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closed temporarily after some vandalism three or four years ago. Then reopened. That happens now and then.”
    “You’ve been there, too?”
    “Many times, Alexandra. And no, I’ve never been tempted to carry off any bones.”
    He was licking his fingers to savor every last bit of the marinade.
    “Did you ever go to the catacombs with Lisette?”
    “No and no and no and no to all the ridiculous things that cross your mind.”
    I thought for a minute. “What if there’s any significance to the numbers?”
    “Which numbers?”
    “Three skulls in front of Le Relais,” I said. “And you’re the only restaurant in town that’s got three stars.”
    “And you’ve got a wonderfully fertile imagination that you should use to think about all the things we can do the next time you can sneak off for a visit here.”
    We had started to eat in earnest when the maître d’ hurried to our chairs with a portable phone in hand.
    “I’m so sorry to interrupt you, Luc, but it’s the police. He says it’s very important.”
    Luc stood up. “Damn Belgarde. He’s determined to make himself look more stupid than Inspector Clouseau at this point.”
    “Not for you. It’s for
madame
,” he said, extending his arm with the phone. “It’s American police.”
    Luc threw his hands in the air. “I can’t believe this. You’re on holiday, Alexandra. Doesn’t anyone in your office get that? There are five hundred other prosecutors for Battaglia to lean on. Surely someone else is competent enough to do what you do?”
    “Anyone and everyone on my team.” I blushed as I put down my glass on the small table between our chairs. I had promised Luc that I wouldn’t even charge my cell phone during the week here, so that we’d have a real chance to experience life together, without a professional interruption.
    “Hello, Coop?”
    Not even the static on the small phone that had been carried too far from its base could muffle the distinctive voice of NYPD homicide detective Mike Chapman.
    “Yeah, Mike.”
    “Did I catch you in the middle of a foie gras or anything? Is your profiterole melting?”
    “Make it quick.”
    “Forgive me for skipping the ‘bonjours’ and all that, but I had Luc’s secretary run you down.”
    “Obviously.”
    Luc folded his arms and walked away, but the maître d’ wasn’t ready to relinquish the phone to me at the height of the hour his reservations were calling in. He remained at my side.
    “You’ve got to come home, Coop. Pronto. Next plane out of paradise.”
    “Not this time,” I said, and though I was bursting with curiosity,I knew Luc would be furious if I even asked Mike why he had called.
    “Mercer needs you. It’s serious, kid.”
    “Something happen to Mercer?” The heightened concern in my voice got Luc’s attention. He knew that Mercer Wallace had covered my back more times than I could count. There was very little I wouldn’t do for him.
    “Yeah.”
    “He’s hurt?”
    “Calm down, kid. He’s just fine, physically. What happened to him is that he’s saddled with the biggest case of his career and he wants you to help him. At the moment, it’s your archenemy who’s calling the shots.”
    “Pat McKinney?” The chief of the Trial Division spent much of the average workday trying to stab me in the back with a serrated knife. “What does McKinney want with a rape case?”
    “Visibility, I guess.”
    I took Chapman’s bait. “What makes it so big?”
    “I caught the squeal. Collared the guy in the first-class cabin on a flight to Paris.”
    “The perp is French?”
    Luc’s eyes were riveted on me as I started to talk and show interest. Now I was the one who took a few steps back.
    “Lives in France, but he’s West African. Rich as Croesus. Son of an exiled African leader and he’s rumored to be the next president of the Ivory Coast, give or take a revolution or two in between. Head of the World Economic Bureau—called the WEB. You know who that is?”
    “I