Private Paris (Private 10)

“So she’s wearing different-colored contacts,” I said.

“And more than that,” the maître d’ said. “She had—how do you say?—extensions in her hair, and her cheeks, the thickness, they seemed to change.”

Louis said, “Probably putting cotton high in her mouth.”

“You ever hear him use her name?”

“Mariama,” the headwaiter said. “No idea on her last name.”

“You’re positive?” Hoskins said.

“Definitely,” he replied. “I heard him call her Mariama several times.”

The name could be useful, I thought. But then again, this is a woman who changes her hair and eye color and used cotton to alter her looks. It wasn’t a stretch to see her using an alias.

“Did Chef Pincus know Henri Richard?”

The maître d’ nodded. “They were not close friends, but they knew each other. In fact, the last time Richard was in with Mariama, René came to their table and talked.”

“About what?” Hoskins asked.

Fontaine shrugged. “I don’t know, but the chef shook his hand and seemed very happy returning to the kitchen.”

The wine steward agreed. “He was whistling.”

“And when was this?” I asked.

“Last week.”

“Are there security cameras here?”

Investigateur Hoskins sobered, shook her head. “There are very few outside of government buildings. The French see it as an invasion of privacy.”

“Who was the last to see Chef Pincus alive?” Louis asked.

The maître d’ and the wine steward raised their hands. They gave us the timetable, and then described leaving the restaurant shortly after 1 a.m., and seeing a drunk passed out in the alley by the Dumpster.

“You rarely see that in this neighborhood,” Fontaine remarked. “But you could smell the alcohol all over him, even over the garbage.”

“What does it mean?” the steward asked. “The graffiti?”

“When we figure it out, we’ll let you know,” Hoskins said. “For now, I want to clear the restaurant and let the forensics team complete its work.”

Louis and I didn’t argue. We went back through the kitchen, where Chef Pincus’s body had been cut down and covered with a sheet. Out in the alley, we crossed to the Dumpster, finding a broken bottle of beer sitting upright beneath it. There was still two inches of booze in the intact bottom.

“Why didn’t he drink it?” Louis asked.

“What, from the broken part? There are glass shards in there. He’d have swallowed them.”

“A clever wino would strain them out with his shirt,” Louis said. “Maybe this bum just wanted to smell drunk.”

Chapter 37

8th Arrondissement

6:12 p.m.

I GOT OUT of a taxi in the twilight, and felt vindicated and excited as I bid good evening to the doorman at the Plaza Athénée. Earlier, Louis and I left Investigateur Hoskins to deal with the media mob gathered around Chez Pincus, and went back to the offices of Private Paris. We put together a priority list for the evidence our techs had gathered at the scene.