02_Coyote in Provence (13 page)

Interesting. Never would have thought Slade would know the chef at a restaurant that looks like this. This might not be so bad after all.

T
wo nondescript men were waiting for them in the alcove leading into the restaurant. They followed Slade and Darya as they walked to the maître d’s desk. “Slade Kelly, party of five,” he said.

“Right this way, sir. Chef Yount said you were to be given the VIP treatment. I hope this table is acceptable to you.”

“This is fine, Antoine. When you have a minute, I’d ‘preciate it if you would tell Chef Yount that we’re here. I’d like to say hello to him.”

“Certainly,” he said as he pulled a chair out for Darya. “Your waiter will be with you momentarily.” Darya was aware that Lou and Slade sat with their backs to the wall so they had an unobstructed view of the restaurant and everyone in it.

The waiter was there in a matter of seconds, handing each one of them black napkins. Although he had both white and black napkins draped over his arm, he deftly matched the black napkin color to what each person was wearing, black slacks for the men and a black skirt for Darya.

He took their drink orders and was back in minutes with Cakebread cabernet sauvignon for Darya, a dirty martini for Slade, a scotch and soda for Jim, vodka tonic for Scott, and a Perrier for Lou, who was technically on duty.

“Jim, Scott, meet your new boss, Darya Rahimi. Lou came aboard last night and he’ll be in charge of your schedules. She’s high profile ‘cause of a book she wrote, plus she’s pretty successful. A lot of Muslim men don’t look kindly on a woman who’s in a place of power. Keep her back covered at all times. This is round the clock and may be for a long time.”

“It’s nice to meet both of you and I assume we’ll become quite close in the future.” Darya said, turning to Slade, “Do you really think this will be necessary for a long time, like you just said?”

“Unfortunately, Doll, I think if you wanna stay healthy in the future, not only your health, but your life rests with the people at this table and probably will for a long time. Sorry, sweets, but I didn’t write that book. Jim, Scott, Lou, I’m gonna get you a copy of the book Doll wrote. Read it, then you’re gonna understan’ why some people want her dead.”

Darya gulped. It was one thing to have your hotel room tossed, but she’d never thought anyone would want to kill her. Evidently Slade did.

“Okay, guys what’s it gonna be? It’s on Miss Rahimi tonight, so enjoy.”

Darya started to say something, and then thought better of it. After all, dinner was a small price to pay for her life.

“And Doll, I’m gonna write a note to Pierre about your dinner. Want to pull his chain a little. Tell me what you want to eat.” The men all ordered steaks, pommes frites, and salads with the house special dressing.

Looking at the menu, Darya said, “Slade, I’d like the baked chicken with the wine sauce, mixed vegetables and the beet and goat cheese salad.” Slade wrote her order down on a piece of paper and called Antoine over to the table.

“Waiter took our orders, but I want you to hand-deliver Miss Rahimi’s order to Chef Yount. There’s some ‘structions for him below the order. Thanks,” he said as he handed Antoine the note.

In a few minutes the waiter returned with the men’s salads. Following him was a large, big-bellied chef wearing black and white checked pants and a white toque, denoting he was the head chef. In his hand was Darya’s beet and goat cheese salad.

He put the salad in front of Darya. “Don’t eat that yet,” Slade said as he got up to hug the chef and made the introductions. “Pierre, you look great. Had to bring these people to your restaurant. Like you to eat a little of Miss Rahimi’s salad. Don’t scowl at me. I’m the payin’ customer here, baby. Just do as I say.”

With an angry look on his face, Pierre took two bites of the salad, swallowed, and put it back in front of Darya.

“Thanks, Pierre. When our main courses are ready, I want you to bring hers out and taste it. Pierre, quit scowling. Trust me. This may be for your own good.”

A few minutes later their salad plates were removed and their main courses were served. As before, Chef Yount followed the server and placed the chicken Darya had ordered in front of her. Frowning the whole time, he took two bites of the chicken and vegetables and returned the plate to the table.

“Mr. Kelly, pardon me, but I have a full house and I need to be get back in the kitchen and do what I’m supposed to be doing, not tasting patrons’ food.” He turned on his heel and huffed back into the kitchen.

“Well, Doll, how do you like the food?”

“It may be the best I’ve ever had. Why?”

“Ya need to hire Pierre. Grapevine has it that he’s ready for a change and you need a chef. Simple as that. He ain’t gonna be cheap, but we go back a long way and he can be trusted. You need people you can trust.”

“I’ve come this far on your recommendations. I might as well do one more. I’ll write a note to him. I’m curious. How did you two meet?”

“He was working in one of them fancy Beverly Hills restaurants. Place was packed every night, but somethin’ was wrong. It was bleedin’ money. The restaurant was owned by some ‘vestors and they hired me to figure out why they was losin’ money. Turns out the manager had a little problem with drugs. The profits were all going up his nose. Pierre suspected somethin’ was wrong and tipped off the ‘vestors. We gets together on occasion. He’s a good man. Only problem with him is that he wears his heart on his sleeve.”

“That’s an odd thing to say. What do you mean?”

“He got him some damn good gigs that paid a lot of money. Should be a wealthy man by now, but he’s a sucker for any sob story that comes along. Kids and old people do him in. Have as long as I’ve known him.”

“Well, I think I like him even better now. Is he always that angry?”

Naw, I was just pullin’ his chain. I mean, what are friends for?”

She called Antoine over and asked him to deliver the note to Pierre she’d written. The phone rang and Antoine spent several minutes telling an angry customer that the restaurant was fully booked and he couldn’t possibly accommodate him. While he was talking, Darya signed the credit card slip and the five of them walked out the door to the waiting limousine.

“David, please take Mr. Kelly to the parking lot at the office and then take Lou and me home. Thanks.”

“Doll, what’d you put in that note to Pierre?” Slade asked on the short ride to her office.

“I told him I’d like to talk to him and would he please come to my office tomorrow at ten a.m. I’d hoped to get a reply, but Antoine got tied up on the phone. We’ll see.”

“He’ll be there. I want to sit in on the meeting. I’ll be there a few minutes before ten. Tell the receptionist and I’ll just go on up. Then I want to check on my guys. See you tomorrow, Doll.”

The rush hour traffic was over and within just a few minutes Dave pulled the limousine up in front of Darya’s condo. It had been a long day, a day in which she’d come face to face with the dangers around her. She shivered and said good night to Lou as he made his rounds, checking to make sure the condo was secure.

MARCH, 2010

CHAPTER 20

It was after midnight on one of those rare nights in Laguna Beach when you can see the stars. The smog from the inland areas of the Los Angeles basin had been blown out to sea by the Santa Ana winds, leaving the smells of springtime.

The two men were very different in size and shape.  One was quite large and portly, the other small and feminine. Each was dressed in black jogging pants and turtlenecks. They wore latex gloves and their faces were covered with wool ski masks. They blended in perfectly with the dark shadows and were nearly invisible as they quietly crept along the alley and stopped at the backdoor that led to the gallery.

Oh merde!
Pierre thought
. I should have remembered I’m allergic to wool.  Well, I can do anything for a few minutes and that’s all the longer this should take.  I don’t want to sneeze and alert any neighbors who might have a window open or are having one last cigarette.

Pierre’s accomplice placed the duffel bag he was carrying on the ground in front of the gallery’s glass door.  He reached in the bag and removed a small diamond tipped glass cutting tool and a round suction cup, about the size of a teacup. He attached the suction cup to one of the glass panes in the French door, and then using the glass cutter, made a circular line in the glass around the suction cup.

Holding the suction cup in one hand he applied just the right amount of pressure to the glass with his other hand so it wouldn’t shatter and make noise. The pane easily broke along the line he’d scored with the glass cutter. With the circular piece of glass still attached to the suction cup, he removed it from the window and quietly placed it on the ground next to the door.  He quickly reached through the small hole he’d cut in the glass pane of the door and pressed the button on the door latch that released the lock on the door. To Pierre’s jittery nerves, it sounded like a thunderous click which could probably be heard from blocks away.

The small man could feel the sweat running down the back of his neck.  He knew that once he opened the gallery door he’d have seven seconds before the alarm would sound and there would also be an automated telephone call to the Laguna Beach police station advising that there had just been an unauthorized entry into the gallery. The police station was located about a mile from the gallery’s location. They would only have a few minutes in the gallery before the police would arrive.

In one swift movement he opened the door and entered the gallery.  Using his penlight, he dashed into the small office and pulled the lever on the circuit breaker, disabling the alarm without a moment to spare. He held his breath for a moment, wondering if he’d made it in time.  He had. The only sound he could hear was the surf breaking on the beach two blocks away.

He motioned to Pierre that it was safe to come into the gallery.  The big man entered and quickly took a large mesh bag out of the duffel bag, opening it.  He gestured with his free hand for the smaller man to start removing paintings from the wall and put them in the mesh bag as he was doing.

In the distance Pierre thought he could hear the sound of a siren. He cocked his head. No question. It was getting louder and coming in their direction. He grabbed onto the smaller man’s arm, almost pushing him out the door. They both hit the alley on the run, Pierre running in one direction and the smaller man in the opposite direction. By prearrangement they’d parked their cars in different locations about two blocks from the gallery and agreed that once they left the gallery, each of them would drive back to their own homes using separate routes. Within minutes they were each in their car, masks and turtlenecks replaced by T-shirts, the seven stolen paintings safely in the trunk of the big man’s car.

Pierre started his car and drove the first block with his lights off, trying to avoid detection from neighbors who might have heard him start it. After driving a short distance, he switched on his headlights and headed for Pacific Coast Highway.  He easily blended in with the traffic that was always there, no matter what time of night or day.

Mon Dieu.  That was close.  Someone must have seen us and called the cops.

Pierre passed a police car going in the opposite direction at high speed, its siren blaring and the light bar on its roof flashing red.

Stay calm. The police can’t hear the bass drum sound of my heart beating. Just a few more miles and I’ll be home, assuming I don’t have a heart attack while I’m driving. I hope to hell the kid got out of there all right. Fortunately, he doesn’t know who I am. I paid him cash and our only contact was through the Internet. There’s no way he could ID me. Have to admire him for planning on staying and continuing to work at the gallery. He’s right, though. If he left, the cops would be pretty sure the robbery was an inside job and he’d be arrested. This way, with no evidence, he should be fine.

Pierre continued north on Pacific Coast Highway, entering the 55 freeway at the far end of Newport Beach as he made his way to the 405 freeway north to Long Beach. He consciously dropped his shoulders as the tension from the robbery and near run-in with the police began to leave.

I’m getting too old for this shit. I wish there was some other way, but the economy being what it is, Darya’s business is down and she can’t help as much as she has in the past. I hate stealing and being nothing more than a common criminal, but I’ve got to do it for the little girls.  Actually, right now all I want is a glass of scotch on the rocks and a good cigar.  I deserve it after tonight
.

CHAPTER 21

Pierre pulled his car into the apartment parking garage, relieved he hadn’t seen any more police cars. He looked around, but at this time of night the garage was quiet. The only thing he could hear was the hum of the overhead fluorescent lights. He put his key in the trunk lock, opened it and carefully slung the bag over his shoulder. He’d been in such a hurry; he didn’t even know which artists’ paintings he’d stolen.

His large white Manx cat jumped down from his normal spot on the bookshelf as Pierre let himself into his apartment. “Good boy, Chat,” he said, smiling to himself at the name he’d given the intelligent cat. Chat simply means “cat” in French. Guests at his home always thought it was a wonderful French name for a cat. He never told them he was calling the cat, “cat.” It was his own private little joke.

Pierre checked to make sure that the blinds were drawn in the apartment, and then he poured himself three fingers of Johnny Walker Black Label over ice, his personal favorite. He walked into his office and took the hand-carved humidor out of the bottom drawer of his desk. Opening it, he spent a moment simply inhaling the aroma of the cigars he’d bought from a wealthy Cuban who regularly dined at his restaurant. He selected one and carefully lit it, smiling as he savored the smell of the contraband cigar. Walking back into the living room, he turned on all the lights and began taking the paintings out of the mesh bag.