Mike looked over his shoulder at me. “Keep your head down, kid. We got a slight detour to make.”
“What time is it?”
“Eleven-fifteen.”
“Can’t the detour wait till tomorrow?”
“Just not possible, Coop.”
“Keith Scully?” I asked. “The commissioner?”
I couldn’t think of any other command appearance we’d have to make at this hour.
“Like that.”
I closed my eyes and rested. “You think Luc’s airborne?”
“Yeah,” Mike said. “He texted to say they made the flight.”
“That’s good.” It relaxed me to know that he was on his way back to France and his sons.
I rolled onto my back. Now I could see many more lights strung out above me, close together. They were hanging from huge cables, arcing up from the roadway to tall columns far above, so I knew we were on a bridge.
“Please don’t tell me, guys,” I said. “Brooklyn?”
“Brooklyn it is,” Mike said.
“Scully insists on talking to us in Brooklyn because of the Gowanus murder?”
“Just go with your imagination, Coop. Let it run wild.”
It wasn’t long until we were off the bridge, driving down the exit ramp. Mercer knew where he was going, so I just rested and tried to conjure up images more pleasant than those of the day.
Three or four minutes later, the car came to a stop. It seemed to be dark all around us. I pushed the quilt off and sat up, trying to get a sense of our surroundings.
I could see that we were between the Brooklyn and Manhattan Bridges, facing the spectacular outline of Manhattan Island, magically lighted against the dark night sky.
Mike got out and opened my door. I slipped my moccasins back on and stood up.
He took my arm and walked me around the station wagon, and all of a sudden hundreds of lights came on just fifty feet in front of us. I gasped at the sight-a gigantic glass box-the size of a small building sitting on the water’s edge, with an old-fashioned carousel inside.
I watched in amazement as the carousel began to turn and the antique painted ponies started to trot. The traditional music of the calliope played, as if the entire scene had come alive just for us. Against the cold facades of the restored warehouses of DUMBO-the Brooklyn neighborhood Down Under the Manhattan Bridge Overpass-this stunning confection stood out like a fairy tale brought to life.
“It’s your ride, Coop,” Mike said. “Let’s get moving.”
“But it was all dark a moment ago.”
A workman was at the door, holding it open for us. The writing in front said JANE’S CAROUSEL. I’d read about it when it opened a few months back. It was a 1922 theme park attraction that had been lovingly restored and installed by the Walentas family, for more than ten million dollars.
“Well, it’s open for business now. You work Night Watch in Brooklyn and pretty soon you find out the world’s your oyster.”
“I’ve got nothing to complain about, Mike,” I said, leaning on his arm. “But let’s forget about oysters and French food for the time being.”
“Pick your pony, Coop.”
The horses were each more magnificent than the others. They were side by side as the carousel spun around, some painted in soft pastels of lemon and coral, one dressed in the armor of a knight’s steed, another outfitted for a cowboy. There must have been close to fifty of them, spinning around inside their dazzling jewel box of a showcase.
Mercer had crossed the street and come back with a large shopping bag. When he returned, they both helped me get up on the moving carousel and held me steady while I climbed onto a palomino every bit as handsome as the horses I’d seen today at Stallion Ridge.
I was riding in the outer lane, beaming as though I’d won the lottery.
Each time we circled, I made out another landmark in the distance. I could see the towers of the criminal courthouse, where yesterday’s slaughter had occurred, and the glittering gilded statue of Fame, high above the municipal offices facing City Hall. The Empire State Building was bathed in its own bright lights, and I could even see the high-rise apartments of the Upper East Side forming a backdrop against the horizon.
Mercer rested the brown bag on the floor next to me. He took three cupcakes out of it, along with a candle and a matchbook.
“Is it still my birthday?” I asked, as I watched him light the single candle.
“You got another twelve minutes to enjoy it, Alex,” Mercer said.
Mike started to sing while Mercer held the cupcake in front of me. I grabbed the pole with one hand and Mercer’s shoulder with the other, gliding up and down with my chosen pony.
“Close your eyes and make a wish,” Mercer said.
“Eyes wide open, guys. I have everything I want right here with me tonight.”
“You’ve got us for life, kid. The three musketeers.”
“They’re too French, Mike. Give me another image.”
“Well, did you hear the man?” Mike said, getting down on his knees, fumbling with something I couldn’t see. “Close your eyes. Wish or don’t wish, that’s up to you.”
I closed my eyes. And as long as they were closed, I made a wish. Then I opened them and blew out the candle that Mercer was holding.
I looked down and saw that Mike had uncorked another bottle of wine, and he handed us each a paper cup full.
“Cheers, Coop. Happy birthday,” Mike said.
“Happy birthday, Alexandra,” Mercer said, as the city spun around before me.
“What did you wish for?”
“If I tell you, I’d have to kill you.”
“That serious?” Mike said, with a laugh, climbing up on the horse next to mine. “Then let me be the last to know.”
“You usually are,” Mercer said, leaning his back against my pony to take in the view.
“You’re forgetting one thing,” Mike said. “The ring.”
I sat bolt upright, like I’d been punched in the gut. “Look, I don’t know what you know about that, but this isn’t the night-”
“Keep your cool, Coop. Lean over next time around. The brass ring is yours if you can pick it off.”
The brass ring of the carousel, I thought to myself. Not Luc’s birthday surprise for me, that Joan Stafford had alerted me to.
Mike was talking about the classic carnival prize-happiness, long life, great friends, good luck.
“You just keep this carousel going till I reach it,” I said.
“Dizzy yet?” Mike asked.
“Not a chance of it. I’m just beginning to feel good again.”
I handed my cup to Mercer, basking in the lights of the city I loved so much. I could see the brass ring hanging from a leather strip on the carousel’s frame, and I grabbed for it every time we circled around.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Jane Stanton Hitchcock is one of my favorite writers. Since I first created Alex Cooper, Jane has helped me plot my way out of difficult corners at all hours of the day and night, allowed me to put words in her mouth as Coop’s friend, Joan Stafford, and feted me with every completed book. Her brilliant husband, Jim Hoagland, has generously tolerated endless conversations about our fictional alter egos. This time, Jane and Jim introduced me to Mohammed Gil-Darsin and set my backstory in motion.
Sometimes my readers ask which characters in my stories are real and which are not. This is a work of fiction, of course, so none of the people portrayed in these pages are “real.” Occasionally, I pay homage to friends for whom I have enormous respect, and they are named as such. One example is the incomparable Andre Soltner-and his wife, Simone-who truly built Lutèce into America’s greatest restaurant, as described in a book by one of my sources, Irene Daria (Lutèce: A Day in the Life of America’s Greatest Restaurant).
But Lutèce was actually created by my dear friend, Andre Surmain, who hired Soltner and later sold the restaurant to him. All the “firsts” Luc Rouget lists to describe his father’s accomplishments were the brainstorms of Surmain-who has four wonderful children, none of whom resembles Luc, nor Luc’s estranged wife, Brigitte. Many, many years ago, I did spend countless delightful hours in the village of Mougins, dining at Le Relais and marveling at the difficulties of keeping a three-star restaurant at the top of its game. So a special thanks to Andre Surmain-a genius at that business, both artist and showman-for such a delicious introduction to the sometimes treacherous world of fine food and wine. And merci again to Andre, Jean-Paul Battaglia, and Mitch and Sarah Rosenthal for those death-defying trips on the Ducati from Mougins all along the Côte d’Azur.