Lucky Bastard (14 page)

“I must have my kitchen. The other chefs, Boulud, Ducasse, Keller, Mina, they all have their kitchens and their staffs. I will be made the fool.”

“If you do not wish to be made a fool, then don’t allow it.” Brandy announced as she eased onto a stool next to me. Under the full force of our scowls, she withered a bit. “At least that’s what my grandmother used to say, if it’s helpful.”

“Not in the least,” I brushed her off after I made sure she in fact had Cole Weston in tow. He straddled the stool next to my young assistant who needed to stay out of conversations she wasn’t invited into.

Jean-Charles lowered his voice. “You promised.”

“I promised the kitchen would be ready to go when we open phase one—even that will probably take a special dispensation by the Pope, presidential fiat, and an act of Congress.” Pausing, I took a deep breath. His worry was easy to read…and easy to understand. His reputation was really all he had. Of course, our reputations were all any of us had, but right now his livelihood rested on his. I put a hand on his arm and softened my look and my tone into hopefully one of understanding rather than confrontation. “I understand. Let me work something out, but it’s the county that’s keeping us out of the building, not me. Governments are all alike and they all work at a glacial pace.”

“Money, it often can move mountains.” He gave a Gallic shrug, which, incomprehensibly, I found charming.

“Perhaps in Provence. However, in the States we pretend bribery is a bad thing, which requires a more circumspect approach. I said I’ll do my best—I have nothing more to offer.”

Perhaps realizing there was nothing else to say or do but to trust me, Jean-Charles nodded…once. But he didn’t look too pleased.

Just another happy victim.

“Okay,” I said as I turned my attention to Brandy and her charge. “Please tell Mr. Weston that I saw him showing a particular interest in the poker game the dead woman was playing last night. I want to know why.”

Younger than I remembered ever being, Brandy was tall and lithe with a stripper’s body and the look of innocence in her big, brown eyes—a contrast men found irresistible. A black belt in some mystical form of deadly martial art took care of the unwanted attention. Today she wore a prim and proper business suit of steel gray with subtle turquoise pin stripes—vintage Versace. Her ubiquitous pair of smoky Loubous on her feet, a single diamond at her neck and matching ones on each earlobe, she looked every inch the up-and-coming hotel exec she was. Loose and free, her shiny brown hair cascaded past her shoulders. Her face, open and disarming, held not a trace of the passage of time.

Could today be any more depressing?

Brandy turned to Cole who was eyeing a platter of hamburgers a waiter carried by. She put a hand on his arm to get his attention. While she signed my request, I turned to Jean-Charles.

Before I spoke, he held up a hand. “A platter of hamburgers for your friends. I will prepare them myself, if you will excuse me.” He gave a stiff little bow and a rueful half grin dialed back from its previous warmth. I watched him work his way through the tables, his practiced façade of charm falling into place, and wondered how to have a relationship with a man who bristled at the first barrier in his path.

Brandy and Cole were deep into a silent conversation, so I sipped my wine and pouted. Just being able to express a simple, albeit juvenile, emotion was so much better than my normal routine of bottling them inside. My job required eating too much crow as it was. I’d be damned if I’d conduct my personal life the same way.

Brandy snapped her fingers in front of my eyes. “Do you want it word for word, or will a summary do?”

“A summary.”

“Well,” Brandy settled herself on the stool, “Cole plays a lot of Internet poker.”

“Isn’t that illegal?”

“Isn’t that irrelevant?”

Oh, she was turning into me, just as Miss P feared. “I seem to have a particular gift of bringing out the pissy in everyone I talk to today.” Reaching across the bar, I grabbed the bottle of wine and freshened my glass. “Now, continue, but without the attitude.”

Clearly immune, Brandy gave me a look that said, “Whatever,” then continued. “For a long time now, he’s been playing on Aces Over Eights.”

“The site Kevin Slurry’s recently sold.”

She nodded. “Right. And Cole noticed some anomalies.”

“What kind?”

“Someone was cheating.”

“How the heck do you cheat in an online game?” The criminal mind always eluded me. If the bad guys spent as much time trying to fix the world as they did thinking up ways to defeat it, we’d all live above the poverty line and be settling Mars.

“Cole figured that Kevin Slurry must’ve kept a backdoor when he sold the site.”

“Backdoor?”

“An opening into the software algorithm. With that he could see other players’ cards, he could monitor and track betting, the source of the funds, how winnings were distributed.”

“He had access to all the information in the whole site?” Wow, talk about a cheater’s paradise.

Brandy nodded.

“Cole can prove this?”

Brandy turned, her fingers racing through words, then his doing the same in reply. She turned back to me. “He has all the data, but it would take the police to legally access the Web site records to see if he is correct.”

“The police.” There was something there, a connection. What was it? I took another sip of wine while I tried to let my mind free wheel. The tickle of an idea started to form. “Ask Cole if he knew Sylvie Dane personally.”

He read my lips and nodded, then Brandy translated as he signed his story. “He knew her through poker, and he knew she had some background in law enforcement.”

“Wait.” I threw up a hand stopping her. “Law enforcement? Which side of the fence?”

Cole rolled his eyes and signed rapidly—I’d forgotten he could read lips.

Brandy translated. “He’s not sure, Sylvie wouldn’t say.”

“I bet.”

“Anyway,” Brandy continued, “after watching her for a while and satisfying himself she wasn’t in bed with Kevin Slurry…”

Brandy paused, her eyes grew a trifle wider as she watched Cole’s fingers fly.

“What?” I asked.

The girl ducked her head shyly, her face pinkening. “Nothing. That part was personal.”

“What’s personal?” Detective Romeo asked a bit roughly as he pushed through the gathering crowd. Stopping behind Brandy, he put a hand possessively on her shoulder. If he felt half as bad as he looked, I could understand his mood. His clothes were rumpled probably beyond repair, an old coffee stain trickled like a dried tear down the front of his shirt, and remnants of a meal dotted his tie. The kid had gone seriously downhill in the last twenty-four hours. If he’d been home, he hadn’t bothered to change clothes. Fine stubble dotted his cheeks, which were hollower than I remembered. Deep grooves bracketed his mouth, tension pulling his lips into a thin line. His hair had been hastily combed into place—even his cowlick had succumbed somewhat, bending weakly. His voice hard, his expression less than pleased, he hooked a thumb at Cole but focused his attention on Brandy. “Is this guy hitting on you?”

Cole smiled as if he thought the whole thing a wonderful joke.

Brandy gave Romeo a quick kiss. “Forget about it. He was just playing. Besides, it’s not like he’s the only guy who’s going to hit on me today.”

Oops.

Romeo turned his glare on me. “You allow your staff to be bait for every…”

“Enough.” I could be stern when I wanted. “You know better than that.”

Clearly miffed, Romeo struggled with his emotions. “Sorry. I don’t want her left alone with this guy—or anybody else, for that matter.”

“Sit, Romeo,” I patted the stool next to mine. “Trust is the foundation for a good relationship, remember that. Besides, you’re going to be interested in Mr. Weston’s story.”

“This isn’t making me happy,” he groused, but he did as I asked.

“As I was saying,” Brandy drawled. “Cole knew Sylvie from playing poker. Once he was sure she was on the up-and-up, he took his data to her.”

“What data?” Romeo whispered. I filled him in. “Wow, the plot thickens,” he mocked—his version of pouting. Or maybe he’d tracked down DeLuca and wanted to take a chunk out of my hide. I wasn’t going to ask.

“Cole wanted Sylvie to take it to the next step, get a warrant, whatever, but Sylvie refused.”

“Why?” Romeo and I said in unison.

Cole’s fingers flew as Brandy watched. “He says she was working her own angle and wanted some time.”

“And he doesn’t know what she was after?” I asked.

Brandy pursed her lips and shook her head. “No.” Cole tapped her on the shoulder to get her attention. She watched him for a moment, her eyes growing wide.

“What is it?” I asked unable to contain myself.

“After the poker game, Cole went to an underground game over in the warehouse district just across the Fifteen.”

“I won’t mention those are both illegal and unsafe,” I scolded.

Cole shrugged and gave me a cockeyed smile. He was cute, no doubt about it, with a charm he knew how to use.

Brandy looked at me, her eyes as big as plates. “There was a girl there, at the underground game. She had the necklace that Sylvie Dane was wearing.”

“Sylvie’s necklace?” I spluttered. “How?”

Cole shrugged, and shook his head.

“Do you know her?” I asked. Again a negative response. “Was she young, Hispanic, long dark hair?”

This time a vigorous nod of his head as he pulled Brandy around.

“He tried to follow her after the game, but he lost her. He wants to know if you know her.”

“No. So, far, she’s just one more dead end,” I said, hoping only figuratively.

“Was anyone else there that we should know about?” I asked routinely, never expecting to know anyone at one of those games. I was wrong.

After watching Cole for a moment, Brandy, her voice hushed as if conjuring an evil spirit, announced, “River Watalsky.”

Romeo snapped out of his romantic funk, his cop sensors on alert. “Watalsky? What was he doing there?”

Cole rolled his eyes as he signed.

“Playing poker,” Brandy interpreted, fighting a smile.

“Thank you,” Romeo countered. “Anything else? Anything unusual?”

“He seemed awfully interested in the girl,” Cole said this himself, the words a bit muffled, but understandable. “And the necklace.”

“I bet,” I offered—so helpful, I know.

Jean-Charles reappeared with the promised platter of hamburgers. His mood seemed to have improved as he cast a smile my direction—a smile that looked like he meant it. With youthful metabolisms to feed, Brandy and Cole dove in with gusto. Initially hesitant, Romeo finally dismounted his high horse and pushed his way to the trough as well. The three of them moaned in gustatory delight making the chef who stood next to me smile, although I suspected he was accustomed to that reaction.

“Those three are my perfect demographic—young enough to eat so many calories, old enough to appreciate the nuances of the flavors.”

“And to pay for premium burgers.”

“That as well.” Jean-Charles gave me a smile. “I am sorry to be difficult.”

I leaned into him, savoring the spark where our bodies touched. “Trust me.”

Once a lead dog, the habit was hard to break and I watched my chef struggle with the concept of letting someone else pull the sled for a bit. “The kitchen, it must be…”

“Professional, I know.”

“But most chefs with that sort of kitchen will not…”

“Share, I know.”

Those robin’s-egg eyes went all milky and soft, turning my heart inside out. “Yes, I can see that you do.”

“Your son, Christophe? He comes soon?” I said, changing the subject as I watched him pour us both another glass of wine. Three or four, I’d lost enthusiasm for counting, and apparently for moderation. Whatever the number, it was past my limit—when I used to have a limit, that is.

At the mention of his son’s name, all the hard lines softened. A smile lifted the corner of Jean-Charles’s mouth. Reaching into his breast pocket, he pulled out the creased and worn picture of his five-year-old I had seen countless times before. Although I had yet to meet him, I could easily pick the boy out of any kindergarten lineup.

Sandy curls, blue eyes like his father’s, a smile to melt even the hardest heart—he terrified me. If he didn’t like me, I was screwed. Well, if experience had taught me anything it was that life would lead me down the path I was meant to follow. And, whether I went willingly or screaming bloody murder with my heels dug in, never seemed to make a difference.

Jean-Charles lingered over the photo before stuffing it back in his pocket. “He comes soon, yes. My sister’s daughter, Chantal, is bringing him from France. My mother is already calling me, threatening to keep him. She is making fun with me, of course, but like all mothers, she enjoys, how do you say it? Pulling my rope?”

“Jerking your chain. Mona is a master.”

“I have not seen this side of your mother.” Jean-Charles snagged another slider, this one made of ahi tuna. I let it go, but between you and me, creating a hamburger from raw fish…okay, rare fish…was a culinary crime.
Hamburger
and
healthy
should never even flirt with being synonymous.

“Of course not. She would never let a handsome Frenchman see her practice the subtle art of manipulation.”

“Then, there are benefits to being in my company?” His smile lit his whole face, reaching his eyes.

“Many.” Something in his eyes made my heart beat faster, my skin flush. When he reached for my hand, a connection jolted through me. Why did life always serve up more than I could handle? Just lucky, I guess. Maybe I could change my name—then all these stupid puns wouldn’t apply. Maybe that would help. Who knew? “Your mother is enjoying her grandson, then?” I asked, veering the conversation away from my mother—not the best topic for a bad day.

Jean-Charles turned his eyes toward Heaven and blew in the way that the French do when they think you are the master of understatement. “They are like…” He paused for moment, searching. “They are like two people with one soul.” He crumpled his eyebrows together, questioning.