He cowered back as if I were an avenging angel. “Why do you think Chef Bouclet hired me?” He tried to sound strong, tough.
He didn’t scare me. “You fabricated a whole story to get into my office to see me. Then you made a point to provide the whole paperweight Internet photo scenario to put me on the scent. You were most helpful. It seemed a bit odd to me at the time that you just sauntered in and had the answer.”
He tried to smile—a wan stretching of his lips that made him look like he had gas.
“You made sure your story had just enough holes and inconsistencies to hit my radar.” I stepped next to the shattered window, using the wall to shield my body as I took a peek up and down the street. Quiet had once again settled over the neighborhood. Nothing moved. “It was a bit of a gamble, expecting me to put a tail on you.”
“Word on the street is, you got some smarts.”
Personally, I thought that an exaggeration. “Glad I didn’t disappoint.”
“Jeremy Whitlock is the best.” Livermore’s voice steadied.
“Then, when you were sure you had a tail, you left my office and went running to Wexler.” I leaned in, getting as close as I could without cringing. “Why?”
“Chef Bouclet knew something was going on with the shipments. He also knew Wexler couldn’t pay his bills. Initially, Chef Bouclet suspected Wexler was behind all of this. It was my intent to put him on your radar.”
“You did, but that just added him to a cast of characters.” Satisfied the shooters weren’t easing down the street to finish the job, I stepped away from the window. With the excitement over, I let my eyes roam around the office, taking a measure of Mr. Livermore’s life. A spring poked through a hole in the fabric covering the love seat in the corner. The wallpaper, peeling in spots and faded in others, showed the neglect of time. The floors, splintered by sun and use, had once been a beautiful burnished wood still evident in the untrafficked corners. Livermore’s desk held a few thin files, each marked with the initials JCB in black marker—Jean-Charles Bouclet. The shelves behind were bare—no photos of loved ones. “But you don’t think Chef Wexler had anything to do with whatever it is that’s going on?”
“No.” Livermore put his hands on the arms of his chair as if clinging to the sides of a storm-tossed dingy. The chair swallowed him, making him look like a kid playing grown-up. “He’s a desperate man, which makes him look guilty. But as far as I could find, he’s just a guy trying to make a buck and keep his business afloat.”
“Do you know where Jean-Charles is?” I felt the flicker of hope.
“He moves around.” Livermore paled, if that was even possible, but it seemed like he lost color. “When we first started poking around, he got sorta spooked. It just seemed like whoever is behind all of this was always, if not one step ahead, they at least knew our every move.” Livermore glanced at the window. “Apparently, they still are tapping into our phone calls, or something.”
I grudgingly conceded that point. “They found you.”
He leveled his gaze at me. “And they knew you were coming here.”
I pulled my phone out of the holster at my hip. “This is a new phone.”
“If they know what they’re doing, they can capture the signal—they don’t even need the phone. They need to be pretty savvy, though.”
“And pretty amoral.”
He gave me a look that wasn’t hard to read.
“Yeah, that’s a given, I know.” I sighed as the weight of disillusionment landed on my shoulders. “It’s just that people are so disappointing sometimes.”
Livermore didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to see disappointment and disillusion were his constant companions. And desperation could prod even the most reluctant to do a lot of things they never would have considered doing. Even in my diminished state, I realized that Livermore himself could have squealed us out to the bad guys and was deflecting suspicion by pointing to someone else. I hated games—especially when I was the one being played. Romeo’s theory that everyone is guilty until proven innocent was looking better and better—particularly for those of us with a clear self-preservation goal.
“Well, it seems my ride is not coming back.” I gave him an appraising stare. I could take him, if I had to. So, why not play him a little longer, see what I could ferret out. I gave him my most benign smile, which I had a feeling wasn’t all that good. “I sure could use a lift back to the Babylon.”
Livermore looked relieved at having something to do. “My car is in back.”
Probably not the wisest move to go with the guy—he was as slimy as a snake-oil salesman and, although I felt for him, I still didn’t trust him.
“Okay.” I stared Livermore down until he curled in on himself like a scolded puppy. I used my height to full advantage, towering over him. “But you pull any fast ones, and I’ll break every bone in your body . . . one at a time.”
He looked like he believed me. It was a proud moment.
Livermore motioned for me to follow him down a narrow hallway. When he turned, I grabbed the thin files on his desk and stuffed them in the back of my sweater, then tucked a bit of the soft fabric into the back of my jeans, making a pocket. As an afterthought, I grabbed the mail, too, stuffing it in with the files.
The hallway was longer than I’d thought, and harder to navigate with the carpet bunched and torn beneath our feet. The smell of rancid grease, reheated frozen dinners, and hopelessness permeated the stale air, leaking from the walls and drifting down the stairs.
“The garage is this way.” Livermore confirmed my presence with a quick glance over his shoulder, then he pushed through a door that looked like it had been salvaged from a long forgotten restaurant—the greasy handprints embedded in the bubbled paint were there to stay.
The kitchen reeked of abandonment—the electric coiled burners on the cooktop were bent and sprung, the oven door hung on one hinge. From the last century, the refrigerator was one of those things the guys hoped to find in that storage unit reality show—refurbished, it would bring a mint. We followed the furrow in the linoleum, the pattern long faded by decades of trudging.
“Will we need to hand crank your ride to get it started?” I muttered, half joking, half dreading the answer.
He took that question straight up, without a smile, which gave me pause. “I keep it on a trickle charger, it should be fine.”
The garage consisted of four poles topped with corrugated fiberglass, now opaque and cracked, desiccated by the desert sun. And his ride, a thirty-year-old Caddie, red with a white convertible top, actually looked fine, as he had said. Not a speck of dirt or mold marred the cloth surface of the top. The paint, as vibrant as the day the car rolled off the showroom floor, showed no signs of oxidation. The metal of the doors, smooth as a baby’s butt, hinted at what part of the parking lot Livermore frequented. I opened the passenger door—the interior smelled like glycerin. I smoothed my hand over the soft leather seats as I slid in. Livermore obviously lavished all his love on this grand car, and it made me feel a bit sad for him.
Livermore disconnected the battery, then took his place behind the wheel. The engine fired after only one anguished turn, and he shot me a grin. “She’s a grand old gal.” He swiveled, his elbow thrown over the back of the bench seat as he concentrated on backing out. A tight fit for the huge car, he had to maneuver back, then forward twice, before he got us clear. With the bow of the car pointed down the alley, Livermore accelerated slowly.
Once I was assured he headed in the right direction, I settled back. “How did Jean-Charles get caught up in this?”
“It’s pretty benign, really.” Livermore glanced out of the corner of his eye at me. Behind the wheel of the huge Caddy, he looked liked a teenager taking the family car for a joy ride, his feet barely touching the pedals. I fought complacency—God help me, I felt my fondness for him growing. The bond of shared disappointments was insidious.
“You know about the tracking chips and all,” he said, then confirmed my answer with a quick glance.
I nodded, even though his statement wasn’t a question—I was pretty sure he had a better idea of what I knew than I did. “Jean-Charles and Mr. Peccorino were testing the chips,” I said, giving him a foothold in the conversation.
Livermore spun the steering wheel like a captain at the helm of a sailing ship, turning us onto the Strip, heading south toward the lights and out of the darkness. “Everything was going great until Desiree started having trouble with her shipments.”
“Is there really a truffle that has gone missing?”
Livermore looked at me a bit longer than I was comfortable with, considering he held my life in his hands. “I saw the truffle. It is a thing of beauty.” He said the words with a surprising reverence.
“Who stole it, then?”
He waved away my question. “We tried to read the truffle chip. When we couldn’t, we realized Mr. Peccorino might be playing a game of his own—perhaps playing both ends against the middle. Or perhaps he was using this opportunity to prove his chips really were brilliant. Dr. Phelps had indicated there was some issue with funding the project going forward. Chef Bouclet had arranged to meet Mr. Peccorino at Cielo that day, intending to hold his feet to the fire.” He winced. “Bad choice of words. Sorry.”
First Romeo, now Livermore. Was everyone stealing my lines, or was I just slow on the uptake?
“When Chef Bouclet arrived, Mr. Peccorino was dead in the oven.”
“That scared him underground.”
“Yes, the evidence against him, while circumstantial, was fairly incriminating. And Jean-Charles knew he couldn’t chase a killer from a jail cell.”
We both lapsed into silence for the rest of the ride. If Livermore had any more answers, he’d decided he’s shared enough.
Fifteen minutes later, swearing Livermore had the best red light karma I’d ever witnessed, he eased the big car into the queue snaking up the drive to the Babylon. My notoriously thin patience completely worn through, I stepped out of the car before we had a chance to make much progress. “Thanks.” I tossed the word at him as I shut the door carefully—old gals should be treated with care.
I should know.
* * *
The lights were off, the outer office empty, when I pushed through the door. Relieved, I left the lights off, using the light filtering in through the large window overlooking the lobby to navigate back to the construction project I called home.
Pausing in the doorway, I pulled the files from their hiding place nestled against my back. Using the weak ambient light, I quickly perused the first file. Nothing Livermore hadn’t told me. The second wasn’t any more enlightening. I’d about given up when I flipped through the mail I’d grabbed. Mostly bills and junk mail, it seemed benign. Except for the last envelope. Wedged in a flier—a contest promotion at one of the local watering holes . . . the grand prize was a boob job. Tired and distracted as I was, I almost missed the letter. Pulling it free, my heart rate accelerated. White, legal-sized, no postmark, with only Livermore’s name scrawled in black marker. It had been torn open, a single sheet stuffed quickly back inside. I pulled out the folded piece of paper. Flapping it open, I held it up to the light as I read the short paragraph. “Holy shit!”
The puzzle fell into place as the pieces aligned. A picture of revenge, it wasn’t pretty . . . but it made sense. I still needed proof. But how to get it? I needed to think.
I staggered to my desk chair and fell into it. Tossing the files and the mail on my desk where they blended with the pile of papers already there, I grabbed my phone and started to dial Romeo.
“Lucky?” A soft voice from the dark stopped me cold.
Instantly, my heart rate redlined.
“Who’s there?” The soft light in here did little to brighten the corners. I squinted and could just make out a small form seated on the couch.
“Chantal.” The girl leaned forward until I could just see her features, her curls. Her voice shook.
“Why are you hiding in here, in the dark?” I leaned back, my heart still hammered in my ears, but I was no longer in danger of stroking out.
“I need your help. Oh, please, you must come with me.”
“Where is your mother?”
“She is doing what she does.” Even though I could barely make out her shrug of insouciance, I got the message: she wasn’t telling me the whole truth.
I started to respond with a less-than-kind retort when she stopped me cold.
“Uncle needs your help. He asked me to bring you.”
“You’re in touch with your uncle? You know where he is?”
She nodded. “He’s found something. You must come. It is important.”
I let that sink in for a moment. “You stole my cockroach paperweight, didn’t you?” My eyes were adjusting to the darkness—details came into focus. The girl’s face looked pinched with fear.
“I am sorry for that.” She reached into the hobo bag at her feet and pulled something out. She rose and extended it to me across the desk. “Here.”
My cockroach.
“I know how fond of it you are.” It was clear she didn’t understand my attachment.
I didn’t feel the need to explain. “You gave your uncle the idea for the photos to help with the clues.”