by G. K. Parks
“Amir dropped off the evidence Cross Security collected. Unlike Bisset, Strader’s talking,” Renner said.
“Wonders never cease. Is he under arrest?” I asked.
Jake nodded. “I’ve questioned both he and Bisset several times. Initially, Strader didn’t ask for counsel, which I found surprising.”
“Ego,” Renner muttered.
“Be that as it may,” the detective continued, “Strader claims the camera and tracker were meant to be a prank. He hoped to catch Easton doing something embarrassing and humiliate him. Strader said they do things like this to each other all the time. That they started this tradition back at the CIA.”
“CIA?” I asked.
“Culinary Institute of America.” The corners of Voletek’s eyes crinkled. “You don’t think either of these jokers is spy material, do you?”
“It’s mostly intelligence gathering,” I said.
“But they lack intelligence.” Renner pushed past us, intent on grabbing a cup of the sludge the precinct masqueraded around as coffee.
“All right, so throwing a brick through a person’s window is now considered a harmless prank. You should tell someone about that. They’ll need to update the penal code.”
“That’s actually where things get interesting. Strader says he didn’t throw the brick through the window. He’s blaming Bisset.” Deciding coffee sounded good, Voletek filled a mug and held it out, but I shook my head. He took a sip and put the cup down. “So I spoke to Bisset again and told him what Strader had to say. Right now, they are both conferring with counsel. Once they have a few minutes to stew, I suspect they’ll turn on each other.”
“Counsel?” I asked.
“After I confronted Strader about the property damage, criminal trespass, and death threats, he realized this was serious shit and lawyered up.”
“I warned you not to do that,” Renner said.
“Yeah, yeah.” Voletek waved off the comment, but I knew the detective wanted Strader to ask for an attorney. A legal expert would drive home the ramifications of Strader’s actions and the jeopardy he might be facing. The pressure might be enough to get him to talk, or he’d clam up. One or the other. “I offered a deal to whoever talks first.” Voletek glanced at his watch. “I’m saying twenty minutes. Do you want the over or under?”
I chuckled. “And to think, I haven’t even left for Vegas yet.”
It took a lot longer than twenty minutes, but by the end of the night, Galen Strader and Dante Bisset had sung like larks or jailbirds. The alleged hazing and fraternity pranks Strader played on Easton were supposedly harmless, but they were meant to intimidate and throw the chef off his game. Strader said he left the original threatening note on Easton’s windshield when the news broke that the chef was leaving his position at Bouillon to start his own restaurant. At the time, Strader was working as a private chef, and loathed the idea of his culinary school rival setting out on his own, though Strader quickly changed his tune when he was offered Easton’s old job and scraped together enough capital to buy into Bouillon.
According to Strader, he and Easton could finally duke it out fairly since they both had restaurants of their own. Bisset admitted to terrorizing Easton the previous night, and he even copped to some of the hateful and threatening social media comments and posts, but he wouldn’t admit to throwing the brick through Easton’s window. He said Strader did it, and Strader denied it. However, they both admitted to being at Easton’s last night, but neither was willing to confess to setting the fire at Sizzle.
“Let’s divide and conquer. Maybe when faced with the evidence you’ve obtained,” Voletek glanced from Renner to me, “they’ll open up.” Renner and another detective entered one interrogation room, and Voletek opened the door to the second one. “I’ll get him primed. When you see an opening, jump in.”
After a recap and update, Voletek asked Galen Strader about the fire at Sizzle.
“I told you I don’t know anything about the fire at Sizzle. It’s a kitchen. Shit happens. Burners get left on. Towels and aprons get tossed on the counter. If you turn your back for one second, who knows what might happen. I didn’t set the fire. If anything, I wanted Sizzle to last longer than it did. How else could I prove I was the superior chef?” Strader asked.
Voletek rubbed his eyes, the first sign of fatigue he’d shown since this circus began. “Why were you spying on Easton and his food truck?”
Strader rolled his eyes, as though the answer should be obvious. “Food trucks are the hot new craze. Brick and mortar restaurants are going mobile by launching their own trucks, and trucks are turning into restaurants. I wanted to know what Easton planned.”
“Is Bouillon launching its own truck?” I asked.
“In the spring,” Strader said. “It takes time to get permits and licenses. And that doesn’t even take into account finding a serviceable truck. I thought…well…I…”
“You wanted to see what Easton was doing so you could copy him,” Voletek said.
“No, improve on his failures.” Strader glared at us. “I didn’t hurt anyone. I didn’t steal anything. I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“You threatened him. You trespassed. You violated his privacy. You spied on him.” Voletek ticked off points on his fingers until Strader’s attorney stopped him.
“My client has been nonviolent. He’s cooperated. He rode to Easton’s house with the real criminal.” The attorney turned the notepad around. “Galen is prepared to testify against Dante Bisset should this matter go to court. These alleged crimes you’re accusing my client of are fairly innocent. No harm was actually done. The camera didn’t record anything before it was discovered.” The attorney wanted the felony charges lowered to misdemeanors. The DA and judge always had final say, but the police came up with the initial charges, and the lawyer wanted Voletek to recommend misdemeanor offenses that could be pled down to fines and community service instead of serving hard time.
“I still don’t get it,” I said. “How did you and Dante Bisset cross paths? What kind of conversation could the two of you possibly have had before setting out for Easton’s house? How long have you been conspiring together?” I got to ask those questions because I wasn’t a cop or acting in any official capacity. Voletek wanted to appear appeasing to Strader and his plight, but I didn’t have the same hang-ups. My loyalty was to my client, though Strader had no obligation to answer my questions. However, like most people caught in a jam, he thought talking would somehow get him out of it instead of digging himself deeper into the hole.
“We aren’t conspiring. We’re friends, or we were until Dante turned out to be a psycho.” Strader slammed his fist on the table. “Dante and I met when I visited Sizzle. He was Easton’s sous chef. Honestly, Easton treated him like shit. Easton treats everyone in his kitchen like shit, and if you don’t believe me, ask my staff. They’ll tell you firsthand how terrible it was working for an egomaniac like Easton Lango.”
Have you looked in the mirror? “Go on.”
“Dante and I kept in touch while he worked at Sizzle.”
“You wanted an inside man to tell you what Easton was doing,” Voletek said.
Strader didn’t even have the decency to look ashamed. “Yeah, so? That’s not a crime. I can be friends with whoever I want, and friends talk about work. Big fucking deal.”
“What caused the bad blood between Dante and Easton?” Voletek asked.
“I don’t know exactly. I assume it’s the way Easton treated him. Dante never told me why he hates the guy, but we kept in touch, even after Sizzle burned down. After the accident, Dante went to work at Delicious, and we’ve stayed in touch since.”
“You’re using him to spy on Asher York,” I said.
The attorney gave me a sharp look, but before he could warn Strader not to answer, the chef said, “It’s not a crime to talk shop with a friend. Dante and I are friends, or we were until Dante flipped out last night. He threw the brick through the window while I was plan
ting the camera.”
“How’d you get into Easton’s house to plant the camera?” Voletek asked.
“Easton left the back door open. I went in through the back and put the camera inside the magnet on his fridge. While I was inside, I heard the window shatter, and Dante stomped through the house. I didn’t know he was going to break-in or destroy anything. We didn’t discuss that. We just wanted to pay our old pal a visit.”
I opened my mouth to say something else, but Voletek grabbed my elbow. “We’ll have to ask Mr. Bisset about this. We’ll be right back.”
Once we were outside the interrogation room, I spun to face Voletek. “The timeline doesn’t make sense. Easton said the window broke first. That’s when he called for help and hid in the pantry. He would have seen Strader if he was already inside the house.”
“I know.”
“Then what the hell are you going to do about it?”
“My job.”
Twenty-two
Unlike Chef Strader, Dante Bisset wasn’t cool and collected. The second interview I watched him give was only marginally better than the first. Bisset was sweating profusely. He was freaked out, just like he had been when Asher York threw knives at him.
“Easton said he met with Dante last month for drinks. Why would Dante agree if he hates Easton?” I asked as the three of us stared through the two-way glass while Bisset’s hands were cuffed behind his back.
“I don’t know.” Voletek glanced at the clock. “But he finally admitted to driving to Easton’s and throwing the brick through the window. He even said he wanted to sabotage Easton and Sizzle.”
“But why?”
“C’mon, Parker, it’s obvious.” Renner fiddled with his phone, scrolling through some text messages before tucking the device into his pocket. “Chefs be crazy.”
“Like bitches be crazy?” My death stare did nothing to deter Renner from continuing his explanation.
“We’ve seen it with Asher York, who flipped out in the midst of his kitchen on nothing but speculation and conjecture, and with the way Strader behaved in regards to Easton. Since Bisset’s still an up and comer, he has even more to prove, hence crazier.” The phone beeped, and Renner fished it out, shot off a response, and dropped it into his jacket pocket. “Even our client isn’t that stable. He tried to brain you with a baseball bat because you entered his food truck.”
“He’s scared,” I said.
Voletek agreed. “He is, but the men in custody have admitted to making threats, breaking in to Easton’s house, attempting to sabotage Easton and his food truck, and placing the camera and tracker. The only thing they deny is setting the fire. I wouldn’t put it past any of them to have done it, even Asher York, who by all accounts seems to be uninvolved, but it is possible the fire was an accident. The experts insisted it was, and coupled with what we now know about the men terrorizing Easton, it’s possible Easton jumped to conclusions given the stress he was under at the time.”
“The stress might have been a contributing factor. Maybe Easton didn’t notice the warning signs of an electrical fire. Maybe he failed to notice the circuit breaker kept tripping, a weird smell, like something burning, charring or sparking around the outlet, or the power cord was damaged. It happens. People make mistakes, and if they are tired and stressed, they’re more likely to make even more mistakes,” Renner insisted, but I didn’t buy it. It was too easy. His explanation felt wrong.
Voletek studied my expression. “Look, Alex, now that we have two confessions, the PD has grounds to obtain multiple search warrants. We will search everywhere imaginable and everything. If there’s something to find, we will. But this is over. In the meantime, tell your client to file a couple of TROs ASAP. It’s the weekend. Strader, Bisset, and York will be held until the arraignment on Monday, so there’s nothing for Easton to worry about. He’s safe. No one’s going to hurt him. I promise you that.”
“What about when Monday rolls around?” I asked.
“These chuckleheads won’t go near him again.” There was no point arguing with Voletek’s conviction. “I will stay on top of things until we know exactly what happened.”
Renner’s phone beeped again.
“Who is that?” I asked, taking my frustration out on Renner, who wasn’t as invested in protecting our client as I was. And it was his damn case.
“Lucien.” Renner met Voletek’s eyes. “Are you pulling the protection detail, Jake?”
Voletek nodded. “We can’t justify keeping them around.”
“Okay. I’ll drop by Easton’s and fill him in on our progress and next steps. If he wants added protection, I’ll have a team from Cross Security keep an eye on him.” Renner nudged me with his shoulder. “You should go home. It’s late, and I’m guessing you have a lava cake to deliver. I’ll make sure Easton’s okay. Jake’s got this. I got this. And we won’t know more until the arson investigator gets back to you. Plus, don’t you have to get ready for your vacation?”
“How do you know about that?” I asked.
Renner cocked an eyebrow, wondering if I sustained a head injury. “You told me. Plus, Lucien announced you’d be out for the next two weeks, so the rest of us would have to make do without you.” The phone beeped again. “Parker, you can do as much digging as you like. No one’s gonna stop you, but the case is practically closed. Take the win.” The phone beeped again. “Jesus,” Renner sighed dramatically, “I heard you the first ten times.” He clapped Voletek on the shoulder. “I gotta go. Keep me apprised.”
“Will do.”
“I mean it this time,” Renner warned before striding down the hallway.
“Doesn’t this seem too easy?” I asked. “Why did they confess to everything but the fire?”
“First off, Strader didn’t have a choice. You caught him red-handed, so he did what any normal human being would do and threw his accomplice under the bus. Second, they’re smart. They listened to their lawyers. No one got hurt. In the grand scheme of things, the crimes they confessed to are minor, and they cast enough aspersions to potentially confuse a jury. They have no reason to confess to the fire.”
“Do you think they set it?”
“Perhaps, but you’ve seen the reports. It looks accidental, and with the insurance payout and the arson investigator’s notes, it’d be impossible to prove otherwise without a rock solid confession. However, Easton could pursue a civil suit. Since you want to stay on the case, you should suggest that to him.”
This wasn’t about money. It was about justice. “Easton won’t be made whole until he knows who to blame.”
“I am truly sorry about that,” Voletek said, the sincerity undeniable, “but at least he can rest easy knowing we caught the guys. He isn’t crazy. Everyone else in the food service industry might be, but he isn’t.”
“Yeah, we’ll see.”
On the drive home, I couldn’t figure out what was bothering me about the case. Maybe some of Easton’s paranoia had rubbed off on me, but in my heart, I knew what the problem was. We still didn’t know who set the fire, and that was the only thing he really wanted me to figure out. Sure, he wanted to feel safe and he wanted the harassment to stop, but losing Sizzle destroyed him. He had to rebuild figuratively and literally. Having a real answer was the only way he’d be able to move on. I needed to keep digging.
I unlocked our apartment door, glancing down at the box in my hand. Though Renner and I ate dinner at Delicious, I wondered if giving Martin the dessert was a good idea. It could be tainted. “Damn, I’m losing it.”
“What?” Martin looked up from the coffee table where his presentation notes were currently scattered. For a moment, he looked cross, then his features softened and his eyes warmed. He smiled, put down the notecards, and met me in the doorway. After kissing me, he eyed the box in my hand. “I’m not used to you working late. Thanks for calling.”
I winced at the slight bitterness to his tone. “I called.”
“I know. Thank you.”
“I b
rought you dessert to make up for it.” I held out the box.
“Just put it in the fridge.” He went back to the couch. “What are you working on?”
“Chef Easton’s case. The police made a few arrests. Detective Voletek thought it’d be prudent for Renner and me to hang around in case he had any questions since we handed over the evidence we collected.”
Martin nodded, busying himself with clicking through his presentation slides, but from the speed at which the screens flew by, I knew he wasn’t reviewing them. “Are you going to say it?”
“Say what?”
“You have to cancel our trip. You’re too busy. You can’t come with me.”
“I’m not. The case is closed.”
“Really?” He looked up. His eyes stopping on the pile of folders tucked beneath my arm. “What are those files for?”
“Martin, stop.” I put everything down on the counter and took a seat beside him. “I hate it when you get like this. What the hell’s your problem?” I closed the cover on his computer. For a moment, I feared he might lash out. Shutting him off from his work was, in essence, the same as taking catnip away from a feral cat, but Martin just sunk into the cushions. He didn’t care, which scared me more than the harsh words and fiery stare I expected.
“I’m sorry. I’m just tired, so damn tired. I’m not used to you working late or being gone at night. Not anymore. And now,” he gestured at the files I left in the kitchen, “the cycle’s starting over again. We haven’t even recovered from the last trip around and now…”
I took his face in my hands, but he pulled my hands away, threading his fingers in between mine. “Nothing’s changed. We’re leaving Monday. I just want to make sure everything about this case is explained away.”
“You can never let anything go. That’s why I love you. Hell, that’s why we’re together. I’ve always been worried you might not make it back, but now,” he pressed my palm against his chest, “that fear gives me palpitations. We’ll be okay. I just thought I’d have more time to process and regain my footing. I’ll cope.” He saw something in my eyes that brought a smile to his lips. “You’ve got that look. You’re on to something. And you’re excited about a case for the first time in months. All that matters to me is that you’re okay. And you are.”
