“Eleanor Moreau,” Esther interjected.”
“That’s correct,” Sam replied.
“That has to be more than a coincidence, Sam.”
“If the same person who killed Lentz also killed Lebraun and Moreau, it has to be for a different reason.”
The jet began to taxi to the runway. Sam and Esther buckled their seat belts in anticipation of the takeoff.
“We’ll be taking off in just a few minutes, folks. I’m Captain O’Connor. My co-pilot is Captain Thomas. Your flight attendant is Jeannie Fenton. She’ll be back to see to your needs once we’re in the air. I’ll speak to you again when we’re ready to takeoff.” The plane moved to its position at the end of the runway, waiting for clearance. “Okay, folks, we’re clear for takeoff. Please be seated and fasten your seatbelts.”
The three jet engines roared while the plane held its position. The pilot pulled back on the throttle and they began to taxi down the runway. The Learjet picked up speed quickly and rose like a feather into the clear night sky. They reached cruising altitude in less than five minutes. “Ladies and gentlemen,” the captain said, “we’ve reached our cruising altitude of thirty-five thousand feet. We’ve got beautiful weather all the way across the Atlantic and a strong tail wind at our backs courtesy of the jet stream. We should reach Monaco in seven hours. I’ll be back to visit with you shortly.”
“That was a smooth takeoff, Esther,” Sam commented. “This is the latest model Learjet 43A, the engine purrs like my pussycat.”
“You mean that nasty Siamese cat that looks at me like I am invading his space every single time I visit you. That’s why we spend much time together in my place.”
“The engine may be quiet, but my ears are popping,” Esther replied.
“I’m sorry, I meant to give you a pair of these before we took off.” Sam pulled out a pair of pressure equalizers he had purchased at the drug store.
Esther took them from Sam and carefully read the back of the box. “According to the directions these have to be inserted before take-off,” she snapped, curling her eyebrows in an arch of scorn.
“Why don’t we both get some rest before you throw me out of the plane?” Sam answered, defensively, giving her a smile, with those steely blue eyes that always penetrated her armor.
Esther rested her head on Sam’s shoulder. They slept for about an hour before the flight attendant softly asked if they would like to order dinner. Sam had the filet mignon, Esther the Cajun bluefish. They polished off a full bottle of champagne. After dining, Esther excused herself and went to the ladies room. Sam took out the file on Eleanor Moreau, determined to finally read it.
Eleanor Moreau was born March 15, 1962, in Lafayette Louisiana. Her father was Stefan Chevalier, the wealthy wine merchant, and vintner of the wine that bears his name. She grew up in a bilingual home, French-English, located in the Hermitage district of Southern Louisiana, a suburb of New Orleans, noted for its courtly mansions that had survived the civil war. Eleanor was an excellent student and a fine student athlete, making second court on the Lafayette tennis team. But her passion was photography and politics. Though she had missed by over a decade, the radical 60s, she still managed to join several left-wing organizations at Louisiana State University. It was at a meeting of La Groupe Seconde, a French social democratic club where she met Eliot Moreau. Eliot, a political science major from Quebec, ardently advocated the secession of the Province from Canada. He spoke passionately at rallies and wrote a series of articles in the school newspaper justifying his separatist views. Eleanor would frequently photograph him at these rallies and the two struck up a relationship, which eventually led to their marriage after graduation.
Eliot attended law school at McGill University in Montreal, while Eleanor became a photographer for Scuff Magazine. Scuff covered the heavy metal bands and served up a healthy course of radicalism to its youthful constituency. Eleanor spent a good deal of time away from home following musicians on tour, attending biker conventions and demonstrations in favor of environmental causes. Politically, she and Eliot seemed to be drifting in opposite directions. Eliot abandoned his secessionist views in order to pursue a career in federal politics while Eleanor took up the banner of Greenpeace, a group dedicated to the preservation of whales. Whale riding presented a fascinating subject for her photography, which was picked up by every big news weekly in North America.
Eliot’s career hit the fast track when he was the chief architect of a trade agreement with the United States. He was quickly elected to Parliament and within ten years was swept into office as Prime Minister. By this time the marriage was one of convenience. Though Eleanor kept up the pretense of “first lady of Canada,” it wasn’t long before she hit the road again doing what she did best— rebel rousing and carousing. However, as wife of the prime minister she was fair game for the tabloids. It was well known that she was not averse to sleeping with the subjects of her photographs. She garnered sympathy in some circles, but for the most part she was criticized for dragging Canada through the mud. After her husband left office, she went through an amicable divorce, and settled in New York. She was working for Newsweek when the fateful letter bomb, sealed with gribilene, arrived at her apartment.
Sam was so totally absorbed in the details of the only too short life of Eleanor Moreau that he did not notice Esther return from the ladies’ room. When he looked up, he was more than a little taken aback. She was sitting across from Buddy Radford and Qu Min. The flight attendant flip-flopped the front two seats so that they were oriented toward the back of the plane facilitating the three-way conversation. They appeared to be engaged in a friendly if not spirited repartee. Two hours earlier, Sam had to physically restrain Esther from fighting with Qu Min. Now they appeared to be the best of friends. Perhaps the champagne had mitigated Esther’s ill feelings toward Qu Min, but he knew that Esther always held a grudge. Sam put the Moreau dossier back into his briefcase. He would finish reading it at another time. This was one party he wasn’t about to miss.
Sam got up from his seat and sat down next to Esther. Radford was in the midst of pontificating about his favorite subject: gambling.
“The best odds of all the table games in Monaco is craps. No place else in the world allows you to wager up to twenty times your bet, behind the line. They must pay off true odds on that bet. In other words, say your point is a four. If you bet a hundred dollars behind the line, you get paid off two to one odds provided you roll a four before you roll a seven.”
“It’s too complicated for me to follow. I was never very good in Math. Sam do you understand what Buddy is saying?”
“Yes, of course. He’s correct. If you bet a hundred dollars straight up on the four they pay off nine dollars for every five dollars wagered. If you bet one hundred dollars you win one hundred and eighty if the shooter rolls a four before the seven; but behind the line you would win two hundred dollars for the same bet. That’s a ten percent take versus no take at all so the strategy in craps is to lay it on big behind the line, especially if there is a hot shooter. Most big gamblers don’t bet heavy when the shooter first comes out; they bet big only after they know the point.”
“You seem to know your probabilities when it comes to craps,” Radford said to Sam.
“It’s my business to assess the probabilities. I’m sure that you must take probabilities into account when you enter a horse into a big race. You have to weigh the likelihood of the horse winning a share of the purse versus the entry fee. I know from your many successes that you must be an expert at weighing the odds. I must say that it’s a pleasure to finally meet you.” Sam extended his hand. Radford grasped it powerfully. Sam figured that the strength in Radford’s grip was somehow related to horse training.
“I know you well from your TV appearances, Mr. Sonn. I’ve seen you often on Court TV. You offer a distinctly different point of view from the typical D.A. types that appear on the show.”
“I