“What I want you to start making out on is this stack of repos,” Kearny said, handed him a sheaf of assignments, and left.
With a look of disgust on his face. What’d he ever do that was so wonderful, make him so high and mighty? He grubbed after a buck just like Trin did, right? Just trying to make Morales do everybody else’s repos while they got to do real P.I. work. Still, there were some easy-looking REPO ON SIGHTS here, and it was a cinch to dummy up bogus expenses for a REPO ON SIGHT.
When Giselle left the Transamerica Tower, on her own after six days constantly with others, she drove around in what she thought was an aimless manner through the city she loved.
Out Columbus and at Tower Records taking Bay up over the far shoulder of Russian Hill. Waiting patiently for a cable car to rattle down the Hyde Street hill to the turnaround at Aquatic Park. Moored out at the end of Hyde Street Pier, the restored clipper ship Balclutha looking ready to head off around the Horn.
Fluffy clouds peeked over the tops of the far Marin hills, Alcatraz Island was like some lumpy old warship abandoned in the middle of the bay. It was a bright, beautiful spring day, happy people crowding the weekend streets.
Oh, hell. After making the suggestion to Kearny just to bug him, Giselle couldn’t get the thought out of her mind. What if Frank Nugent did try to poison the fish or something at the banquet? At Franklin she swerved into Fort Mason, a small, jewel-like former army base snuggled between Aquatic Park and the Marina. Not too many years before, white-gloved M.P.’s had stopped cars entering the base with a salute and a question about their destination. Now it was National Park land, the gates untended.
The divided road was lined with flowering plums. She turned right into narrow eucalyptus-shaded MacArthur, looped around to park near a sprawling yellow wooden building. Originally the post commander’s residence, for many years it had been the Fort Mason Officers Club for commissioned officers and their guests.
Now it was open to the general public, rented for that night by Bernardine Rochemont for her banquet in honor of her son’s... what? Almost a coming-out party, Giselle thought; today I am a man. Half a billion bucks says so.
She picked her way through sunlight and dapple under big overarching trees, went down the side of the building past an impressive array of garbage pails into the organized madness of the sprawling kitchen. Great smells, chefs in white jackets and tall hats zipping back and forth between stoves, ovens, freezers, man-size refrigerators and counters covered with food.
As she wandered through the bedlam, terribly tempted to stick a finger into this pot, grab something off that platter, a uniformed rent-a-cop popped up in front of her.
“Hold it right there, ma’am. I’ll have to know your business here.”
Giselle was delighted that Bernardine actually had employed security; apparently she was not as convinced as Kearny that all danger was past for Paul. Giselle hauled out the miniaturized photocopy of her state P.I.’s license.
“Personal security for Mrs. Rochemont, checking up.” She gave him a stern nod. “Good work. Carry on.”
But she had gone only a few steps before she was face-to-face with a bristling red-faced man who could only be a pastry chef. He had a Frenchman’s supercilious sneer, magnificent mustache, and irritated manner.
“Que faites-vous in my kitchen?” he thundered.
Giselle was unfazed. “Private investigator employed by Mrs. Rochemont to check security. I’m glad to see she has hired an additional guard to protect her son this evening.”
He looked at her as if she were mad. “Her son? What do I care for her son? Sacré bleu, ce n’est pas pour... It is I who have paid for security, madame. I moi-même have hired this private gendarme to protect my piece de résistance.”
He gestured proudly, with a great flourish, to a secluded corner of the kitchen where the guard now stood next to a circle of drawn curtains hanging from hooks in the ceiling. Giselle started toward it, was sidetracked by a tray of vol au vent that lay temptingly on the table beside her.
The chef couldn’t help noticing her admiration. He snapped his fingers at a sous-chef working nearby.
“Pâté,” he ordered.
The sous-chef scurried over and piped pate into the form with a flourish, topping it gracefully with a real honest-to-goodness truffle. He slipped the filled pastry cup onto a plate and handed it to the chef.
The chef handed it to Giselle.
“I have been testing the oven,” he said in deprecation. “Température is très important.”
“Yummy!” Giselle could have eaten the whole tray.
“Mais oui. Yummy. But not as magnifique as...” He nodded toward the corner with its circle of curtains.
She shook her head regretfully and took out her ID again.
“I’m sorry, I really need to look at it. I have to check the premises thoroughly before the guests arrive.”
The chef was aghast. “I wish my creation to be a surprise. Would you break the egg before the chick was ready to be born?”
“It is as much in the interest of your supreme creation as it is in my interest.”
“Ah!” The chef was grave. “Bon!”
With a sideways toss of the head, he motioned the guard to stand aside. He drew the curtains wide with a flourish. Inside was a fantastic cylinder of baked meringue six feet in diameter and four feet deep, covered with a lid of more baked meringue.
“What is it?” Giselle asked.
“Maintenant it is nothing. But when, at the last possible moment, I fill it with whipped cream, crème glacé and fraises, it will be a Viennese windtorte that will astound tout le monde.”
“Then it is empty.”
“Mais oui.”
There were not too many times Giselle felt foolishly punctilious, but this was one. She made a hesitant gesture.
“Would you... please...”
The chef nodded gravely, went to the sink and washed his hands. He came back drying them on a fresh towel, lifted the top by a delicate baked meringue swirl that functioned as a handle.
Giselle leaned forward to look into the fragile depths without touching the shell itself. On the inside, unlike the decorated exterior, she could see the engineering: ring after ring of meringue baked and mortared together with more meringue, then rebaked in its final grand dimensions.
It was quite empty. She looked up to see the chef watching her. He waggled a finger at her.
“You must give away mon secret to absolument no one.”
Giselle put a finger to her lips and nodded her promise, then asked, “How will you prepare the strawberries?”
“Voilà!” He ladled rosy sauce into a small bowl. It tasted of strawberries and fine cognac and other unfathomable mysteries. He said complacently, “This, too, is a secret.”
Giselle checked the rest of the premises thoroughly. Then stuck around just in case... Certainly not just to sample more incredible cuisine and practice her rusty French on the pastry chef. Mais non. Absolument non!
Having trashed Morales, Dan Kearny was back at his desk in the Saturday-deserted DKA office, a cup of steaming coffee, his half-full ashtray, and a pack of smokes on his desk blotter. Having a hard time keeping his mind on the sadly overdue billing.