"I forgot to ask. I guess I did feel rushed."
"Did he pay her with cash, or by check, or with a credit card?"
"Don't know."
"She couldn't have been the first woman he'd hired, you think? I doubt you grilled him about any of the others. Might be good to talk to them."
Mike was right. I should have pressed Ackerman harder. If he'd actually succeeded in killing himself, Mike wouldn't have had this second chance.
"Then there's the big question."
"What's that?"
"Cloth or paper or plastic."
I smiled and leaned my head against the car window.
"Really, Coop. Imagine if Amber had been Pampered to death with plastic diapers. Open-and-shut case against Herb Ackerman. All the news that's fit to print," Mike said. "You'll be fine, kid. I'll get you home. You ought to take a nap."
"I guess I need it."
"Grab one of the girls and go to a movie tonight. Get your mind off this."
"I've got a friend in from out of town. We're having dinner together."
"You're not holding out on me, are you? It isn't Nina or Joan?"
My closest friends adored Mike. They liked his intelligence and his humor, his intolerance for bullshit and bureaucracy, the tenacity and spirit with which he kept at one of the most difficult jobs imaginable.
"Keep them away from you if they were in town? Not a prayer," I said. I hadn't told Mercer or Mike about Luc. "And you, are you covering for anyone tonight?"
"You know me, I'm always looking for OT." The overtime money was good, and Mike was usually happy to double up on his shifts.
Half an hour later, at two in the afternoon, Mike pulled in front of my building and I thanked him again for getting me out of harm's way.
"Will you call me if anything interesting turns up over the weekend?"
"We don't want 'interesting,' Coop. No bones, no blowflies, no bullets, no bodies."
He pulled out of the driveway and the doorman handed me an envelope. "The messenger who delivered this asked me to tell you it was urgent.
SEVENTEEN
The note inside the padded envelope was written in bold calligraphy that I had come to recognize these past two months
Confirm package ordered to arrive Plaza Athénée, at the Bar Seine, at seven-thirty tonight. Needs food, wine immediately…and occasional affection. Driver will be downstairs to make pickup. Pack contents carefully to avoid melting in transit.
The card was attached to a large brass key with a red ribbon. I fanned myself with Luc Rouget's missive as I rode up in the elevator. We had met in June at the Martha's Vineyard wedding of one of my best friends, Joan Stanton. She had despaired of a string of broken relationships following the death of my fiancé, Adam Nyman, shortly after my graduation from law school. Luc and Joan's husband had known each other for years, and her plan to surprise me with an introduction made a romantic weekend even more emotionally charged.
Since the night we met, I had seen Luc three other times in New York. He was the son of a renowned French restaurateur, and although he lived in Mougins, a tiny village perched high in the Alps, he was making frequent trips to the city with the prospect of reestablishing his father's classic dining spot.
Inside my apartment, I turned up the air-conditioning and immediately began to fill the bathtub with warm water, adding scented potions to make loads of bubbles. I needed to create an artificial wall to distance both the horrors of the last week and this morning's scare from a personal life that too often took a backseat to my work.
There were three messages on the answering machine-all from Luc-and I played them as I undressed.
The first one was a fuzzy cell call from the international arrivals terminal at JFK, shortly before noon. The second, during his cab ride into the city, expressed his concern that he had spoken to Laura, who told him I wouldn't be in the office at all that day.
"Luc here, Alexandra. I'm beginning to worry now that one of your cases might change our plans," he said on his third try. "It's Friday afternoon, and I have to leave for DC in the morning. I'm in meetings all afternoon. Please call. I'm hoping I've found a way to unlock some of your secrets, ma chère."
His French accent was always a turn-on.
On Martha's Vineyard I kept a collection of old keys on my desk- from flea markets and antique shops-to use as paperweights. Luc must have seen them after Joan and Jim's wedding.
I left a voice mail for him at the hotel before I slipped into the tub.
I felt better after a long, soothing bath and an attempt at a nap. But I was too wired to sleep, excited by my feelings for Luc-feelings I hadn't experienced in more than a year.
Joan and my friend Nina were determined to help me find a balance between my private life and the intensity of the prosecutorial job. I liked the emotional involvement of my work, but it was difficult to translate how richly rewarding it could be to someone who'd had no experience with the dark world of sex crimes and homicides.
It was an admittedly odd juxtaposition. When I closed my eyes to think about kissing Luc, I had to force out thoughts of the two dead women whose killers we were trying to find. I could remember every word Luc had whispered to me that first night on the Vineyard, but the staccato sound of gunshots still reverberated in my ears, even in the quiet space of my home.
There was something so easy, so comfortable about spending time with friends who were prosecutors and detectives. There was no need to explain how we coped with the trauma that we witnessed almost every day, or to applaud our efforts to help put people's lives back together, or to question our often Sisyphean interest in bringing the guilty to justice.
I needed to leave some of that baggage at home when I walked out the door to meet Luc.
I wore a strapless sundress that always lightened my mood when I put it on. It was aqua silk, with a swing skirt that just touched the top of my knees. My legs were tanned and it was too hot for pantyhose, so I chose a pair of black patent sandals with thin straps and high heels. I carried a sequined throw over my shoulders, in the unlikely event it cooled down during the evening.
I took a last look at myself in the mirror, then pulled back my hair, sweeping it off my neck into a knot and clipping it in place with a beaded barrette.
"There's a car service waiting for you, Ms. Cooper," the doorman said when I came downstairs.
"Thanks, Vinny."
He held the door open and whistled for the driver to pull up. "Glad you're taking the night off. That's a tough schedule you've been keeping."
Even the doormen knew I needed to get a life.
It was a fast ride to the elegant hotel on Sixty-fourth Street and Madison Avenue. Bright red awnings and neatly trimmed topiary marked the entrance, and I stopped to reapply my lipstick before I went into the lobby.
Bar Seine was one of the most attractive rooms in the city. Dark wood paneling gave it a rich, warm look, and the low lighting and soft music added to its appeal. As soon as I stood in the doorway, Luc came forward to greet me.
"Bon soir, Alexandra," he said, taking me in his arms and kissing both my cheeks several times. "I've been looking forward to this for weeks. I'd have been-how do you say? Désolé-there's nothing in English that quite captures that expression. I don't know what I would have done if you'd thrown me over for another case."
Luc guided me to a banquette in a corner of the room. Before we sat, he lifted my fingers in the air and twirled me once around. "You look ravishing. I've kept the driver, so perhaps we'll go dancing after supper."
"Lovely idea."
"Une coupe?"
"Oui, monsieur."
There was a bottle of champagne chilling in a cooler. The waiter saw us sit down and came over to pop the cork.
"That's the last thing I'm going to say in French." Luc had made fun of my accent on our second date, despite years I spent studying the language in high school and college.