by G. K. Parks
“That is your signature, right?” Voletek spun the receipt around. “These four numbers match the credit card in your wallet.”
“I had some work done, so what?” Bisset’s chef jacket hung unbuttoned over a heather grey t-shirt that showed perspiration stains. He was nervous.
“Not many people get color-changing lights installed because they stick out, especially when committing a crime.”
“What proof do you have? My client already told you that isn’t his car,” the public defender said. Unlike York, Bisset couldn’t afford fancy lawyers. However, by the luck of the draw, Bisset had gotten one of the best public defenders around. Voletek better be on his toes.
“If it’s not your car, why did you pay for the underbody work?” Voletek answered the public defender’s question with one of his own.
Bisset looked to his attorney for approval before he spoke. “I had the work done as a surprise for the car’s owner.”
“Your aunt owns the car, right? Violet Arnaud? Her name’s on the registration.”
“Yeah, so?”
“Your aunt is eighty and lives in an assisted-living facility. Why would she want undercarriage lights?”
Bisset believed he’d come up with the perfect excuse. “To help her see at night.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Voletek mumbled.
The attorney hid his chuckle. He knew it was bullshit, but he had a job to do. “Move on, Detective. The question’s been asked and answered.”
“We’re not in court.” Voletek reminded him. “So you’re telling me that dear old auntie drove to your former boss’s house and launched a brick through his front window with a death threat taped to it? Should I have her brought to the station to answer these questions instead?”
“No.” Bisset glared at the detective.
“Well, someone has to answer for this. Easton Lango saw the car parked outside his house last night. He can identify it. That description led us to you, and when we picked you up at Delicious, the GTO was in your reserved space. We didn’t spot your car, the subcompact that’s registered in your name, anywhere. As far as I know, your aunt wasn’t inside the restaurant, so what’s going on, Mr. Bisset? Who drove the GTO last night? Why was it parked at your place of employment in your designated spot today, if you didn’t drive it?”
“I drive it sometimes.”
“That’s not what your aunt said.” Voletek flipped to a signed statement officers had gotten from Bisset’s aunt. “She said you graciously switched vehicles with her.”
“Circumstantial. Perhaps, my client forgot.” The attorney gave Voletek a look. “What other evidence do you have?”
“We have the gifts your client left behind.”
“Gifts?” The attorney frowned. “You mean the brick and camera? They were dusted for prints. You have nothing. The handwriting on the note isn’t conclusive. Your case is flimsy, and you know it.”
“Perhaps.” Voletek turned his attention back to Bisset. “Do you cook with duck fat?”
“Yes.” Bisset sensed it was a trap, but he couldn’t figure out the harm in answering.
Voletek removed a photo from the file and put it on the table. “We found a print on the inside of the tarp Easton used to cover his food truck. CSU speculates the person who planted the tracker on the bumper must have removed his gloves after leaving the device. According to Easton, he caught the culprit messing with the tarp when he confronted him outside.”
“You’re saying my client left a print?” the attorney asked, but the question was pointless. Bisset paled, his hair becoming increasingly wet and shiny as he mopped sweat from his brow. For someone who couldn’t handle a little heat, I wondered how he survived all day in the kitchen. “You fingerprinted my client. Is it a match? Or are you wasting our time with the theatrics, Detective?”
“I’m waiting for the results to come back. Once they do, you know what will happen. It’s in your client’s best interest to cooperate now.”
“I doubt that,” the attorney said. “You’re fishing, hoping to bully a confession out of my client. I won’t let that happen.”
Voletek ignored the public defender and stared at Bisset with the full intensity of a seasoned homicide detective. “You know what we’ll find. We also know you had an accomplice. Uniformed officers are picking him up now.”
“Galen?” Bisset squeaked, clapping a hand over his mouth the moment he realized his mistake.
Voletek gave the attorney a smug look. “Advise your client to tell me what he knows.”
Though overworked and underpaid, the public defender saw a lot of these cases. He instructed Bisset to remain silent until Voletek provided proof of the man’s involvement. Right now, everything the police had was circumstantial. However, when the lab results came back, there was no doubt the print found on the tarp matched Dante Bisset.
“I need a few moments to confer with my client,” the attorney said.
Voletek grabbed the file and pushed away from the table. “Take your time. I have another interview to conduct. Maybe he’ll be more accommodating.”
I stood in the hallway outside the observation room. The mic and camera were off, ensuring Bisset’s rights weren’t violated. Voletek nodded to the cop who had brought him the fingerprint analysis.
“He’s waiting in three, Jake,” the cop said.
“Thanks.” Voletek glanced down the hallway but made no move for the door. Instead, he took to leaning against the wall across from me. “It looks like Bisset and Strader paid Easton a visit last night.”
“Told you so.”
“Actually, I might have told you. I need to check the board. Initially, when I looked into the fire, I ran through the usual suspects, but I don’t recall Bisset and Strader crossing paths.” Before I could open my mouth with a suggestion, Voletek held up a hand. “I know. Close-knit community.” He led the way down the hall and back to the squad room. After asking a few of his colleagues to check for a connection between the two men, Voletek ducked into the conference room and flipped the board around. He stared at the photo array and notations, tracing a red line from Sizzle to Bisset to Delicious. He backtracked to Bisset, scanning the man’s bio.
“Well?”
“I don’t have anything written down. Did you find anything?” Voletek asked.
“If I did, I wouldn’t have wasted time asking what you found. There is an easier way to do this, Detective. You could call Easton and ask.”
“Or I’ll just ask Galen Strader.” Voletek strode out of the room and down the hallway.
I practically had to run to keep up with him. He entered the third interrogation room and shut the door just as I caught up to him. Bastard.
“He’s slimy,” Renner said, sneaking up behind me.
I clutched my chest dramatically. “You’re lucky we’re in a police station, or I might have shot you.”
He ignored me. “Chef Strader’s slimy. Amir remotely hacked into Strader’s computer. Strader has dozens of video files of his staff preparing meals.”
“Isn’t that illegal?”
“It is if they didn’t know they were being filmed. However, I’m sure he told them about the security cameras inside Bouillon. Every video came from the restaurant’s kitchen. I think he steals their techniques and ideas. He has notes attached to the video files with cooking instructions, ingredients, temperature, things like that. I bet it’s why he bought into Bouillon. He wanted access to the security cameras.”
“Maybe he wants to make sure they are following his instructions. Chefs are anal assholes.”
“Isn’t that redundant?”
I snickered. “It’s suspicious, but it’s not enough. Did Amir find anything else? What about videos taken from inside Easton’s kitchen?”
“Just one. It had been deleted. He tried to recover it, but without direct access to the computer, he could only view the thumbnail screenshot.” Renner held out his phone so I could see the screen grab Amir forwarded him. “T
he most watched video files feature his sous chef, Kasey. He watched those dozens of times. Strader’s a creep. Perhaps he’s also a creeper.”
“Maybe he has a thing for her,” I suggested.
Renner’s shoulders lifted an inch.
“It could be a fetish or his version of foreplay.” I thought for a moment. “Any videos of the dishwasher and the prep cook horizontal on Strader’s desk?”
“Now who has a fetish?”
I glared at Renner. “Just answer the question.”
“No, at least I don’t think so. Amir didn’t mention finding anything like that. As far as I know, all the videos on his computer relate to the kitchen and cooking. No porn. No cat videos. Nothing.”
“It’s his work computer. He kept it clean.” I wondered what else he might have on the device. “Did you find any business records? P&Ls for Bouillon? Strader owns most of the restaurant, he must have documents and spreadsheets related to that.”
“Amir got as much as he could, but Strader must have turned off the device. Amir lost the connection. That’s the problem with a remote hack. There’s no way of knowing what we might be missing without checking the actual device.”
My thoughts went to the amorphous cloud and other backup systems. It was possible we could only view what had been synced rather than the rest of the files. At least, that’s what Lawson, my favorite FBI tech genius, had taught me over the years. Though, Cross Security didn’t seem to function within the previously established framework. The rules didn’t apply to them. I was surprised Lucien hadn’t figured out how to circumvent the law of gravity yet. That would probably be the next thing he did.
“Strader’s stealing their recipes or using their ideas to improve on his own. That’s probably why he set up the camera next to Easton’s kitchen counter,” Renner said.
“All right, let’s run this by Easton and see what he thinks.” In the meantime, the police would get a warrant and confiscate Strader’s computer. Perhaps when Easton survived the fire and set off on his next venture, Strader realized it’d be easier to sabotage Easton by stealing from him instead of destroying him. But that didn’t explain the death threat. There was more going on here. I just didn’t know what it was.
Twenty-one
“Thanks for meeting us,” I said, gesturing to the threadbare sofa in homicide’s break room. Easton took a seat on the couch, glancing out the door into the bullpen. “Did Detective Voletek have any more questions?”
“No, he told me to stay out of sight. If he needs anything else, he’ll meet us in here. I don’t think he wants his buddies to know he’s working on my case,” Easton said cynically.
“It’s not that.” Okay, it might have been that, but it was in Easton’s best interest to remain out of sight since Bisset and Strader were only a few hundred feet away. Or else he might end up with more than just a brick through his window. “Did Renner catch you up to speed?”
Easton ran a hand through his brightly colored hair. “You think Galen Strader is behind this and Dante Bisset is helping him.” Easton stared at the poster on the wall. “Did Dante set the fire? He had keys to my kitchen, to Sizzle.”
“I don’t know yet, but I will find out.”
Renner stepped into the room and pulled the door closed. “We’re working on determining the cause of the fire. We should have something definitive by Monday.” He had a mug book in his hands, except when he opened it, it wasn’t a mug book. It was an array of muscle cars taken from various angles. Mixed in with those photos were shots of Bisset’s car. He took a seat beside Easton. “Do any of these look familiar?”
Easton flipped through the pages, stopping on Bisset’s car. He stared at the three photos, one of the side, one of the front, and one of the back. “That’s the car from last night.”
“Have you ever seen it before last night?” Renner asked.
“No, I don’t think so.” He stared at Renner, as if hoping to determine the proper answer by reading my colleague’s facial expression. “I don’t know. Maybe.”
“It’s yes or no,” I said. “It doesn’t matter either way. The only thing that matters is you’re certain it’s the same car you saw outside your house last night.”
Easton nodded, the blue hair bobbing up and down like a muppet on a kid’s show. “I’m sure.”
“I’ll tell Jake.” Renner closed the book and stepped into the hallway, leaving me with the more complicated task.
Easton watched him disappear down the hallway. “That’s not the only reason you asked me to come down here. You said on the phone this has something to do with Bouillon.”
“Tell me about the security cameras in the kitchen.”
“There weren’t any. At least, none that I recall.”
“Strader must have had them installed after he took over.”
“He did this, didn’t he?”
“It looks like it. We linked the hidden camera we found inside your house and the GPS tracker on your food truck to Galen Strader’s computer. We discovered several videos stored on his computer taken from inside Bouillon after you left. It establishes a pattern of behavior.”
“Do you think he planted cameras inside Sizzle too?”
That was something I hadn’t considered. “How would he have gotten access? Did you ever invite him into your kitchen?”
Easton’s features pinched together. “I did. He dropped by to offer his congratulations, which was a thinly veiled attempt to spy on me. Like you said, pattern of behavior.”
“Go on. Did you leave him alone in your kitchen? When was this?”
“It was opening week, so roughly two months before the fire. And no, I would never leave a rival in my kitchen. He might switch out the salt for the sugar or set the place on fire. But still, maybe he tucked a camera away somewhere when I wasn’t looking. After last night, I wouldn’t put anything past him. Did you find more footage or a destroyed camera inside Sizzle?”
“No, but we can’t rule anything out. Hopefully, the police will come up with some answers.”
Easton scoffed. “Forgive me, but I’m having trouble believing that.” I understood his skepticism and hesitation, but Voletek was our best chance of getting to the truth, at least legally. “Did Galen rent that car?” Easton asked.
“No.”
“You’re sure? I heard he has a membership to a fancy car club.”
“The car’s registered to Dante’s aunt.” I filled Easton in on the details. “He’s denying his involvement and said he was nowhere near your house last night and has no clue what we’re talking about, but the car and registration say otherwise.”
“Do you think he’ll confess?”
“People do crazy things. Speaking of,” I told Easton what happened at Delicious.
“Asher’s always been a crazy fucker. I wouldn’t doubt his involvement. Maybe the assault and accusations were meant to throw you off the scent. Maybe he and Dante staged the fire, and since you took Dante down, Asher wanted to make sure to discredit his little kitchen bitch before Dante ratted him out.” Easton’s eyes narrowed. “But that doesn’t explain Galen Strader’s involvement. There’s no way in hell Asher York and Galen Strader would ever work together. Sure, they both want to see me ruined, but they’d never combine forces.”
I rubbed my eyes. That sounded like paranoia or the ramblings of a criminal mastermind. “We’ll get this sorted. But first, can you tell me how Dante Bisset and Galen Strader connect to one another?”
Easton chewed on his bottom lip while he considered the question. “Have you checked Dante’s job history? Maybe they worked in the same restaurant before Galen hit it big.”
“They didn’t. At least, not that we can tell.”
“Dante studied at Le Cordon Bleu. Strader and I went to the Culinary Institute. We graduated years before Dante. Um,” Easton squeezed his eyes closed, grimacing, “Dante graduated three years ago. By then, Strader had already established himself. Maybe he taught a class as one of their master chefs
or a guest lecturer. If not, they could have crossed paths at one of the big events like the gala. A lot of first-class chefs get called to work those things. Dante might have been apprenticing for another chef at the time and was asked to help out.”
“Or maybe they shop at the same grocery store,” I suggested.
“Maybe.” Easton offered a contrite smile. “Guess I wasn’t much help. Detective Voletek didn’t like the answers I gave him either.”
“It’s not you. It’s this mess, but we’ll figure it out. I promise.” I jerked my chin at the door. “Since Voletek hasn’t come back with any other questions, you can take off.”
“Great.” Easton rubbed his hands on his jeans and grabbed his leather jacket from the hook behind the door. “At least the police escort saved me a few bucks and the hassle of finding a parking space. I didn’t realize that was the conciliation prize for a busted window.”
“It’s better than the conciliation prize for screwing up an investigation.”
“What do you get for that?”
“You don’t want to know.”
The charming, flirtatious smile transformed his face from one of anxiety and annoyance to something that would make a choir boy blush. “I’m not worried, Alex. I trust you know what you’re doing. If you need me for anything else, you have my number. Don’t hesitate. I’ll be up working on improving my menu, so don’t worry about disturbing me. Drop by if you want a taste. I would say my door’s always open, but I hope it’s not.”
“Stay safe.” The conversation reminded me I needed to make a call.
After telling Martin I would be working late and we had to postpone packing my apartment, I hung up and nearly collided with Voletek. Renner was half a step behind him and bumped into Jake’s back when the detective stopped short. We were just one accident away from turning into the Three Stooges.
“Amir dropped off the evidence Cross Security collected. Unlike Bisset, Strader’s talking,” Renner said.
