Burning Embers

by G. K. Parks

  He pushed the button for the elevator. “Careful what you wish for.”

  We arrived at Delicious, Asher York’s restaurant, at the start of the dinner rush. People waiting to be seated were already congregating around the bar. The bartenders hurried to fill orders while the hostesses seated guests. In the blink of an eye, the newly vacant stools vanished, consumed by the growing mass.

  The restaurant was wedged in with buildings on both sides, so we strode down the block until we found an opening. Behind the building was the kitchen entrance and several no parking signs which three people ignored. I recognized York’s electric car from my research. Beside it was a refrigerated delivery truck.

  “Wine’s here,” Renner said, pointing to the logo. “If this is a bust, we can break in and drink away our sorrows.”

  “Now you want to hijack the wine distributor?”

  “We could expense it to Cross.”

  “Deal.” From here, I couldn’t see behind the truck, so I followed a path around, my hand automatically rested on the butt of my nine millimeter. Call it a bad habit, but I was tired of being caught off guard. “That’s it,” I said, withdrawing my hand from inside my jacket.

  Renner snapped a few photographs. The underbody system was obvious, even from this angle. “I’ll ask Easton if he recognizes it.”

  I stared at the spinners, wondering the point of the fancy and otherwise ridiculous custom hubcaps. Honestly, looking at the bastardized version of a classic, I understood why Fast Lanes kept their cars in original mint condition. This version no longer resembled what one would expect from a GTO, but it did make my job a lot easier.

  “Congratulations, Alex. You found the car.”

  “Should we call Voletek?”

  Renner peered into the front seat. “I don’t see any bricks or masks. Nothing damning in sight.” He went around to check the plates. After slipping on a pair of leather gloves, Renner touched the license plate. “Jake was right. There’s a plastic cover over the rear plate. What about the front?”

  I knelt down to get a better look. “Yep.”

  “All right. I’ll let Jake know what’s going on. In the meantime, let’s make sure Mr. GTO doesn’t take off without permission. Hang here for a sec.”

  While I waited, I visually inspected Asher York’s car, but I didn’t find anything suspicious. The rear door to Delicious was locked, key and code required. I surveyed the building, but I didn’t spot any surveillance cameras nearby. Obviously, chefs didn’t take security seriously enough. It was an epidemic. They needed to add a class on restaurant security in addition to restaurant safety as part of the culinary school curriculum.

  The rumble of an engine drew my attention, and I hunkered down beside the delivery truck. Realizing it was Renner, I stood up, hoping he didn’t notice I had been hiding. He parked the car behind the GTO, practically touching his nose to the muscle car’s bumper.

  “Okay, now that that’s done, let’s get some dinner.”

  “Are you insane?”

  “We came all the way here, and we haven’t even spoken to our suspect yet. We might as well eat, so we’ll have an excuse to converse with him. The dining room wouldn’t be the place for a chef, even a sous chef, to make a scene.”

  “They’ll never give us a table.”

  “I bet you twenty bucks you’re wrong.”

  “You’re on.”

  We went around the building and in through the front door. If anything, the crowd had doubled in the last few minutes. The bar was so packed people were waiting in lines, two and three deep, just to get close enough to shout their order to the bartender. This would be the easiest twenty bucks I ever made.

  “When I was moving the car, I called Jake and gave him a heads up.”

  “Is he on his way?”

  Renner nodded. “I should ask for a table for three. Jake would hate to miss out on a gourmet meal.”

  I looked at Renner. The man must be delusional. “How hard did you get hit yesterday?”

  “Trust me.”

  “I hate it when people say that.”

  While we waited in line to get to the hostess stand, I scoped out our surroundings. There was nothing particularly special about this place. It was just another expensive restaurant with a dress code. I glanced down, making sure I was dressed appropriately. Cross Security didn’t exactly have a dress code, though Cross made sure his investigators knew to dress professionally. Most days, I wore my old OIO attire – black blazer, white shirt, dress pants. However, I upgraded my shoes to something more stylish.

  “Do you have a reservation?” the hostess asked.

  Renner offered a charming smile. “Actually, I don’t, but I bet my friend you’d make an exception.”

  The hostess’s expression soured, and she opened her mouth to protest, but Renner leaned in and whispered something to her that I couldn’t hear. When he stepped back, she painted a polite, determined smile on her face and scanned the chart in front of her.

  “Give me five minutes.” She relinquished her stand to another hostess and disappeared into the dining room.

  “What did you say to her?” I asked, amazed. The only time I’d seen magic like that was when it was performed by Martin the Magnificent.

  “The less you know, the better,” Renner said, a mischievous glint in his eye.

  Eighteen

  Renner pointed his fork at me, a piece of steak hanging from the tines. “You sure you don’t want a bite?” I shook my head, and he popped the morsel into his mouth. “He doesn’t know we’re on to him, yet. You don’t have to worry about being poisoned.”

  “I’m not.”

  He cut another slice of steak. “I don’t know what they did to the steak, but it melts in my mouth like butter.”

  I picked at the crudité platter we’d received as an appetizer, compliments of the chef. “I’m guessing whatever it was involved the use of actual butter.”

  Renner laughed, nearly choking in the process. “Probably.” He wiped his mouth and returned his napkin to his lap.

  With the constant crowd and turnover, I had no doubt Dante Bisset was slaving away in the kitchen, along with the rest of Chef York’s staff. Could Asher York be involved? Easton only gave us two names to consider, but from what I’d dug up, York appeared clean. Spotless, even. Strader had been my prime suspect until the car led us to Bisset, but since Bisset worked for York, maybe we were dealing with a ménage à trois.

  Renner pointed with his fork. “Hey, is that Bisset?”

  I caught a glimpse inside the kitchen as the door swung open and a server carried out two steaming plates. “Yeah.”

  “At least we know he’s here.” Renner finished his steak and looked at his watch. “What is taking Jake so long? He heard we were having dinner. He should have come running.”

  “Maybe he’s solving a case,” I said pointedly.

  “So are we, and we’re doing it while eating dinner. Therefore, we win.”

  The server returned, a haughty expression on his face. Obviously, he didn’t approve of my lack of order, but past experience told me things would not go smoothly once we confronted Bisset. And I didn’t want to deal with a confrontation on a full stomach.

  “Anything else I can get you?” the server asked.

  Renner grinned. “Dessert.” He watched a cart roll past with baked Alaska and some fruit tartlets. “I like to end my meal with something sweet.” He winked at me.

  The server rambled off the list of desserts, and Renner took a painfully long time to decide, asking about the ingredients of each. I recognized it for what it was, a delay tactic, but the server probably just thought he had another indecisive and annoying guest to deal with. As if to put the man out of his misery, Renner received a text in the middle of his food-centric version of twenty questions.

  Diners at another table caught the waiter’s eye, and he politely excused himself while Renner read the message. “Jake’s outside. I should get him something to eat.” Renner tucke
d his phone away. “Do you think I can get an order to go? This place isn’t exactly McDonald’s.”

  Despite whatever criminal activity the sous chef committed, the server was innocent. Yet, he had become collateral damage, forced to endure our inquisitive wrath. “Probably, if you ask nicely.”

  “Do you think they’ll wrap it in a foil swan?”

  “It depends on what you order. Why is that important?”

  He chuckled, shaking his head. “It isn’t, but what self-respecting cop orders food that comes disguised as a swan?”

  “So you’re just busting his balls?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “Okay, Bennett, what’s the deal with the two of you?” I settled back in my seat, keeping an eye on the kitchen in case our suspect tried to sneak out.

  “When I got hurt on the job and was laid up for six months, I ended up in a dark place. My wife left. I couldn’t walk. I couldn’t work. I couldn’t do much of anything except sit around and feel sorry for myself. It was pathetic.” Despite the words, he grinned, as if the story was comical instead of sad. “Every day, Jake dropped by after shift. He’d tell me about his day, which pissed me off, so instead, he started picking up dinner. And he’d tell me a story about everything he brought.”

  “Like the lamb came from Australia and was named Daisy?”

  “Oh, he gave me grief like that too.” Renner narrowed his eyes. “I need to stop affiliating with smartasses.”

  “I’m not a smartass. I’m hilarious.” And if I wasn’t careful, I’d turn into Martin.

  “Jake probably said the same thing. You’re both wrong. Anyway, somewhere along the line, I figured out he was actually serious about this stuff and not just making shit up to keep me from downing an entire bottle of pills.”

  I wasn’t sure if Renner was serious about that last part or if he was taking dramatic license, but I could see it going either way. So I kept my smartass comments to myself.

  “Eventually, I got back on my feet, collected some money from the city on account of my injury, and paid Jake back with a restaurant crawl. So anytime a food-related case pops up, he calls me.”

  “How cute. You two have a thing.” And that thing dragged me into the middle of an arson investigation.

  “Shut it, Parker.” But I saw the playful look in his eye. “Needless to say, in order to avoid remarks like that, I make sure Jake’s the joke.”

  “Aren’t you sweet?”

  He winked. “You bet.”

  The waiter returned and suffered through another round of questions before Renner ordered the Swedish meatballs to go, just so they’d be wrapped in a foil swan. Then he ordered a slice of baked Alaska, and since I couldn’t let him suffer alone, I asked for two forks. Then I placed an order for a mini chocolate strawberry lava cake to go.

  “Jake doesn’t need dessert,” Renner insisted.

  “It’s not for him.”

  “Ooh, someone’s got a sweet tooth. No wonder you only ate veggies for dinner.”

  I kicked Renner under the table. At least now we had sampled enough items that our request to speak to the sous chef wouldn’t seem abnormal. It wasn’t uncommon for VIP guests to ask to speak to the chef or extend their compliments, but not many people asked to speak to the sous chef. However, I greased the server’s palm with a large enough tip that he didn’t think twice about it.

  “As you can see, we’re very busy, but I’ll make sure he stops by your table before we bring out your to-go order.” The server slipped the cash into his pocket, cleared away Renner’s empty plate, and refilled our water glasses.

  A few minutes later, a flaming dessert was placed on the table. Renner waited for the fire to go out and dug in. After he made sure it was safe and not poisoned, I tasted it. It wasn’t bad. Idly, I wondered how the restaurant would fare after its sous chef was arrested.

  “Madam, Monsieur.” Dante Bisset stood before us. His chef whites had a few stains and splatters, and he looked tired and overworked. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, antsy to get back to the kitchen. “You requested to speak to me. Is there something wrong with your dinner?”

  “Quite the opposite.” Renner dialed up the friendly factor. “It was delicious. I guess that’s how this place got its name.”

  Bisset bowed his head as he took half a step back. “Merci.”

  “However, my companion and I do have one question for you.” Renner put down his fork and pushed his chair back. He sensed it just like I did. Dante looked the type. I licked the whipped cream off my fork and put it down before placing my napkin on the table next to it. “Were you here last night?”

  “No, I’m sorry.” Bisset’s brow scrunched. “Did you have a poor dining experience yesterday?”

  “It wasn’t the dining that was the problem. It was more of a window issue.”

  “Window? You didn’t like where you were seated?” Bisset looked to me for an explanation.

  The server had taken the knives off the table, and the forks were out of the chef’s reach. So I said, “You shouldn’t drive such a recognizable car when you commit a crime.”

  Bisset gulped. A fresh layer of perspiration erupted on his already sweaty brow. His eyes shifted back and forth. “I do not know what you mean. I have work to do.” Bisset turned to walk away.

  “Did you throw the brick?” Renner asked, and Bisset turned back around. The guilty expression on his face was plain as day. “Or did you leave the GPS on the truck? We found it and the camera.”

  “I do not know what you are talking about,” the chef insisted. “Are you police?”

  “No, we’re private investigators,” I said. “Chef Easton hired us.”

  The blood drained from Bisset’s face. “Please leave.” He gestured to someone standing near the hostess station. Restaurants didn’t usually have security or bouncers, but Bisset probably figured a few of the busboys would run us off.

  “Is that our cue to scram?” Renner mused as the two busboys approached us, but my eyes never left Bisset. He grabbed a jacket off the coatrack near the kitchen and put it on over his chef whites. “Gentlemen,” Renner nodded to them just as the waiter pushed past the escaping chef with the foil swan and a box with my cake, “we’re not here to cause trouble. We’ll just get our food, pay our bill, and be on our way.” He raised his voice so the nearby diners would hear him. “I’m just glad I don’t work with someone who leaves death threats on people’s doorsteps.” Several people gave us strange looks, but Dante had already disappeared into the sanctuary of the kitchen. “I’m not sure I want someone like that preparing my meals.”

  The waiter paled, utterly aghast. I conveyed my apologies and asked about Dante’s whereabouts, but he didn’t work the previous night. That was all the waiter knew. While Renner dug through his wallet, I watched the door to the kitchen swing open again. Bisset was gone. I reached for my phone, but Renner stopped me.

  “Dante’s car’s blocked in, and Jake’s waiting out back. You don’t have to call him. He’ll call us.”

  Instead, I heard dishes crash inside the kitchen, followed by a surprised yelp. The swinging door burst open, attracting the attention of several nearby diners. Bisset spotted us, still at the table, and stepped backward, knocking into another server who dropped several full plates to the floor.

  “See, looks like he’s back already.” Renner nodded in the sous chef’s direction. “Right about now, he’s probably realizing he’s trapped.”

  I didn’t wait for Renner to tell me Jake would handle it. Dante Bisset knew he was caught. The desperation reflected in his eyes, and I feared what he might do. There was a good chance he burned down Sizzle and attempted to kill Easton in the process. I didn’t want to know what he’d do in a room full of people now that he was cornered. This would be the perfect time to announce I was a federal agent or Renner was a cop and clear the restaurant, but that wasn’t an option. We’d hung up our official credentials a long time ago. Instead, I darted around the crowded tabl
es and burst into the kitchen, surprised when Renner didn’t follow me. After eating that much steak and dessert, he probably couldn’t move.

  Bisset shoved one of the dishwashers aside, hoping to find another route out of the kitchen and away from me. Asher York screamed at him from his place in front of the counter, still focused on preparing the dish in front of him instead of realizing what was going on around him. If Bisset set this kitchen on fire, I doubted York would even notice. He’d burn along with his restaurant. Maybe Bisset hoped Easton was that dedicated. From what I knew of Easton Lango, it was entirely possible.

  “Get out of the kitchen,” I said, dismissing a few prep cooks as I moved past. I didn’t draw my weapon. I didn’t want Bisset to panic more than he already was. Panicked people acted irrationally, so the first thing I needed to do was get the sous chef to relax.

  “Who are you?” York bellowed. “What authority do you have to tell my kitchen staff what to do?”

  For a millisecond, I wanted to say I was with the health department and Delicious was shut down. That would get his attention, but I resisted. “I’m Alexis Parker. I’m a private investigator.” I maintained the calm authoritarian tone when I spoke. “I need to speak to Mr. Bisset.”

  “He’s busy. Whatever it is you want to ask, it can wait.” York finished plating the meal and looked up, noticing a half empty kitchen and a floor covered in shattered dishes and dropped meals. “Get the fuck out of my kitchen.”

  Bisset edged even farther away, backing himself into the corner beside the walk-in freezer. He threw off the outer jacket he put on over his chef whites and fumbled to unbutton the chef’s jacket, finding the thick material restrictive and suffocating. Asher York glanced back at him and then me.

  “Dante, what’s going on? Why are you undressing?” he asked. “Who is this woman?”

  “I don’t know. She thinks I’m someone else. She’s confused.”

  “Maybe you’re right.” I held my palms up so he could see I meant him no harm. “I just need you to answer a few questions. Where were you last night?”

  “Umm,” Bisset stammered, blinking rapidly and practically shaking.