and closing, he continued, accompanied by reverb, which made her picture him seeking privacy in the back hall off the bull pen. “It’s Irons. Now that the glove looks like it might bust a lead, he’s pulled Team Roach off Forensics watch.”
“Please, not Hinesburg.”
“Not that bad, but close. Captain’s taking it over himself. Lab’s still working on finding fingerprints on it, but if they do, the Iron Man is poised for glory.”
Inside, Nikki fumed, but kept a light touch with her detective. “I can’t leave town for one day, can I?” His laugh echoed in the hall, and she said, “Look, it is what it is. Thanks for the update, and keep me posted.”
The waiter had been standing by until she hung up, and when he arrived, Rook gestured to Nikki and said, “Want me to handle this?”
“No, I’ll blunder through.” She turned to the waiter and said flawlessly, “ Bonjour, monsieur. Je voudrais deux petits plats, s’il vous plait. La salade de frisee, et apres, les pommes de terre a l’huile avec les harengs marine. ”
Rook composed himself, muttered “ Deux,” and handed the menus back. “Wow, I had no idea.”
“Once again,” she said.
“Full of surprises.”
“I have always loved the language. They even let me skip French Four in high school. But there’s no substitute for immersing yourself and speaking it with the locals.”
“When did you do that?”
“On my college semester abroad. I had been in Venice most of the time, but Petar and I came here for a month before I went back to Northeastern.”
“Ah, Petar. Shall we set a place for him?”
“God, drop the shoe, Sparky. So you know? Jealousy? Totally unattractive.”
“I’m not a jealous guy, you know.”
“Oh, right. Let’s run down your list of hot buttons: Petar? Don? Randall Feller?”
“OK, now, he’s different. That guy’s name says it all. Randy Feller? I’m just sayin’.”
“I think you’re ‘just sayin” a lot.”
He brooded, fumbling with his silverware, playing one-handed leapfrog with his forks, then finally said, “You named three. Is that about it?”
“Rook, are you seriously asking me my number? Because if you are, that’s going to open up a ginormous subject. That’s defining for a relationship. It’s going to mean talk. Lots and lots of talk. And even if you’re willing to go there right now and put in that work, I’d ask myself one thing, first: How many surprises can you handle in forty-eight hours?”
He saw the waiter coming and said, “You know what I think we should do? Let’s just relax and enjoy whatever the hell it was you ordered.”
“ Merveilleux,” she said.
Monsieur and Madame Bernardin greeted them in the foyer of their spacious apartment, a duplex comprising the top two stories of their six-floor building. In spite of the Left Bank’s Bohemian pedigree, that stretch of Boulevard Saint-Germain whispered unpretentious wealth tidily wrapped in Louis XV facades. The block of apartments rose above street-level shops that were limited to elegant necessities. In this neighborhood, it would be easier to find a wine boutique or seamstress than a place to get a tattoo or Brazilian wax. The couple, in their mid- eighties, reflected the neighborhood in their attire. Both were smartly dressed in understated classics: a black cashmere pullover and tailored slacks for her; a maroon sweater vest under a butterscotch corduroy blazer pour monsieur. No velvet smoking jackets, but these were certainly not matching-track-suit seniors, either.
Lysette accepted the small bouquet of white lilies Nikki had bought on their walk there with a mix of thanks at the kindness of her gesture and sadness at their grave symbolism. Emile rasped a heavily accented “This way, please,” and they followed him as he hobbled to the living room and his wife disappeared in search of a vase. As they sat, he apologized for his slowness, blaming a recent hip replacement. She returned with the flowers and placed them on a corner table with some other condolence arrangements that surrounded a framed photo of their daughter. To Heat’s eye, the portrait was identical to the New England Conservatory yearbook photocopy in her murder file.
“Thank you for seeing us today,” said Nikki in French. “I know this is a difficult time, and we are truly sorry for your loss.” The old couple facing them on the couch took each other’s hand simultaneously and held it comfortably. They were both thin and small like Nicole, but seemed even more so-almost birdlike under the load of mourning their only child.
They thanked Nikki, and Emile suggested they continue in English, as they were both fluent and could see that M. Rook would like to be more included. He limped around the coffee table with a bottle of Chorey-les-Beaune to pour into the wineglasses that had been set beside a small plate of petits fours in anticipation of the visit. After a muted toast and polite sips, Lysette set her glass down, eyes riveted on Nikki. “Pardon me for staring, but you look so much like your mother,” Heat heard again. “It is so strange for me to sit here across from you, who are occupying the same chair Cynthia liked to use. The sensation is as if time had… what is the word…?”
“Warped,” said her husband, and the pair smiled and nodded in unison. “We cared very much for Cindy, but I am sure you know that.”
“Actually, this is all new to me. I’d never met your daughter and my mother never mentioned her to me.”
“That is odd,” said Lysette.
“I agree. Did my mother and Nicole have some sort of falling out at some point? Anything that might have caused them to become estranged?”
The Bernardins looked at each other and shook no. “ Au contraire,” Emile said. “As far as we knew, their
