by G. K. Parks
“No, I’m at the office. The food truck wasn’t tampered with, but we found a tracker planted on the bumper of Easton’s Eats. The tech department is in the process of tracing it. Once I get a location, I’ll pay the masked bastard a visit.”
“Maybe you should call Voletek.”
I knew from his tone he thought the idea was ludicrous. “What are you doing?”
“It’s best if I don’t tell you.”
“All right, but be careful. Lucien will shit himself if something else happens to you on his watch.”
“I’m not his responsibility.”
“You’d be surprised.”
Just as we disconnected, I found the grey muscle car parked in a corner space. I double-parked behind it and got out of my car. I didn’t know cars that well, but I knew the resale value on this one might be enough for Easton to open another restaurant. Maybe he maxed out his insurance, but a civil suit against a convicted or even suspected arsonist might win him enough to relaunch Sizzle.
Filing the possibility away that this could be an elaborate ploy, I crouched down on the ground, but I couldn’t see beneath the car. After grabbing my flashlight, I slid between the Shelby and the car beside it and laid flat on my back. Staring up at the underside of the car, I shined my light beneath it to check for any modifications. I couldn’t imagine someone would ruin a classic by tricking it out with some cheap undercarriage lights.
“What the hell are you doing?” a sharp female voice asked. I heard the telltale clicking of high heels on the pavement, and I slowly slid out from beneath the car. The car was a bust, and now I was busted. “Security’s on the way. Who are you?”
“Ms. Stockton?” I recognized her photo from Cross Security’s files, but I hoped to leave my employer out of it if I could.
“Who are you?” she repeated. “What are you doing to my car?”
“She a beauty.” I stood up. “I’m guessing she’s also a gas guzzler.”
Her hand slipped into her purse, and she pulled out a small, black object. With the flick of her wrist, she extended the metal baton. “Answer the question.”
I held up my palms. “Someone threw a brick through your ex-husband’s window last night. Witnesses said they saw a muscle car leaving the area.”
“Is he okay?”
That wasn’t the question I expected. “He’s freaked out.”
She held the baton menacingly. “Did he say I did it?”
“No.” I took a step closer. “I mean you no harm. I just wanted to make sure you weren’t responsible. And you’re not.”
She blinked a few times. “You should have made an appointment to speak to me. Since you’re here, you must know where I work.”
“I do.” Apprehensively, I eyed the baton. “I didn’t want to bother you. I assumed you wouldn’t want to waste your valuable time on matters that no longer concern you.”
She flicked the baton closed but held it in her palm. “You haven’t shown me a badge, so I’m guessing you’re not a cop. Did he hire you?”
“Yes.”
“What’s your name?”
“Alex.”
“No last name, Alex?”
“Nope.”
She glanced to the side, eyeing the company car. “Cross Security.” She chuckled. “The cat’s out of the bag. You might as well tell me your last name. And while you’re at it, you can tell me what’s going on with Easton.”
“Parker.”
“Okay, Ms. Parker, you have ninety seconds to tell me what’s going on before I have security detain you until the police arrive. I’m sure they won’t be able to hold you for long, but it’ll be interesting to see what happens when someone from my firm doesn’t come to your rescue.”
“Mr. Almeada will be pleased to hear that. I’m sure he’s tired of saving my ass by now.”
“Eighty-five seconds.”
“Easton’s being threatened and harassed. It started out harmless enough, just notes and anonymous internet trolls, but he thinks someone burned his restaurant down. Last night, someone broke into his house.” Normally, I wouldn’t blab to the first person who threatened me, but I wanted to see her reaction. If she was behind this, I expected smug satisfaction or an outright denial.
But the lady doth not protest too much or at all. She took a breath. “Did you question his harem of dumb sluts? One of them probably has an angry boyfriend.”
“You’re probably right.”
“You’re lying.”
“I’m not on the stand, counselor. I didn’t swear an oath. But I would like to ask you a question.”
“Go ahead.”
Slowly, I pulled out my phone and flipped to a shot of the car caught on the traffic cam footage. I held the device out to her. “Do you know anyone who drives a car like this?”
She studied the photo carefully. “I don’t.” And I believed her.
“Would you tell me if you did?”
“Probably.” She met my eyes. “For you to be here, you’re either exceptionally stupid or Easton’s facing a serious threat. I’ve known Lucien Cross for years. He doesn’t hire stupid. So that must mean someone’s gunning for Easton. And you thought it was me.”
“No, but I had to make sure it wasn’t.”
“Nine times out of ten, it’s the aggrieved spouse, ex-spouse.” She waved off the security guard who, by now, was closing in on our position. “This is the exception, not the rule.” She went around the side and unlocked her door. “I might hate him, but I don’t want to see him dead.” She blew out a slow breath, internally fighting with herself over something. “Tell Lucien to pull out all the stops. I’ll cover whatever expenses Easton can’t.”
“You’re serious?”
She shot a warning look at me. “Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth. If it turns out you aren’t who you said, security has your plates. We will track you down.” She slammed the door and revved the engine, impatiently waiting for me to move my car.
That didn’t go as I expected. I climbed behind the wheel and left the parking garage. For a woman who hated her ex-husband, she had an odd way of showing it. Before returning to the office, I detoured to Fast Lanes, the exotic car club. I doubted a place like this would let Alexis Parker, P.I. wander the premises. And I knew they would never let Alexis Parker, soon to be unemployed, within sneezing distance of any of their vehicles. But they might welcome James Martin’s girlfriend with open arms, assuming she was in the market for a fancy anniversary gift.
While one of the salesmen dithered on about the benefits of a yearly membership, I walked around the showroom, barely batting an eye at the exotic cars. The man must have thought I was a snob. Though, the dirt on the back of my jacket should have obliterated that notion. He must not have noticed.
I interrupted him in the middle of explaining the complimentary delivery and pick-up service. “Do you have anything edgier?” I asked. Cross told me he checked with Fast Lanes, and they didn’t have any modified cars, but I had trust issues.
“Edgier?”
“You know, something fast and furious.”
“Have you seen the Viper? We also have some classics, but they’re checked out at the moment. Here’s our inventory. We add new cars every year. I hear Mr. Martin has his own collection.”
“Only new cars. I thought he’d enjoy taking some older models out for a spin.” I took the offered tablet and swiped through the pages. “Do you have anything with illegal street mods?”
“Like racing cars?”
“Something like that.”
“What exactly are you looking for?”
“I don’t know.” I handed back the tablet, not finding anything that fit. “Something flashy. Color-changing lights, a killer stereo, something fun to play with for a night or two. Something different from what he already has waiting in the garage.”
The salesman gave me the unintentional once-over, probably thinking we were in the market for a third to invite into our bedroom rather than a new car. “We h
ave hip, fun, and new. We also have classics. Exotics. American muscle. I’m sure we can find him something to fit whatever mood he’s in or cater to whatever flavor he’s looking to sample for a night or two.”
“I don’t know.” I stared at the nearest car. “After a while, they all look the same, don’t they?”
“We have more than just cars. We have other performance vehicles too. SUVs, trucks, both new and classic.”
“He’s really just a car guy.”
A few Wall Street types were browsing, and the salesman must have realized they were more likely to join the car club than I was. “Here, take my card. Peruse our website and talk it over with Mr. Martin. I’ll be glad to assist whenever you come to a decision and figure out which car you’d like to check out.”
“Thanks.” I took his card and tucked it in my pocket.
This wasn’t an effective way to conduct an investigation. I already had a suspect and a damn good one at that. However, since Detective Voletek claimed he had a handle on Chef Strader, I thought it was important to explore other avenues. Now, I was rethinking that decision and regretting wasting most of my day. I needed to get back to the office and work the fire angle until the techs upstairs gave us something on the camera and the tracker.
When I entered Cross Security, I spotted Renner in an empty conference room. I ducked my head inside and made sure he was alone. “Hey, depending on how the rest of the day goes, I think we should put Chef Strader under surveillance.”
Renner nodded, distracted by whatever was on the table in front of him. I peered over his shoulder. This had nothing to do with our case.
“Sorry, I’m about to meet with Mr. Zedula’s head of security. I want to get some facts straight first. Can we talk about this later?”
“Sure.” I studied the photographs of various velvet drawers containing what appeared to be diamonds. “Are you working a jewelry heist?”
“Don’t worry about this.” He practically shooed me away. “We have enough on our plate with Easton’s case.”
“Where are we on the camera and tracker?”
“Last I heard, the techs were working on determining the MAC address of the receiver. I don’t know if they cracked it yet.”
“I’ll check,” I said. “Stop by my office when you’re done here.”
“Will do.”
Seventeen
As usual, the tech department did not disappoint. They had the MAC address and were working on getting the IP of the device synced to receive the transmissions from the tracker. I didn’t even think it was possible, but the techs were nothing short of miracle workers. They even found the store where the hidden camera and tracker were purchased, though gaining access to store records without a warrant would be entirely illegal, and assuming the case would result in an arrest, we were being cautious. We didn’t want to screw with a police investigation, even though Lucien despised the cops. I suspected it was because he didn’t want to waste time playing by the rules, not that I could fault him for that.
The nervous energy coursed through me. We would have answers by the end of the night. I knew it. I felt it. This might have been the simplest and shortest investigation I had worked since coming to Cross Security. I wouldn’t mind more cases like this.
Resisting the urge to call Detective Voletek with the good news, knowing an act of hubris such as that would certainly jinx the investigation and my sudden unexpected good fortune, I went back to my original intended task. I had to find out more about the fire and who set it.
Dilbert Haskell hadn’t e-mailed me his findings yet. I checked my watch. Forty-six hours to go, but still, it didn’t hurt to look. I blew out a breath, rolled my neck, and began researching how to set a fire and make it look like arson.
Since I already knew the steps someone must have taken, I didn’t know exactly what I expected to find. The cord had been tampered with which ignited the fire. Some type of accelerant, probably cooking oil, had been spread across the counter. The other suspicious spots Haskell and Payne pointed out had probably been the result of more carefully plotted and intentionally placed commonly found flammable kitchen substances.
Of course, this was all basic science. Anything to feed the fire would result in the fire spreading. Whoever it was didn’t waste time on the back hallway, which could mean several things. I bit my thumbnail, hating the gnawing thought in the back of my mind. Easton was inside the restaurant when the fire broke out. If he set it himself, he would have needed to make sure he had an escape route. He wouldn’t have torched the back hallway.
“Stop it, Parker,” I grumbled. My client was not an arsonist. The tiniest bit of doubt wormed its way through my mind, but my gut said he wasn’t. So he wasn’t. It was that simple. It had to be.
Sighing, I reached for the phone. “Hey, Easton, I have some questions about Sizzle.”
“Shoot,” he said.
“Are you absolutely certain the fire alarm didn’t sound?”
“I didn’t hear anything.”
“What about the sprinkler system? Do you remember if the sprinklers turned on?”
“I don’t know.”
I forced the curse down my throat. The back hallway didn’t have a sprinkler system. It wasn’t required. Just the dining area had been outfitted. “Did you take anything with you when you escaped the fire?”
“After I realized what was happening, I grabbed my laptop and my notebooks.”
“What about the rest of the stuff from your office?”
He didn’t answer immediately, so I opened the insurance investigator’s report. It cataloged the items in the restaurant. “I went back for my files a few days later. The place was destroyed.”
“I saw.”
“You went there?”
“I just got back.”
He let out an uneasy breath. “It’s devastating. And to think, I spent weeks picking out the perfect tile and tablecloths, just so it could crumble.” He cursed. “I want the fucking bastard responsible. Are you close to figuring out who did this?”
I pulled up building permits and blueprints from the city database. “We’re getting there. Did you have the front of the restaurant remodeled?”
“Yeah, before I moved in. It used to have booths lining the front with windows at each table, like you’d expect from a diner. So I tore out the windows and rebuilt the front wall.”
That might have explained why it collapsed when the rest of the building didn’t. I read the work orders and shot an e-mail upstairs, requesting a profile on the contractors Easton hired. “Anything else I should know?”
“Like what?”
“Who had unfettered access to your kitchen?”
“My staff.”
“And the night of the fire, do you remember who worked that day? Did anyone hang around later than usual? Did anything odd happen?”
“I’ve gone over this a hundred times with the cops, with Renner, with anyone who will listen.”
“Go over it again. With me.”
His story never changed. Every investigator made notes. The police checked alibis. No one from Sizzle worked late. No one hung around after hours. They all went home at least three hours before the fire started. Easton was alone. It was the middle of the night. The restaurant was locked up tight. The firefighters broke down the front door when they arrived because it was locked.
“You’re sure the back door was locked too?”
“I know it was. I fumbled to get the door open.”
“Okay,” new thought, “who had keys?”
“Just me and my sous chef, Dante Bisset.”
The light bulb clicked on. “The same sous chef who went to work for Asher York after the fire?”
“Yes, but the police said they spoke to him. He had an alibi. After that, they dismissed my claim completely.”
“Have you spoken to Mr. Bisset recently?”
Easton’s shrug could practically be heard through the phone. “We grabbed a drink last month. I asked him to me
et me. I wanted to see how he was getting along with Asher and whether he’d consider coming back to me if Easton’s Eats ever got off the ground.” So someone else knew about Easton’s latest venture.
“All right. Let me do some research. I’ll call you back when I have something for you.”
“Sure.”
I ignored his dejected tone and put the receiver down. My fingers flew over the keys, typing Dante Bisset. Not surprisingly, he had studied cooking at Le Cordon Bleu. He graduated three years ago and worked in several famous kitchens before landing at Sizzle.
Bisset had no criminal record. Though he did amass a decent-sized debt, but those expenses were due to school and his chosen profession. He had loans to pay back, which meant he couldn’t afford to remain unemployed. Even if he was loyal to Easton, which I had no way of knowing, he couldn’t wait months to collect his next paycheck. Asher York used that to his advantage and swooped in before the burning embers had gone out to claim his new sous chef. However, since Bisset’s debts remained, I didn’t think someone paid him to start the fire. But since he was supposedly the only other member of Easton’s staff with a key, I couldn’t write him off without digging deeper.
I had a hunch. A quick social media search proved it was more than that. Dante Bisset was photographed driving a dark silver 1970 Pontiac GTO. “Motherfucker.” I scribbled down his home address, but given the time, he’d probably be at work. I needed to get a look at the car. I needed to see if it had color-changing lights. Grabbing my jacket, I raced for the door.
“Whoa, where’s the fire?” Renner asked as I skidded to a halt in front of him.
“Bad choice of words.”
“Regardless, what did you find?”
“The car, I think.”
Automatically, he checked to make sure his weapon was on his hip. “All right, let’s go.”
“I thought you were busy.”
“That can wait. This can’t.” He eyed me. “Did the techs get back to you?”
“Not yet.”
“Well, hot damn, Parker. You mean to tell me you found the car all by yourself? If you keep this up, I’ll have to promote you from assistant to executive assistant.”
