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“What do you want, then? If it’s money, I’ll take you upstairs, give you tonight’s till.”
“That’s a start,” Sauvage said, and waved the gun. “You first.”
Chef Pincus hesitated, rubbed his hands on his apron, and walked by them. Sauvage and Mfune stayed close to the chef as they navigated the hall and climbed the narrow stairs back to the kitchen.
When Pincus tried to exit out into the dining area, the major stopped him and said, “I read in Bon Appétit that you make chicken stock once a week.”
Pincus stiffened, nodded. “It’s the last thing I do on Saturdays before having my wine and going home.”
“Can we see it?” the captain asked, joining them.
“That is what this is about, isn’t it? The Bocuse? Stealing my secrets?”
“Believe what you want to believe. Just show us the soup.”
Sullenly, Pincus jerked his chin at one of the refrigerators. Mfune opened it. On the middle shelf stood a forty-quart stockpot with a lid. The captain grabbed the handles, lifted the pot with a grunt, and carried it to one of the prep tables.
“Go over there,” Sauvage said to the chef. “Stand right in front of it.”
Reluctantly, Pincus followed his orders and stood before the stockpot, with Mfune at his left. The captain lifted the lid, set it aside. The major came around to the chef’s right and looked in at fat starting to congeal on top of the liquid.
“Smells good,” Mfune said.
“Of course it does,” Pincus snapped.
“Take a smell. Lean right in there and sniff your masterpiece.”
The chef frowned and glanced at Sauvage, who said, “Do it.”
Pincus looked uncertain but stepped closer, and brought his nose over the top of ten gallons of cooling gourmet chicken stock. He sniffed, started to raise his chin, and then squealed with fear and alarm when the officers grabbed the back of his skull and plunged his face into the cooling liquid.
Terrified screams bubbled up out of the broth.
Then the chef started to fight, squirming side to side against their grip and throwing his fists wildly. Sauvage took a blow to the ribs and another to his hip before he flipped the pistol in his hand and chopped below the collar of Pincus’s white blouse.
The flailing stopped. The squirming subsided and then halted altogether when the major hit the chef a second time.
“There,” Sauvage said, his breathing shallow, rapid. “Not a bad recipe, really.”
Chapter 31
8th Arrondissement
6 a.m.
MY DREAMS WHIRLED with visions of the blood blooming on the waiter’s shirt, Louis blown off his feet, and the pale gunman tracking the pistol muzzle over me.
In every vision, in every dream, I kept catching glimpses of Michele Herbert standing at the periphery of the action, and watching it all unfold as if through a glass, darkly. But when I awoke in my bed at the Plaza, my first thoughts were of the art professor laughing at the café the night before, and then climbing her stoop, smiling as if we were already sharing secrets, and telling me I had nice eyes.
Had any woman ever told me that?
If they had, I didn’t remember.
Who cared? Michele thought my eyes were nice and that was all that counted. My God, she was beyond-belief good-looking and off-the-charts smart and creative. And yet she didn’t seem to take herself too seriously.
She seemed relaxed, good in her own skin, free of issues, someone you wanted to spend time with. In the darkness of my room at the Plaza Athénée, I grinned like a fool, sat up in bed, and turned on the lights.
There was no chance I’d sleep any more, and given my embarrassing teenage giddiness, I knew I’d just sit there thinking about her unless I gave myself a task that could be taken care of at this early hour. Nothing came to mind until I realized it was only 9 p.m. back home.
