The Diamond Caper (6 page)

Coco met them at the door of her suite—smiling, charming, and, as expected, quite unabashed about her detailed inspection of Elena's outfit. Sam was amused to see Elena doing exactly the same thing, her eyes going from the summer sandals that displayed Coco's scarlet toenails, up past the beige linen trousers and on to a sleeveless top of black silk. With this vital exchange completed, Coco led them to her office.

It was simple, uncluttered, verging on minimalist—a complete contrast to the Belle Époque splendors of the rest of the hotel. A collection of austere black-and-white architectural photographs hung on walls the color of pale cream. In the center of the room was a round black conference table, with half a dozen black leather chairs. The floor was dark polished wood, and in one corner stood a small bronze statue of Mies van der Rohe, on a plinth engraved with his inscrutable but famous motto:
Less Is More.
The overall effect of the room, as Sam said later, had made him feel that he should have worn his best black suit for the occasion.

While they were getting settled around the table, Coco gave them a brief description of the premises. “Through that door over there, I have a small apartment—nothing very grand, but it's convenient. And through the door opposite are two offices; one for me, and one for my colleague, Monsieur Gregoire.”

Right on cue, Gregoire appeared, welcomed Elena and Sam with crushing handshakes, flexed his shoulders as though preparing for a bruising physical encounter, and launched into his mantra of no bribes, no kickbacks. Despite the fact that he had gone through this dozens of times, he still managed to sound mildly astonished that, in a wicked world, such scrupulous probity still existed. He ended with a brief outline of the Cabinet Dumas's terms of business before handing over to Coco.

The leather albums were produced, and Coco took Elena and Sam through a guided tour of her work, stopping from time to time to respond to questions and comments. “And now,” she said to Elena with a smile, “it's your turn. I want to hear all about your new house.”

Elena produced her iPad and moved closer to Coco so that they could share the screen. “The place is a mess right now, but it could be great. Anyway, here's the ‘before' part of the project.” And she began to show Coco the photographs, starting with the interior of the house: the dreadful bathroom, the poky bedrooms, the funereal living room, the impossible kitchen. Sam was relieved to see that the two women seemed to be getting on, exchanging comments and even laughing at the architectural horror story as it unfolded. But when she saw photographs of the view, Coco was immediately enthusiastic. “Now I understand,” she said. “You fell in love with the view. Who wouldn't?”

From there, Coco started to make all the right noises about gutting the interior and bringing the view into the house, and Sam could see Elena becoming more and more enthusiastic. Perhaps it was time, he thought, to put the brakes on.

“Just one thing,” he said, “before you bring in the bulldozer. We have terms of business too.” He went through his short list of strict budget, firm completion date, and penalty clauses. To Sam's surprise, Coco was nodding at everything she heard. “That's fine with us,” she said. “That's the way we work.” And on this cordial note, all that remained was to agree on a date for Coco to meet them the following week at the property, and to ask if she could recommend somewhere for lunch, which she was happy to do: Le Club de la Promenade, two minutes from the Negresco.

The restaurant was decorated, as all beach restaurants seem to be, in a maritime color scheme of blue and white, with the occasional fishing net draped in a picturesque position. The owner, a deeply tanned woman of a certain age, wearing a white T-shirt and hot pants, detached herself from the bar and came over to guide them to a table.
“Voilà,”
she said with a smile, “I give you a table with a sea view.” And there indeed was a glimpse of the sea, just visible between the clumps of beach umbrellas and the rows of bodies—every color from medium rare to well done—that were lined up cheek by oiled jowl. A waitress, dressed like all her colleagues in white T-shirt and hot pants, put two menus on the table and suggested that an
apéritif
might help them make their choice.

The postmortem began even before the first glass of
rosé
. They agreed that it had been a most encouraging morning. Sam admitted that he hadn't been at all sure that Coco and Elena would get on after their first rather edgy meeting at the Van Buren house.

“I told you,” said Elena. “I straightened that out when I called her. Anyway, when she met you, she calmed down.”

“I have that effect on women,” said Sam. “But then you seemed to get on pretty well. How do you feel about working with her?”

“Fine. I like what she's done for her other clients: simple, good taste. I get the feeling that her houses work.”

“Are you sure we can trust her not to bother Francis?”

“I already told you,” said Elena. “I'll make sure she behaves.” Sam had no doubt that she would.

Their lunch of fresh fish, crisp and perfectly cooked French fries, and
fiadone,
a Corsican-style cheesecake, was all the more enjoyable because they were going through the first and most pleasant stage of property renovation. The ideas were coming thick and fast, the bills hadn't started to arrive, the expensive and unforeseen problems,
les petits inconnus,
hadn't yet surfaced—it was all very exciting. Even Sam, a man not normally given to excessive enthusiasms, found himself mentally moving in to a house of sun-kissed perfection.

Meanwhile, Coco and her colleague were also having a post-mortem, and Monsieur Gregoire, no longer the mild-mannered second fiddle, had become Coco's equal, assertive and opinionated. And he was not at all in favor of taking on Elena and Sam's house.

“Our business,” he said, “has been built on big, multimillion-euro projects, owned by seriously rich people. This little shack is just a distraction.” He stood up, and walked over to the window, shaking his head. “A waste of your time.”

Coco sighed. There were times when she found Gregoire's obsession with money intensely irritating. “I'm getting a little tired of rich people and their vast mansions. This could be fantastic,” she said. “I like the owners, and it would amuse me. I'm going to do it.”

“A waste of your time,” he said again. “You seem to have forgotten why our business has been so successful.”

“And you seem to have forgotten the name of the business: It's Cabinet Dumas. Not Cabinet Gregoire. I'm going to do it.”

Coco's words stayed with Gregoire as he made his way along the Promenade des Anglais, and they rankled. More and more often in recent weeks, he felt that she was treating him as though he were nothing more than her secretary. In fact, during the several years they had worked together, he knew he had made substantial and profitable contributions to the business. But he was still an employee, and not an equal partner. Promises had been hinted at, but never followed up. Gregoire had run out of patience and money. His gambling hadn't been going well. He needed a big hit.

His mood brightened as he reached the beach restaurant where he was meeting a promising new girlfriend for lunch. Le Poisson Nu—the Naked Fish—was a simple place that served good, simple food. But what attracted regular clients of both sexes was the relaxed dress code, which decreed that a swimsuit, however brief, was all one needed to wear for lunch.

Gregoire went into the primitive dressing room to change before picking his way through the forest of tanned flesh that was standing at the bar and sitting at the tables. The promising girlfriend was already at their table, looking even more promising. On the two previous occasions they had met, she had been fully dressed. Today, all that saved her from nudity were a few artfully placed scraps of bikini. Gregoire sucked in his stomach and went to join her.

Far away, on the other side of the Atlantic, Kathy and Conor Fitzgerald were preparing for another grueling day of fulfilling their social obligations. These were their last few days in New York before leaving to go to Paris and then down to their house on Cap Ferrat for the summer, and the giddy round of farewell lunches, soirées, and dinners was in full swing.

Fitzgerald, now approaching sixty, was reputed to be the richest grocer in America. Starting forty years earlier with a small convenience store in his hometown of Boston, he had since accumulated two major supermarket chains, apartment buildings in Miami and Los Angeles, a string of racehorses, a duplex on Central Park South, the house on Cap Ferrat, and a number of wives, of whom Kathy was the youngest, blondest, and most recent. She matched his ability to make money with a talent for spending it—furs, jewels, couture clothes, she loved them all, and her doting husband was happy to indulge her.

Over breakfast, the Fitzgeralds were going over their social plans for France. Kathy was anxious to meet what she called a younger crowd, as a change from their older New York friends.

Fitzgerald leaned across the breakfast table and patted her cheek. “No problem, honey. We'll throw a party once we've settled in. Why don't you talk to that gal who fixed up the house? She must know just about everyone down there. She can round up a few locals for you.”

“Fitz, you're a doll. And you're sure it's OK about my fitness trainer?”

“Absolutely. There's plenty of room on the plane. Just as long as she doesn't want me to start doing push-ups.”

Kathy was delighted at the thought of getting in touch once again with Coco Dumas, whom she had met during the renovation of the house on Cap Ferrat. Kathy had been impressed by Coco's chic and her ideas; Coco had been pleasantly surprised to find a woman who, unlike so many of her clients, had managed to remain relatively normal despite her rich, pampered life. A mutual liking had developed. And so, when they spoke later that day, the first few minutes had been devoted to verbal air kisses and the exchange of social news before Kathy broached the subject of the party.

“I'd love it if you could help me out. We've decided to give a party at the house. We'll have our house guests, of course, but they're all old friends from New York, and I'd like to invite some fresh faces—you know, some fun locals: young, amusing, and English-speaking would be perfect. What do you think?”

Coco didn't need to think for too long. At that time of year, the Riviera was crawling with people who needed to be entertained every evening, ideally by going to smart parties in fashionable houses. “That won't be a problem,” she said. “I'll get back to you with a few suggestions.”

She left her office, poured herself a glass of wine, and went out to the terrace. It was early evening, the sun was low on the horizon, and the day's appointments and phone calls were over. It was an ideal time to think.

Her mind went back to her exchange earlier in the day with Gregoire. It was true that he had brought in several good clients over the years, and he took care of the financial side of the business efficiently enough. But lately he had become increasingly argumentative and tiresome, more like a difficult client than a partner. Coco sighed. She was more than ready for a new life in New York.

She was distracted by the sound of a chair scraping the floor in her office. She had left the door open, and when she went through it, she found Gregoire hunched over one of the leather-bound books that she used in her presentations. She decided to forget about their exchange earlier in the day, and sat down next to him with a smile.

“Well, Greg. Doing some homework?”

“Oh—just catching up on some of our past triumphs.”

“What have you got there?”

“The Fitzgerald house. They're coming over soon, aren't they?”

“Yes. They'll be here all summer.”