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“Jesus,” I said. “Who’s the victim?”
“René Pincus. Arguably the greatest chef in all of France.”
Part Three
Les Immortels
Chapter 35
9th Arrondissement
1:20 p.m.
THE GREATEST CHEF in all of France hung upside down from a rope tied to his ankles and lashed to a steel beam that ran down the center of the kitchen ceiling. René Pincus’s swollen head hovered a few feet over the stovetops, and his arms were spread to the sides, tied with cooking twine.
“Same general position as Henri Richard,” Sharen Hoskins observed. “But the graffiti is much more visible this time. We won’t be able to contain it.”
The tag was painted three times inside the restaurant: once on the stovetop below Pincus, once on the dining room wall, and a third time across the front window. Word of the great chef’s death had leaked and a mob of media types gathered out front, training their cameras on the tag on the front window.
“Was he strangled?” I asked.
“No,” the investigateur said. “Drowned in his own chicken stock.”
“So the method of killing is different, almost ironic,” I said.
Hoskins nodded. “And it changes things, don’t you think? With those pictures you discovered, Henri Richard’s murder was easily attributed to revenge. Now I think we must look for a link between Henri Richard and René Pincus, some reason they were targeted for death.”
“There is one link,” Louis said.
“What’s that?”
“Henri Richard ate dinner here several times in the last six weeks.”
Hoskins squinted, crossed her arms, and said, “And how do you know that?”
Louis realized he’d set a trap for himself, but he smiled and said, “Private Paris never reveals its confidential sources, but I can assure you it’s true.”
“Louis,” she began.
“Chéri,” he said. “Are we here to follow every nuance of the law? Or are we here to catch a killer who grows more prolific?”
Hoskins stuck out her jaw. “Don’t call me chéri.”
“Ah,” Louis said, acting chagrined. “A slip of the
tongue, no? I promise never to address you this way again.”
Claudia Vans, Private Paris’s chief forensics tech, came up to Louis. She showed him several plastic evidence bags containing cigarette butts and said, “What’s the chance the staff has a habit of flicking cigarette butts around this place?”
“Seems unlikely, but we’ll ask,” Hoskins said.
Out in the dining area, other Private Paris forensics techs were photographing and taking samples from the AB-16 graffiti on the wall. Hoskins went to speak with them. When she was satisfied that they were covering every angle, she went to the front door and started letting in the staff to be questioned.
Louis provided a running translation.
The maître d’, a plump, nervous man named Remy Fontaine, said, “Is it true? He is dead?”
“I’m afraid so,” the investigateur said.
