“I love this idea. Thanks a million.” I knew Mike had a purpose-beyond his palate-in this venue. He, too, had benefitted from Ken’s generosity, and he undoubtedly wanted to get the restaurateur’s insights on what had been happening in Luc’s world.
We cruised uptown and found parking easily on East 46th Street, right in front of Patroon. Ken and his wife, Di, one of my dearest friends, were greeting guests in the main dining room. The chic-looking crowd in the plush banquettes reflected the glow of the understated lighting from the wall sconces, showing off one of the most distinguished photography collections in any public space in the country.
Stephane, the stunningly efficient captain who had been with the Aretskys for the fifteen years since they’d opened their doors, directed us to the Humidor Room on the second floor. Although he and I always addressed each other in his native French, I didn’t want to hear a word of that language this evening.
The entire level on two was a suite of handsome rooms of different sizes, all for private parties. The intimacy of this one, with its Spanish cedarwood and spotless mirrors, was one of my favorites.
“Totally my fault last night,” Mike said, hands up in the air like he was surrendering to the local sheriff.
“My idea to take your quarrel out onto the street,” Mercer said. “My bad.”
“Gentlemen, gentlemen. Let’s not all fall on our swords at one time. I’ve been pretty stupid about some of this.”
“Damn right you have, kid. We’ll regroup tonight.”
“Up here?” I asked.
“No, but behind that sleek bit of cabinetry, there’s a door with a flat-screen TV.”
Mercer opened it and turned on the television, muting the set while we waited for Final Jeopardy!
“So my day was as busy as yours,” Mike said. “And I’d need a flying carpet to keep up with Luc’s partners.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Peter Danton for starters. The guy can’t sit still. He’s gone for two weeks every month. His usual flight pattern is New York to Ghana. Roams around West Africa.”
“That’s his business, Mike.”
“Don’t be so thin-skinned, Coop. I’m just laying out the facts,” Mike said. “He picks up again from Senegal to the south of France, before going on to Paris and home.”
“Nothing unusual about that.”
“Then you got Gina Varona. South of France, Paris, Milan.”
“All fashion and cosmetics.”
“And friends and food, Coop. I get it.”
“Do their trips overlap?”
“Rarely,” Mike said. “But the Brooklyn techs got a new name from Luc today. A new player. Jim Mulroy.”
“That’s not new at all. I know Jim. I mean I met him on Sunday. He’s the wine buyer. That’s his business.”
“Yeah? Well, he’s been all over the place, too. And begging for a piece of the action.”
“How do you mean?”
“He wants a cut of the partnership, behind Varona and Danton. His last trip was Paris, Lyons, Mougins, Bordeaux,” Mike said, flipping through his pad.
“Everywhere I’d expect a wine merchant to be,” I said.
“Lille, too?” This time, it was a question, no doubt prompted by today’s news about MGD.
“Beer country,” I said, crestfallen. And then, hoping to save Mulroy from any hint of the scandal, I added an idea. “Although Lille’s right in the heart of where the best champagnes come from-between Reims and Troyes.”
Mike looked at his watch and then the television.
Trebek had already revealed the blue screen with the final category and was reading it aloud for the second time as the volume came on. “Presidential Shelter.”
“Who knows what they mean by that one,” Mike said. “Twenty only.”
Stephane reappeared with a drink for each of us. We clinked glasses and Mercer toasted to a speedy solution to Luc’s predicament.
“Here’s your answer, folks,” Trebek said. “‘These two islands were the sites of fallout shelters built in 1961 for JFK during soviet face-offs.’ We’re looking for two islands.”
The musical timer ticked away while the three contestants scratched their heads and screwed up their noses.
“You got any fallout shelters on the Vineyard, Alex?” Mercer asked. “That would have been close to the summer White House in Hyannis.”
“No such thing on my little island. I’ve never heard of this. Doesn’t the White House have its own bunker?”
“Built during WWII,” Mike said, “to protect FDR. You got it.”
“So where could these be?” I asked, grateful for the diversion from the serious work of this week.
“Is that an ‘I give up,’ Coop?”
“Why, is your Cold War trivia as good as the real military stuff you know? And yes, I’ve given up on just about everything.”
“What is Nantucket?” Mercer asked. “That has to be one of them.”
“You’re halfway there,” Mike said.
Trebek was shaking his head at the three women, who seemed frozen behind their podiums. None of them were writing.
“What are Nantucket-and Peanut Island?” Mike asked.
“Now, that one comes straight from your twisted imagination,” Mercer said to him.
“No takers?” Trebek said. “What are Nantucket-the island off the coast of Cape Cod, where the president and his family summered-and Peanut Island? Peanut Island, for those of you who didn’t know, is a tiny strip directly opposite Millionaire’s Row in Palm Beach. Nobody guessed that, did you?”
Mike turned off the television. “Yeah, Navy Seabees built the shelter at the end of ’61, as we were ramping up to the Cuban Missile Crisis. Just a helicopter hop from the Kennedy home, on this little island that was meant to be a terminal for shipping peanut oil.”
“Just hearing the word ‘peanut’ makes me hungry,” Mercer said.
“Then let’s chow down.”
“Up here?” I asked.
“Nope,” Mike said. “Follow me.”
The three of us took the tiny elevator down two flights, to the basement. Patroon, too, had a wine cellar with a dining table. It was far more intimate than the space at ‘21,’ and without all the sinister hidden doors and locked rooms. Luc and I had surprised Vickee and Mercer with an anniversary dinner for eight in the divine, candlelit space several months earlier.
“What’s the point of this?” I asked. “Déjà vu, all over again?”
“Ken thought it would give us privacy. I’ve got to bring you up to speed, and he said he’d help us with some answers.”
Stephane brought menus down to us, but we’d eaten at Patroon so many times that we really didn’t need them to order.
“I’ll have the rack of lamb,” Mike said. “Onion rings, whipped potatoes, grilled asparagus.”
“Very good choice, Detective. Did I forget to say ‘ladies first’?” Stephane asked, pointing his pen at Mike. “He just jumped right in ahead of you, Alexandra.”
“He’s a growing boy. And I’d like the thirty-five-day dry aged sirloin, please. Black and blue.”
“Mercer?”
“Dover sole. Grilled.”
“It’s sublime,” Stephane said. “We’re serving it tonight with a caper meunière sauce. Will that be okay for you?”
“Just perfect. Mike’s side dishes will do us all fine.”
“Mr. Aretsky wants to send you a bottle of wine, with his compliments. He said to tell you he’ll be down here shortly.”
Stephane excused himself to place the order. I started peppering Mike with questions.
“What else did you find out today?”
“The lieutenant finally took me off Night Watch. He’s letting me give Brooklyn Homicide a hand. I was there most of the day, with Luc.”
“Thank you so much for being with him. Truly, Mike. I mean it.”
“After they sent him on his way, I began making all the calls. They asked me to reach out to the police captain in Mougins.”
“Jacques Belgarde?”
“Exactly.”
“What does he add?”
“I’m trying to see if there’s any link between Luigi Calamari and Lisette Honfleur. We know they were both in Mougins the night of Luc’s party,” Mike said, “and now they’re both dead.”