and urbane Mr. Summers with various unruly young celebrity stoners. Thus was born Gentlemen Prefer Bongs, whose success transformed Eugene into America’s ex officio arbiter of taste and propriety in everything from grooming to etiquette to wine pairing.
In his message, when he had called her back from his Chelsea loft, Summers seemed thrilled to have heard from Cindy Trope’s little girl and agreed to meet for lunch. Rook couldn’t have been happier, too. Not only was he addicted to the series, but on the way to the restaurant, he had said to Nikki, “What do you think the odds are this is going to be one of those cases where the butler did it? Because I could sell that story to any magazine in the country just for the headline.”
Of course, when they met at his table, Nikki heard the obligatory praise about how much she resembled her mom. Rook, who regularly hobnobbed with Hollywood A-listers and blockbuster music icons, just grinned like a dope as he shook hands with the reality star. Heat prayed he wouldn’t embarrass her by asking her to take a photo of the two of them.
They began on a somber note with Eugene’s condolences to Nikki for the loss of her mother, and his disbelief at the deaths of Nicole and, now, Tyler Wynn. “I got a call about Tyler when I woke up Sunday morning. I’m still reeling.” He made a brave face and sat tall. “However, I am reminded of the words of Oliver Wendell Holmes, who said, ‘Good Americans when they die, go to Paris.’”
Nikki found it interesting that he was still in the loop. “May I ask who told you about Wynn’s death?”
“Not by name. Let’s say a mutual acquaintance.”
“Were you and Tyler Wynn close?” she asked.
“Once. But we hadn’t seen each other, oh, in ages. But he’s a man you hold in your heart.”
Heat said, “I guess this leads us to where I want to start. Were you part of this Nanny Network of Tyler’s that my mother was in?”
“Not that I don’t want to cooperate, Detective, I do,” said Summers, “but you put me in an awkward position.”
“You took an oath not to divulge secrets?” asked Heat.
“Oath or not, I’m preternaturally discreet. It’s not just professional, I have personal standards.” Then he saw her disappointment. “But despair not. For Cindy’s daughter, I can bend the rules. I’ll speak in generalities. Or use non-denial denials. For example, to the question you just asked, my answer is that I’m sworn not to say. And that tells you exactly what you want to know, doesn’t it?”
“Good enough,” said Nikki.
Summers noticed Rook absently playing leapfrog, as he often did, with his knife and spoon, and fixed a chastening look on him. Rook ceased and said, “Wow, just like the show. Did you see, Nikki? I just got the Summers Stare.” Then he pleaded to the TV butler, “Give me the catchphrase. Come on, just once? Please?”
“Very well.” Summers arched a brow and delivered a haughty “How uncouth.”
“Effing awesome.” Rook laughed with glee but settled when he saw Nikki stare, and said, “Continue. Please.”
Heat formulated a question according to the rules. “Let’s say- if you had been in this network-would you recall the names of some of the enemies whose homes became infiltrated?”
“ If I had working knowledge of that network I’d probably take a wild guess and suppose that not everyone spied on was an enemy. Intelligence-gathering is often back channel, so the subjects of surveillance might just as likely be diplomats or businesspeople ripe with information. Or merely social friends of an enemy.”
“And what about my mother? If you had been in a position to know, would you know the names of the subject homes she infiltrated?”
“Sorry. If I had known such information I didn’t retain it. And that’s flat-out true. I would have had my own full plate.”
“What about when this picture was taken in London? Was she there to spy on her patron family?”
“Again, I can’t say.”
“Same for Nicole Bernardin?”
“Afraid so.”
Rook said, “Can I play this word game, too? You said if you had known such information, you didn’t retain it. If you were in a position to find out what a fellow spy was working on, how would you guess that you-or someone — would do that?”
“Well played, Mr. Rook.”
“I have a headache,” he said.
“I would imagine, like any close friends in their twenties moving about Europe, social contact would be important. No Twitter back then. So systems probably developed. Mail and phone calls would be out of the question due to surveillance, so I would guess…,” he paused and winked, “that enterprising kids would communicate their whereabouts and sensitive information through a series of unorthodox secret mail stashes. Let’s call them drop boxes.”
“A drop box,” repeated Rook. “You mean like a loose brick in the town square with a chalk mark on it?”
The famous butler pinched his face into a sour grimace. “Oh, please. That is so Maxwell Smart.”
Nikki asked, “How, then?”
“I suppose,” he said with another wink, “that each member might have had his or her own signature drop and might find unique means to communicate its secret location so the bad guys couldn’t figure it out.”
Images surfaced in Heat’s mind of her mom’s and Nicole’s ransacked apartments. Plus the phone call to the Bernardins from a Mr. Seacrest looking for a package. “If you had such knowledge, would my mother or Nicole have drop boxes other than in Europe? Let’s say-hypothetically-here in New York?”
“That I wouldn’t know. I would have left the network by then- if I had been in it in the first place.” Another wink, why not?
“When might that have been, if you’d left it?” Rook asked.
“Late nineties.” Then he added with a chuckle, “ If.”
“Would you have still been in Europe when her mother was killed?”
“That’s where I was when I heard the news, yes.” Summers thought some more and said to Rook, “Did you just ask me for my alibi?” Then he turned to Nikki. “Is that what this was for? To check me out as a suspect?”
“No, not at all,” said Heat.
“Well, it feels like it to me. And I have to say, as someone who came here out of respect and in good faith, that I am insulted. If you wish to speak with me again, it will be along with my attorney. Excuse me.” Heads in the restaurant turned from red pear salads and chicken and waffles as Eugene Summers scraped the feet of his chair from the table and stormed out.
Rook leaned down and plucked the butler’s napkin off the floor. He held it up and said, “How uncouth.”
Nikki flipped to a fresh page in her spiral and made a note to have someone check the whereabouts of Eugene Summers on the murder dates. If only to dot the i on the if.
Heat had just finished double-parking her Crown Victoria on West 82nd with the other double-parked undercover cars outside the precinct, when Lauren Parry called her on her cell phone. “Got a second, Nikki?” Her voice sounded constricted and low. Something was up. Nikki waved at Rook to go inside ahead of her and leaned on her car. “This is not a good news call, Nik,” said her pal, the medical examiner. “I really, really have to apologize.”
“What’s up?”
“It’s the toxicity test on Nicole Bernardin. It’s ruined.”
“You’re going to have to help me here, Lauren. I’ve never heard about a tox test getting ruined. What’s that mean?”
“Just what it sounds like. Something went wrong in the lab. You know how we put blood and fluids through tests using gases to screen for chemicals and toxins in the system of the deceased?”
“If you say so.”
“Well, that’s what we do. And somehow, the gases got screwed up. The supply of pressurized gas canisters that got delivered was contaminated, and now we cannot lab Nicole’s body chemistry. I feel awful. Nothing like this has ever happened before.”
Nikki said, “Don’t beat yourself up. Unless you are the one responsible for gas delivery. You aren’t, are you?”
