Blood Flag: A Paul Madriani Novel (27 page)

But if, as Lang said, Menard was devastated by Sofia’s death, it appears he’s had time and found sufficient diversion to recover.

As Herman and I step out onto the pool deck I see, across the water, Menard frolicking. Under a striped canvas cabana, he has both hands full of women, two of them, each looking younger than Sofia. The girls are topless, wearing string bikini bottoms, a piece of floss up the crack and not much else. As for Menard, he stands there in the state of nature, what you might imagine Michelangelo to have carved had he hammered out a nymph under each arm for David.

Herman draws most of the looks as we enter the scene. The six-foot-four bald black mountain in the white terry-cloth robe, flip-flopping his way across the concrete, draws Menard’s attention almost immediately.

“Like the man said, dress code’s a little slack,” says Herman. “Maybe we’d fit in better if we took it all off.”

“The wallets, the IDs, and credit cards we can show them. The salami we keep under wraps.”

“If I didn’t know better I’d say you were scared,” says Herman.

“I don’t have your experience in these matters,” I tell him. “Besides, if I end up without clothes, you’re gonna have to be the one to explain it to Joselyn. You know, the part about how this was work related.”

“I told you not to come. You sure that’s all it is?” he says.

“What else would it be?”

“I’m thinking maybe you’re afraid cuz you don’t want to be standing next to me when the beast is out in the open.”

“Well, that, too,” I tell him.

“There you go. I knew it,” says Herman, “all the tired clichés, the shopworn crap about black men and their prowess. How would you even know?” he says. “Have I ever whipped it out in your presence?”

“Not that I can remember,” I tell him. “And if it’s all the same to you we’ll keep it under lock and key today.”

“Fine by me,” he says. “I don’t need to prove anything.”

Herman has abandoned the Speedo. He’s wearing his boxer shorts under the robe, a concession to comfort.

“I’m just tryin’ to let you know that if it comes down to it I’m prepared to go the extra mile, go all the way as they say, if it’s necessary.”

“We’ll make sure it’s not,” I tell him.

“In case you’re interested, see the guy behind Menard in the lounge chair, other side of the pool?” says Herman. “The one wearing the dark glasses, loafers, and the Speedo?”

“I see him.”

“That’d be Menard’s security.”

“How do you know?”

“He’s the only one wearing anything you could call clothes, along with street shoes. But I don’t think we have to worry.”

“Why is that?”

“Unless I’m wrong, that bump in his Speedo is not a gun. It’s the good thing about coming to a place like this. It may not be wholesome, but it’s hard to hide heat,” says Herman.

There are six or eight other men sitting around the pool, all of them naked, several of them with their hands full of flesh. I am wondering if Menard is Jekyll and Hyde, and if so, how Sofia had her head turned.

I can’t imagine her ever getting involved with the man had she known about this. I’m sure she didn’t. Menard would never have brought her here. He would have taken her to the grand house on the golf course, shown her the city, told her how miserable his marriage was, and how he was on the verge of ending it. That he was about to become a free man again, and eligible. Sofia might have gone for that. She was a sweet kid, but she was also ambitious, harboring dreams of becoming a lawyer and spending holidays in Paris. To a young girl with stars in her eyes, Menard, I am sure, might have seemed the pathway to all of it. It was Joselyn who said young women are impressionable and sometimes naive. For Sofia, Ricardo Menard would have been a blind grasp into the dark distance, beyond the safety where she could see.

THIRTY-SIX

W
hen we get close to Menard’s cabana at the pool, Herman situates himself where he can watch Ricardo’s security man, to pounce on him if he has to. Herman works his fingernails over with a small metal file as he stands there. The file has a sharp pointed edge at one end.

I approach the tent.

Menard looks at me. “Can I help you?”

“You’re Mr. Menard, I believe?”

“Who are you?” He glances back at his security man, who struggles to get up out of the chaise longue.

“Relax.” Herman freezes the guy with a stare. “We’re just here to talk. Unless you wanna go for a dance over by the pool.”

The guy stands there bent over doing the splits with the chaise longue between his legs. “You want I should deal with it?” he asks Menard.

“Little late.” Menard takes one look at the size of Herman and the position his man is in and says, “No. Why don’t you just go in the house?”

“Better idea,” says Herman. “Why don’t you lie down, go back to sleep again. We’ll wake you when we’re done.” Herman doesn’t want any surprises coming out of the house.

The security man looks at Menard, who nods. The guy sits down.

“Go ahead, lie back,” says Herman. “Put your feet up. We won’t steal your loafers. I promise.”

“I’m Paul Madriani.” I hold up a business card from the pocket of my robe. “I thought perhaps we could talk for a moment. That is, if you’re free.”

Menard is still holding on to the two women, their naked backs and buttocks to me. He removes his right hand from the butt of one of them and holds it out.

I step forward and hand him the card.

“Do I know you?”

“No.”

He reads the card and says, “What firm are you with?”

“My own,” I tell him.

“What do you want?” He holds the women tight, up close to himself like body armor as he uses my business card to scratch the bare buttocks of one of them. Maybe he thinks his wife sent us to shoot him.

One of the other girls comes up behind him jiggling and giggling. She jumps up onto a chair, rubbing her body against him, whispering in his ear loud enough for us to hear. She wants to know what’s going on.

“Shhh. Baby, be quiet. Can’t you see? I’m talking to the man.”

“Sofia Leon worked for me,” I tell him.

Instantly I have his attention. He raises his hand off her ass and studies my business card again. “I don’t think I know the lady,” he says.

“You should. You brokered some pretty fair letters of recommendation from friends on her behalf. Theo Lang, does that ring a bell?”

“Oh, I think I remember now. A young woman I met at one of my companies. I think, if I remember correctly, she said she was interested in finding a job with a law firm. I told her that perhaps I could help her.”

“Why would you do that? A perfect stranger,” I ask.

“I like to help young people.” He smiles at me, tawny skin and a flash of even white teeth.

“Yes, I can see that.”

Menard reaches back down with his right hand and squeezes the woman’s ass one more time, then slaps it and tells the two women to beat it, go to the bar and grab a few drinks. The second he releases them they spin and skip away, barefooting it toward the bar at the far end of the pool.

The woman behind him, a petite raven-haired beauty, now has free rein. Her arms draped around his neck, she drops her hand, grabs his nipple, and twists it while she sinks her teeth into his shoulder.

“Ayyee! Jeez, Maria. No.”

She smiles, then licks the bite mark in his shoulder, the whole time looking at me through flashing eyes, as if I should get in line for some of this.

“What is it you said?” Menard is having a hard time concentrating.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Oh, yes, this woman. You say she worked for you. I hope she did a good job.”

“What makes you think she’s moved on?”

“What do you mean?”

“You said ‘did a good job’ past tense, as if she were gone.”

“Oh, my English is not so good.” He smiles.

“I think your English is fine.”

“Why don’t you go join the others.” Menard gets rid of the third woman. He rubs his shoulder. “I’ll see you in a few minutes.” If his look means anything I’m guessing he’ll slap the crap out of her when he does.

She steps off the chair and sashays around him into the open. She is wearing a tiny web of cotton thread looking like fishnet strung between her thighs, with a triangle of black cloth the size of an eye patch at the strategic point. She looks up at me with a devilish grin as she passes by on her way to the bar.

“The two of you should relax and enjoy yourself,” he tells us. “Would you like some women?”

“No thanks. I take it you own the place.”

“In a manner of speaking. I have a future interest in developing the property,” he says. “How about I offer you a drink?”

“Why not?”

“Let’s go to the bar,” he says.

“Let’s have it here. Fewer distractions,” I tell him.

“As you like.” He calls the waiter over.

I order a Scotch and soda. He orders a beer, one of the local microbrews. “And some of those little hors d’oeuvres, the ones on the sticks,” he tells the waiter.

“What about your man?” He looks at Herman.

“He’s working,” I tell him. This way if they drop something in my drink, Herman will deal with them.

“Ah. So is mine.” He looks at his security man laid out on the chaise longue. “Is so hard to get good help these days.”

We sit at one of the tables nearby, Herman standing in the background, filing his fingernails, keeping one eye on the man in the chaise longue.

“How did you find me?” Menard finally asks.

“Seems you’re either here, at your house, or in between. When do you find the time to use the polo ponies or the boat?” I ask.

“Sounds like you been doing research. Why would you bother? If you call me I would tell you whatever it is you want to know. I have nothing to hide.”

“Everyone has something to hide.”

“Not me,” he says.

“Perhaps if someone brought your wife and some photographers by here,” I tell him.

“Is that what this is about?” He laughs. “She knows about this. She doesn’t care. So if you’re thinking someone is going to blackmail me, you need not worry. It’s not going to happen.”

The drinks come. Right behind them is a large platter of appetizers, a variety of items, all of them with wooden toothpicks. The waiter sets the drinks in front of us, lays out two small plates and napkins.

“What was this woman to you, this Sofia, I think you said her name was?”

“You know her name. You made sure your friends put it in all those letters. And there you go again.”

He looks at me wide-eyed, taking a swig of beer from the bottle.

“Talking about her in the past tense,” I tell him.

“Oh. Sorry,” he says. Wipes his lips with the napkin.

“She was my employee,” I say.

“There, you see? You did it, too. It’s an easy mistake to make. Perhaps I caught it from you, this pass-tens thing. Maybe I should send you someone else.”

“So you’re the one who sent her to us?”

“No. Did I say that? You must have misunderstood. No, I tol’ her to go find a law office. I didn’t send her to any one office in specific.” He drinks a little more beer.

“Oh, I see. Then she must have found her way to us on her own.”

He nods. “I assume so. Here, have one of these.” He hands me a toothpick with some cold meat rolled and stuck on the end and takes one for himself. He eats it quickly and takes another. He pries the appetizer off the end with his teeth and licks the toothpick, then lays it on his plate. I watch him do eight or ten of these as we talk around the obvious, that both of us know Sofia is dead, that she’s been murdered.

Finally I get up, peering across the large platter to the other side.

“Something I can get for you?”

“I hope you don’t mind my boardinghouse reach.” I lean over, reach out with my left hand toward one of the toothpicks on the far side. As I do it, I knock the bottle of beer off the table with my right. The glass bottle hits the concrete and explodes. “Aw, I’m sorry,” I tell him. “Let me get that.”

“No. No,” he says. “I’ll get the waiter. No problem.”

“Be careful. You’ll cut your feet up. Get some shoes,” I tell him.

“You’re right.” He steps carefully out of the way, toward the bar.

The second he’s gone I grab a clean napkin and sweep the toothpicks from his plate onto it. Then I roll up the napkin and stuff it in the large patch pocket of my robe. I grab another napkin and pretend to blot up the beer from the table as I scan the ground around it. The instant I see what I’m looking for I reach down and grab it, the broken neck of the beer bottle that Menard was drinking from. I wrap it carefully in a couple of napkins and slip it into my pocket. By the time the waiter shows up with a broom and a dustpan there is nothing of any value left.

I make a show of brushing off the two plates over a trash can so that Menard sees this on his way back. He’s not only put on a pair of shoes, but shorts. I look at Herman. “Time to go.”

He nods, and we both head toward Menard as he comes this way. I shake his hand, tell him we’ve got to go. We have another appointment.

“Are you sure you don’t want to talk some more? As I say, I have nothing to hide,” says Menard.

“We’ll talk some other time,” I tell him.

Ten minutes later we’re back in the car, hauling ass downhill toward the airport. “The only other thing I wish I had,” I tell Herman, “are photographs of Menard with the women. If the DNA shows him to be the killer, the cops can have him. If not, and it turns out his only crime is fathering Sofia’s child and I had photos, I’d turn them over to Joselyn and let her have him. She’d post them online from here to hell and send glossies to his wife. But unfortunately we don’t have any.”

“Your wish is my command,” says Herman.

As I look over, he’s holding what looks like a tiny cube of black plastic on the pad of his forefinger.

“What’s that?”

“Called a mini camcorder,” says Herman.

“You’re telling me you took that inside? That we’ve got pictures?”

“No. I’m telling you we have almost twenty minutes of flesh-tone movies. Two million pixels of high-definition video. You didn’t really think I’d be filing my fingernails, did you?”