“Semen on the carpet, on the wall of the room, and on her uniform. Sort of supports what she’s saying, don’t you think? And they’ll have DNA results by the end of the day.”
“So I guess he missed his plane,” Luc mused, stabbing another piece of the salad.
“To the contrary. The entire episode with the maid took twenty minutes, start to finish.”
“Not exactly a seduction, even for the most convincing Frenchman.”
“The hotel surveillance photos have him rushing out a bit later, toothpaste smeared across his cheek. A quick dinner with his daughter and he actually made it to the airport in time to board. If it wasn’t for the thick fog at JFK and an hour’s flight delay, he’d have reached home and be having brunch with his wife just about now.”
“I can’t imagine what makes that such an important case in the States,” Luc said, pushing the salad aside in anticipation of his langouste. “She’s just a chambermaid, after all.”
I hoped my sunglasses concealed the expression in my eyes. “I see. So that makes her-what? Not worthy of belief? Not entitled to justice? Or makes the perp too powerful to have our system bother with her?”
“No, no, darling.” Luc was searching for a way to back off his obvious prejudice. “I just mean it’s not international news, really, is it? That’s why Battaglia isn’t looking for you. Maybe one day of tabloid headlines, then back to business. Not likely to make the light of day in the French press.”
“I’ll bet you tonight’s caviar that you’re wrong.”
Luc was enjoying himself now. “And I was going to order up the finest beluga. Almas caviar, from Iran. It’s white, and among the rarest in the world. Shall we say a small tin for twenty-five thousand?”
“I’ll settle for something a little more subtle.”
“And why do you think you can win? It’s only seven in the morning in New York. I guess by dinnertime here we’ll have a clue.”
“Maybe if I tell you his name, you’ll concede on the spot.”
“So you buried the lede, did you? You know who he is?”
“I’m certainly betting that you do,” I said, as the waiter approached with a tray and Luc nodded approval of the large grilled langoustes that were set in front of us.
“I hope you don’t spoil my appetite, Alex. Who’s the guy?”
“Mohammed Gil-Darsin.”
Luc lost all interest in lunch and focused his attention on me. He let out a low whistle, clearly surprised by hearing the name. “MGD? The detectives must be pulling your leg, darling. It simply can’t be.”
“Why is that?”
“Well-well, he’s-uh-he’s brilliant, for one thing. He’s very popular in France, not to mention his political future at home. He’s got a fabulous wife.” Luc was stammering he was so agitated. “Mo’s a player, all right-but-uh-that’s different. I simply don’t believe he’d rape anyone. He wouldn’t have to, Alex. He’s quite attractive. Brains, power, money-all of that. I mean, really, darling-a chambermaid?”
I sat back on my chair and exhaled. It was as though every conversation I’d had with Luc about my work since we’d met had gone in one ear and out the other. If this was his attitude, I knew how most people hearing the news would also react.
“Do you know him?” I asked.
“Papa Mo has lived in a villa in Grasse for thirty years.” Grasse was the town adjacent to Mougins, whose thousands of acres of jasmine and hyacinth had long made it the perfume capital of the world. “He was my father’s client long before he was mine.”
“He was a dictator, Luc. And a thief.”
“A scoundrel, maybe. I didn’t care much for his politics, but he’s a charming man.”
“I asked if you know MGD.”
Luc looked away from me, at a distant point out in the bay. “Of course I do, Alex, though not very well. He isn’t a close friend or anything like that. He’s a client, a customer. He was just in the restaurant for dinner a week ago.”
SEVEN
I had no appetite for lunch. Luc, it was clear, was happier eating than talking to me.
The sun, the champagne, and the lack of sleep the night before combined to knock me out on the lounge chair. When I opened my eyes an hour later, Luc was napping also.
Nina Baum, my college roommate-and still my best friend-had tried to put the brakes on my love affair with Luc. She liked him and understood what I found so appealing about him-his intelligence and accomplishments, his great sense of style and adventure, his romantic courtship of me-Nina got all that.
But she worried about the superficial nature of our relationship. I had no time for Luc when I was experiencing the demands of a trial that required all my intellectual energy and emotion. And I had little understanding of a career that appeared to be so glamorous, in contrast to mine, with problems no greater than overcooking the entrée or recommending the wrong wine-a career designed to provide pleasure to a consumer for as many hours as a great meal lasted.
As Luc worked ferociously hard to open a new business in New York, I had come to appreciate the demands on a restaurant owner and many of the obstacles in the way of success. Had he absorbed nothing about the somewhat bizarre but fascinating professional world that gave me such great satisfaction?
He lifted his head and squinted at me. “Where are you, Alex? What are you thinking?”
“Nothing serious. I’m mesmerized by the view.”
“That’s as it should be,” he said, reaching over to me and squeezing my hand. “Another hour? This is the only spot in the world where I think I can let go of everything and nap.”
“Fine with me.”
On the other hand, my great friend Joan Stafford was entirely in favor of the way I had plunged headlong into this relationship. The writer and her husband, Jim Hageville, a world-renowned journalist, had married at my home on the Vineyard. Luc was a longtime friend of Jim’s-which added instant respectability to his credentials-and we met at my home on their wedding day. As much as Joan championed my legal career, now she was rooting for me to give up the often grueling work of the courtroom and move here to Mougins permanently to be with Luc.
When I’d boarded the flight to Nice the night before last, I was entirely in sync with Joan’s plan. But at this very moment, I thought Nina was right. I was in love with a man I hardly knew. The aspects of the long-distance romance that made it so exciting and titillating were also the very things that made it impossible to get inside each other’s daily life and routine.
I looked at my watch. It was two-thirty on a Sunday afternoon, and eight-thirty in the morning at home. I felt a tinge of regret about agreeing to stay off my BlackBerry during this trip. Mike and Mercer came from backgrounds as different from mine as one could imagine, but we had the same respect for the criminal justice system and the same value for the dignity of human life. Both of them had helped train me-every bit as much as the lawyers from whom I’d learned-in the art of investigating cases, in the search for the truth that characterized the way a great prosecutor’s office worked. Mike’s call-and Luc’s response-had unsettled me.
I rolled on my side away from Luc and covered my shoulders with a yellow-and-white-striped beach towel. I wondered whether Lisette’s body had been removed from the edge of the pond yet, and if there were any forensic experts in this area who would assist in the death investigation.
The anxiety gnawed at me until I pushed this morning’s images out of my mind, and I fell asleep again. I didn’t awaken until Luc kissed me on the top of my head.
“It’s almost four o’clock. Another swim and we go?”
I stretched my arms up in the air to reach Luc’s face. “It’s warmer in the pool. At the speed you drive that thing, I’ll form icicles on the way up to Mougins if I get wet here.”
“Off we go, then. I’ve got all those hungry mouths to feed.”