“It wasn’t you, Al. It was the whole team.”
“I tell the judge I was wrong and that we need to reconsider the bail status of Gil-Darsin so we can sort everything out—cool, calm, collected.”
“You’ll let him walk, even though you know he’s a pig?”
“He might well walk, Ryan. And Paul Battaglia will have my head.”
I decided to drive to work on Friday morning because I had a slight detour to make.
I left my garage at seven-thirty and drove up Madison Avenue. I wanted to stop and see the twin buildings that Lutèce and its neighbor occupied on the quiet, tree-lined street not far from Central Park, which was in full spring bloom.
There were several parking spots on the street. Many wary New Yorkers lived by the hours of the alternate-side street-cleaning signs rather than pay for garage spaces more expensive than most monthly rents in the country.
I slipped into an opening just off the corner and got out of the car.
The work crew was setting up in the restaurant. They were unloading tools and equipment from two small trucks double-parked on the street. The front door was wide open, and although I was tempted to go in to look around, I knew that I would be in the way.
I crossed to the other side and studied the facades of the matching buildings. The exteriors of both had been restored to their original elegance. That alone would have cost a small fortune.
Double-hung windows had been replaced in each, the neighbors appeared to be copying the effect of the painted trim on the sills, and the handsome silhouettes were aesthetically pleasing to the eye.
The only difference I noted was in the entrance to the buildings. Lutèce was open to the sidewalk, with black wrought iron handrails that would give customers secure footing on the steps in and out of the restaurant.
Around the adjacent residence, there was black wrought iron, too. But it wasn’t a simple railing. Rather, it was an eight-foot-high gate that extended from the sides of the house itself and squared around the front of the building, where the two sides met in the middle with a formidable lock at the entrance.
The residential twin town house looked as unwelcoming as the fancy restaurant appeared to be inviting. The distinction amused me. It was not everyone’s idea of home to have the daily foot traffic of hundreds of diners and the constant commercial deliveries of food and liquor and flowers and linens.
Workmen were also setting up in the town house next to Lutèce. I waited for a school bus to pass, then crossed back to stand in front of the gate.
“Excuse me,” I said to one of the four men in painters’ pants who were carrying buckets from their van into the building.
“Good morning, lady.”
“How far along are you?” I asked. I didn’t know enough about construction work to think of anything more profound.
“How far with what?”
“This building. I mean, is it going to be ready for occupancy soon?”
“It’s not for rent, if that’s what you’re asking,” the guy said. He was standing at the rear doors of the van, passing paint rollers and tarps to the other three.
“I’m a friend of the guy who bought this other building—the restaurant next door. I’m just interested in what’s happening here.”
“Antique white on the walls on the ground floor. Pastels in most of the bedrooms upstairs. Martha Stewart kind of colors. That’s what’s happening here, so far as I know,” he said, his Bronx accent undoubtedly thicker than the paint.
“Who’s the owner?”
“Lady, the last time I played Twenty Questions I was in third grade. I don’t got the slightest idea who the owner is.”
I followed him toward the gate.
“I’m just curious, ’cause I’d like to talk to him—or to her—about when they’re moving in. Things like that.”
“Hey, Joey,” he yelled out to one of the others. “Who owns this place?”
He waited for an answer. “It’s not people that’s moving in, lady. It’s a corporation that owns it. I’m not trying to be difficult with you.”
Joey shouted back. “The name’s on your pay stub.”
I walked down the steps behind the guy I was talking to and went inside. The walls had been freshly plastered, and I could smell the coat of paint that had been applied yesterday.
“Look around, lady. Suit yourself.”
The parquet floors had been laid but not finished. That would wait until after the paint job. There were no furnishings at all yet, and the space flowed freely from one area at the front of the house to the next.
“You guys do nice work,” I said. “Do you have a card, in case we need any help?”
“Your workers would throw a fit if we elbowed in on them.”
“You just never know when you need to bring in someone from the outside. I think they’re running way behind schedule.”
The painter reached deep into his back pocket for his wallet and removed a card for me. Then he unrolled a piece of paper—the pay stub of his check—and showed it to me. “That’s who’s gonna be your neighbors.”
I looked at the name:
GINEVA IMPORTS
. I played with the letters
and said it aloud a couple of times, but it didn’t mean anything to me.
“Would you mind if I looked around the basement?” I asked.
“Right over there. Most people want to see the upstairs. They made it a nice space—three bedrooms on the second floor with three baths. Really spiffy. Two on the floor above that.”
“Any lights down here?” I was on the staircase, and the bare bulb shining overhead only got me halfway down the staircase.
“I got a flashlight,” the man said. “Whaddaya want to look at?”
I was flustered and trying to think of an answer. “We’ve got a wine cellar in the basement of the restaurant, and that’s where our sound system will be,” I said, making up the second part. “I’m just wondering where it will abut, because of the noise late at night. I’d hate to cause any trouble after all this construction is done.”
“I wouldn’t give it a second thought, lady. The walls down here are like Fort Knox.”
“How so?”
“We just got in to start the paint job this week,” he said, running his hands over the rough stones that formed an entire length of wall adjacent to the basement of Lutèce. “They had some bricklayer come in and install this just before we started working.”
The flashlight exposed the bricks, and I could see that they were heavy and real, not a veneer.
“Tell your friend his clients can make all the noise they want because the folks on this side of the wall won’t hear a thing.”
“I’ll do that,” I said. “Would you just shine that light over this middle area again?”
“You’re a real stickler, lady. On second thought,” he said good-naturedly, “don’t be so quick to call if you need a paint job.”
He directed his flashlight to the area I pointed out. I looked closely and could see that the bricks were riddled with dozens of tiny holes and that a thin metal rod hung from a hook on the ceiling above—just like at the seamlessly invisible entrance to the secret door in the wine cellar designed for the ‘21’ Club.
“Where are you, Coop?”
“In my office, about to go into the conference room to do battle with Blanca Robles.”
“Something change since I saw you last night?” Mike asked.
“Yeah. Everything’s upside down. Blanca’s cred is crumbling by the minute. Mercer and I are going to have another go at her in a few minutes.”
“Is that why you called?”
“No. But I’d like you to run down some other stuff for me.”
“Like what?”
“I stopped by to look at the building next door to Lutèce on my way in this morning.”
“The doppelgänger town house?”
“Yes, it’s a doppelgänger except for the wrought iron fence with spikes on top that would keep out the most daring second-story man—and the secret door that connects to Lutèce.”
“The what?”
“Last night, when you were parked out in front, did you happen to notice that the other building was being renovated, too?”
“Yeah, Mercer and I were talking about it. Like what it must cost to gut and redo a pricey home like that.”
“Well, it made me curious, too. I mean, not everyone would want to move in next door to a restaurant, with people coming and going all day and into the night.”
“Maybe that’s why they have the stay-out-of-my-house fence,” Mike said.
“That’s one good reason for it. But then I asked the workmen for a quick tour. I was particularly interested in the basement.”
“Why?”
“’Cause Luc’s doing one of those wine cellars, too. Like ‘21’ and Patroon.”
“What did you find?”
“I think you need to do something I can’t manage, Mike. I think you need to take Luc back to the restaurant today and have him show you the place, from top to bottom.”
“Sure,” he said. “But why?”
“Because in the basement of the adjacent building is a brick wall—just installed last week—and I think it’s got a concealed connection to the basement of Lutèce.”
“Does Luc know about it?”
“He’s never said a word about anything like that.”
“Wait a minute, Coop. Does Luc own the other building?”
“Not that he’s told me. That would have cost him a fortune that he doesn’t have. It’s bad enough he’s relying on these other people for the loans to build out the restaurant. It’s all smoke and mirrors to me, Mike. I’m afraid he’s going to lose his shirt.”
“He’ll be fine. You’ll be eating bonbons for a long time to come, kid.”
I lowered my voice. “What I’m really afraid of is that Luc’s in way over his head. I didn’t know about any of this—backers and silent partners putting up millions of dollars—until the murders started unraveling things. I’m afraid that Luc’s been caught in the middle of something ugly.”
“Like what?”
“I’m trying to figure that out, Mike. Like a financial fraud—a Ponzi scheme,” I said. “Do these people who want a piece of his business just manufacture money or what? I don’t care how much Luc charges for three courses and a superb magnum of expensive wine, he’ll never get out of debt with what he’s got to put out to keep the business afloat.”
“So you want me to check out what he’s hiding in the basement?”
“For starters. And I want to see how he reacts when you find the hidden door. I mean, if that’s what it really is.”
“I can barely make out what you’re saying, Coop.”
“I’m whispering. I don’t want Laura or anyone else to hear.”
Mike chuckled. “You know what you sound like? You sound like Nancy Drew and the secret staircase. You’re getting all twitchy on me, blondie.”
“Laugh all you want, Mr. Chapman. I’ll call the Attorney General’s Office myself.”
“For what?”
“I want to know everything there is to know about Gineva Imports—when the corporation was created, who owns it, when they bought the building next to Lutèce. Everything that’s on file with the AG. Not to worry yourself about, Mike. I’ll have nothing but time on my hands after I watch Blanca Robles implode. I’ll do it myself.”
“Wait a minute. What’s Gineva Imports?”
“The corporation that owns the town house.”
“You know anything about them?”
“Just a guess.”
“Bring it on.”
“Word play, Mike. Gineva,” I said, spelling it for him. “Take the ‘gin’ from Gina Varona and the ‘eva’ from Peter Danton’s wife. Gin and Eva.”
“You probably won the spelling bee, too.”
“Not my strong suit.”
“What do you think they’re importing, besides African art?”
“If I were an optimist, I’d say great wines. Or maybe they’re just betting the restaurant will be so successful that Luc will need to double its size before too long.”
“But you’re not an optimist, Coop.”
“That’s why the whole setup makes me sick to my stomach.”
“You’ve had a hard-on for Gina since you first heard about her.”
“Women’s intuition, Mike.”
“Grow some testosterone.”
“Well, what if they’re importing something that would get them locked up for the rest of their natural days?” I said. “That’s what’s eating at my guts.”
“Like what?”
“Think about it, Mike. Gina Varona is one of Brigitte’s best friends, and Brigitte is still blowing coke. And Eva is married to Peter Danton, who travels to West Africa every month to buy art—but—well, now that part of the world is the go-to place for cocaine smugglers.”
“And you’re thinking that one of them is responsible for the cocaine glued to the bottom of Luigi’s houseboat, right? Now,” Mike said, “we just have to figure out who that is.”
There was no stopping Byron Peaser this time. He led Blanca Robles into the conference room and he wouldn’t leave.
It was eleven o’clock on Friday morning, and the team was stationed around the table, ready to take on the troubled accuser.
Robles and Peaser sat next to each other with their backs to the row of windows facing Centre Street. I didn’t want her to have any visual distractions when she talked to me.
Pat McKinney sat at the head of the table, ready to referee the match.
Mercer was at my side, with Ellen Gunsher behind him, her chair against the wall, and Ryan Blackmer was behind me.
“Good morning, Blanca.”
The angry woman met my gaze straight on but refused to answer.
“She’s not interested in talking to you, Ms. Cooper,” Peaser said.
“That’s no longer your choice, Blanca.”
“I’ll tell you what,” Peaser started to say.
“No, sir. I’ll tell
you
what. You’re here as an observer. There are a few things that have come to our attention since your client testified
before the grand jury, and we need to straighten them out right now.”
I started with the money that was in the five bank accounts in her name. Blanca didn’t respond to any of my questions, until Pat McKinney leaned in and told her that she had no choice but to answer if she wanted us to go forward with her case.
I asked her again whether she knew there was half a million dollars in those accounts. Her expression was deadpan as she told us no. Peaser looked like he was going to fall off his chair.
“When is the last time—the most recent time—you went to Citibank to take any money out?”