Bleeding Hearts(38)

The similarities made Candida DeWitt very, very uncomfortable.





Four


1


LA VIE BOHèME WAS not Gregor Demarkian’s idea of a restaurant. It wasn’t even his idea of a comfortable bordello. La Vie Bohème was one of those places with too many spider plants and Boston ferns in the windows that faced the street, too much space between the tables in the main room, and too much fondness for silverware that was supposed to be a work of art on its own. Gregor Demarkian had a lot in common with the bluff old colonels who went to lunch in Agatha Christie’s novels, although he didn’t think he had anything at all in common with Hercule Poirot. Gregor liked his chairs comfortable and his food in substantial quantities. He wanted peace and quiet while he was eating and a large cup of coffee when he was finished. He wanted sensible food like steaks and prime rib and menu listings in plain English—unless, of course, he was eating Armenian or Chinese. The problem with La Vie Bohème was that it played Ravel without ceasing, served its coffee in delicate little bone china contraptions no bigger than the pieces of a dollhouse tea set, and listed steak on its menu as boeuf à l’anglaise. Fortunately, the steak was an excellent two-and-a-half-pound porterhouse and the chairs, though gratingly elegant, were large. That was why Gregor agreed to go there, and why La Vie Bohème was Bob Cheswicki’s favorite restaurant. Of course, the prices were outrageous. That went with the territory. Gregor knew that from twenty years as a federal agent, dealing regularly with local law enforcement personnel. There was always one restaurant in every town that high-level police officials truly loved, but that they couldn’t afford on their own. That was where you took them when you wanted their cooperation.

Gregor went from Cavanaugh Street to La Vie Bohème by cab. It was too far to walk, and what he would have had to walk through would not have been safe. It bothered him, what had happened to Philadelphia. The Philadelphia he’d grown up in had not been like this—and it was not just poverty that made the difference. This new president said he would pump a lot of money into the cities. Maybe that would work. Gregor liked the sound of it. His instincts, however, ran in the opposite direction. Money would be nice. It might even be essential. Attitude was what really mattered. The police he met these days didn’t seem to think they could do much about crime. The schoolteachers he met at the library lectures he sometimes gave and the mini-conventions he was asked to speak at mostly thought their students were stupid and not worth much more than the effort it took to warehouse them. “It doesn’t matter if it’s the African baseline essay or Shakespeare,” one of them had told him over cookies and punch at the Art Institute. “These kids are never going to be able to understand either.” Then there were the people themselves, bumped into in convenience stores and newsstands, corner diners and taxi stands and bus stops. Everybody seemed so tired. Everybody seemed so lost. It was as if Philadelphia were a wind-up toy beginning to wind down. Gregor kept half expecting a big hand to come down from the sky to tighten the spring.

Since no big hand came out of anywhere to do anything, Gregor got out of his cab in front of La Vie Bohème, tipped the driver less handsomely than Bennis would have—really, Bennis was outrageous—and made his way across the sidewalk to La Vie Bohème’s front door. It was a big blond wood door with a brass handle big enough to be God knew what. The sign that said LA VIE BOHÈME was a tiny brass one screwed into the door at eye level for a tall woman, engraved with letters so small they were unreadable. The energy might be going out of things in general, but some people had more than you wanted them to have, Gregor thought. And they always expended it on things like this.

Gregor let himself into the air lock, shook the slush and rock salt off his shoes, and went on through to the reception area. Bob Cheswicki was standing at the reservations desk, talking to a tall brunette woman with a rhinestone snood holding her hair at the back of her neck. Bob Cheswicki, Gregor remembered, had recently been divorced. His wife of fifteen years had finally gotten sick and tired of being married to a cop. Gregor wondered how much time Bob spent chatting up the ladies. There were men who needed to be married. There were men who never would and never could be any good on their own. Gregor didn’t know if Bob Cheswicki was one of these or not. He could see that the young woman at the reception desk was not impressed. She probably saw streams of well-paid businessmen every day. Why should she be impressed with a cop?

Bob saw Gregor come in and straightened up a little. “Here’s Mr. Demarkian,” he said. “Only three minutes late.”