Whiplash
Page 26
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"Georgie wants a dog, what kid doesn't? We'll have to see."
The evening was cool, the moon at half-mast, the sky clear and studded with stars. Bowie said, "The restaurant is just down this road. I had their lobster the one time I ate here and it's great. Another thing, the owner, Paul Remier, wasn't too happy to be hosting three cops in his fine upscale restaurant tonight. I think he's afraid we'll slap handcuffs on someone and march him out."
Sherlock grinned. "Then let's keep him guessing."
He looked over at her, appreciated the nice black dress she was wearing, the sexy open-toed shoes that showed off her bright red toenails. She'd pulled back all that beautiful red curly hair and fastened it behind her ears with gold clips. He'd never take her for a tough-as-nails FBI agent, which is what she was.
He glanced over at Savich, who was wearing a conservative black suit, nearly a match to Bowie's. He liked them both, but he still wished they weren't here, wished they were back in Washington playing with their kid. Why did Disneyland East always think the field offices were incompetent? At least Savich and Sherlock had excellent reputations. He'd heard some talk that Savich was into psychics, or something, which sounded ridiculous to Bowie, not that he was going to ask Savich about it. What did one do? Have séances? The FBI didn't deal with ghosts. It just wouldn't work.
It was nine o'clock on the nose when they walked in. The maitre d' stood by a podium near the front door, along with the owner, Paul Remier, a very short rotund man with jet-black hair and black eyes. Neither of them looked particularly welcoming.
Sherlock gave them both a high-voltage smile. "Dr. Ella Franks tells us you serve the best oysters this side of the Atlantic."
"Ah," said Paul Remier, unbending just a bit, "this is true. So you know Dr. Franks? A fine lady. Do allow me to seat you myself. We hope you have a lovely dinner. Our chef's oysters à la maison are exceptional. I have arranged for last night's waitstaff to be available for you to speak with, discreetly, here at your table. Will that be convenient for you?"
Once they were seated, with their water poured in crystal glasses, fine virgin olive oil in a small bowl, and a warm baguette laid in a white basket on their lovely corner table, Bowie raised a brow at Sherlock. "How did you do that? I thought Remier would prefer to serve me for dinner rather than feed me oysters when I saw him this morning."
Sherlock grinned at him. "I found out Paul Remier is a neighbor of Dr. Ella Franks. Dr. Franks calls him Paulie."
14
Dillard Shanks, known to the Chez Pierre patrons as Estafan, told them he'd happened to overhear Mr. Blauvelt speaking on his cell phone, something simply no one did at Chez Pierre, and he actually sniffed. However, no one had bothered the gentleman since he was sitting at a back table, wearing an expensive English suit and Italian loafers; but still, Monsieur Remier had believed it exceedingly rude.
"Tell us what you heard him say," Bowie said.
They could tell Estafan didn't want to admit to eavesdropping, but when Bowie added, "You'll make us the happiest people in Stone Bridge if you heard something," Estafan said, "Well, as a matter of fact, I did stop and listen because the gentleman had a bit of an accent, German, I believe. I heard him say he'd made up his mind and to leave him alone. He said something about flying home, but I didn't hear enough to be certain. He listened for a couple of seconds, then nodded, just like a person was sitting across from him, and said there were always difficulties but he was good with overcoming them. Then he switched to German, laughed a little bit, then hung up." Estafan frowned at a fork beside Sherlock's plate, picked it up and rubbed it vigorously on the napkin over his forearm. "I guess he got more difficulties than he'd counted on, since he's dead."
Sherlock smiled up at him. "Thank you for the information and my shiny fork. You ever need a parking ticket fixed, you call Agent Richards."
Estafan said, "Could that include my boyfriend, who's a maniac on his motorcycle?"
"Not a problem," Bowie said, and wondered what the odds were of Chief Clifford Amos's making good. Bowie sat back in his chair and watched Estafan lean over a client four tables away, nod solemnly, and wend his way gracefully to the kitchen. "My question is, if Blauvelt was speaking to his boss in Germany, then why was he speaking in English? And what did he mean about he'd made up his mind and leave him alone?"
They enjoyed a further bit of luck with Claude-just Claude-the sommelier, who confided that the foreign gentleman at table eleven obviously had a lovely trained palate, and money, since he'd ordered a bottle of Blanklet 2004 Paradise Hills Merlot, Napa Valley, a very fine wine indeed.
The evening was cool, the moon at half-mast, the sky clear and studded with stars. Bowie said, "The restaurant is just down this road. I had their lobster the one time I ate here and it's great. Another thing, the owner, Paul Remier, wasn't too happy to be hosting three cops in his fine upscale restaurant tonight. I think he's afraid we'll slap handcuffs on someone and march him out."
Sherlock grinned. "Then let's keep him guessing."
He looked over at her, appreciated the nice black dress she was wearing, the sexy open-toed shoes that showed off her bright red toenails. She'd pulled back all that beautiful red curly hair and fastened it behind her ears with gold clips. He'd never take her for a tough-as-nails FBI agent, which is what she was.
He glanced over at Savich, who was wearing a conservative black suit, nearly a match to Bowie's. He liked them both, but he still wished they weren't here, wished they were back in Washington playing with their kid. Why did Disneyland East always think the field offices were incompetent? At least Savich and Sherlock had excellent reputations. He'd heard some talk that Savich was into psychics, or something, which sounded ridiculous to Bowie, not that he was going to ask Savich about it. What did one do? Have séances? The FBI didn't deal with ghosts. It just wouldn't work.
It was nine o'clock on the nose when they walked in. The maitre d' stood by a podium near the front door, along with the owner, Paul Remier, a very short rotund man with jet-black hair and black eyes. Neither of them looked particularly welcoming.
Sherlock gave them both a high-voltage smile. "Dr. Ella Franks tells us you serve the best oysters this side of the Atlantic."
"Ah," said Paul Remier, unbending just a bit, "this is true. So you know Dr. Franks? A fine lady. Do allow me to seat you myself. We hope you have a lovely dinner. Our chef's oysters à la maison are exceptional. I have arranged for last night's waitstaff to be available for you to speak with, discreetly, here at your table. Will that be convenient for you?"
Once they were seated, with their water poured in crystal glasses, fine virgin olive oil in a small bowl, and a warm baguette laid in a white basket on their lovely corner table, Bowie raised a brow at Sherlock. "How did you do that? I thought Remier would prefer to serve me for dinner rather than feed me oysters when I saw him this morning."
Sherlock grinned at him. "I found out Paul Remier is a neighbor of Dr. Ella Franks. Dr. Franks calls him Paulie."
14
Dillard Shanks, known to the Chez Pierre patrons as Estafan, told them he'd happened to overhear Mr. Blauvelt speaking on his cell phone, something simply no one did at Chez Pierre, and he actually sniffed. However, no one had bothered the gentleman since he was sitting at a back table, wearing an expensive English suit and Italian loafers; but still, Monsieur Remier had believed it exceedingly rude.
"Tell us what you heard him say," Bowie said.
They could tell Estafan didn't want to admit to eavesdropping, but when Bowie added, "You'll make us the happiest people in Stone Bridge if you heard something," Estafan said, "Well, as a matter of fact, I did stop and listen because the gentleman had a bit of an accent, German, I believe. I heard him say he'd made up his mind and to leave him alone. He said something about flying home, but I didn't hear enough to be certain. He listened for a couple of seconds, then nodded, just like a person was sitting across from him, and said there were always difficulties but he was good with overcoming them. Then he switched to German, laughed a little bit, then hung up." Estafan frowned at a fork beside Sherlock's plate, picked it up and rubbed it vigorously on the napkin over his forearm. "I guess he got more difficulties than he'd counted on, since he's dead."
Sherlock smiled up at him. "Thank you for the information and my shiny fork. You ever need a parking ticket fixed, you call Agent Richards."
Estafan said, "Could that include my boyfriend, who's a maniac on his motorcycle?"
"Not a problem," Bowie said, and wondered what the odds were of Chief Clifford Amos's making good. Bowie sat back in his chair and watched Estafan lean over a client four tables away, nod solemnly, and wend his way gracefully to the kitchen. "My question is, if Blauvelt was speaking to his boss in Germany, then why was he speaking in English? And what did he mean about he'd made up his mind and leave him alone?"
They enjoyed a further bit of luck with Claude-just Claude-the sommelier, who confided that the foreign gentleman at table eleven obviously had a lovely trained palate, and money, since he'd ordered a bottle of Blanklet 2004 Paradise Hills Merlot, Napa Valley, a very fine wine indeed.
