Hot Stuff

by Don Bruns

  “She’d dreamed about it for years, guys. We’ve got to find out who killed her. I mean, really, can you imagine? Getting your own restaurant? And then—”

  I knew James could imagine. He’d shared that dream for a long time. And now some girl he’d dated had almost done it. In a perverse way, I knew his ego was somewhat bruised.

  Em reached into her purse. “Someone didn’t want that to happen.” She turned the key and the throaty roar of the engine reverberated down the alley.

  “And we found a couple people who may have had a problem with that dream.” I turned to her. “There’s a dishwasher who may have found her very attractive, and there’s a sous chef who was a little jealous of her promotion. He thought he was better than she was.”

  “So if she was gone, this chef might be in line to get the job?”

  James spoke. “This guy, Joaquin something, he wasn’t there tonight. But for five hours he was pretty much the topic of conversation. About every half hour someone would say something about him being upset regarding the appointment of Amanda Wright. And, the cooks agreed, she wasn’t nearly the caliber that Joaquin was.”

  “She was a good chef. I’m sure of it.”

  “Well,” James paused, drawing it out, “according to the kitchen crew, she wasn’t that good. They used the word ‘adequate.’ Maybe she was good at something else? Business skills, personnel.”

  “She was a good friend, James. Don’t push it.”

  “If we’re going to get to the bottom of this, we’ve got to discuss Amanda Wright on every level, Emily. We may hear a lot of things about her, good and bad, but you can’t put a roadblock up when we uncover a negative. You know what I mean?” He hesitated, waiting for a response. When there was none, he said, “I think all cards need to be on the table.” She was quiet the rest of the ride.

  Em pulled to the curb in front of Wet Willie’s at Ocean and 8th in South Beach and an attendant in a black jacket opened her door.

  As we walked through the throngs of locals and tourists up to the second level deck I asked her, “Do you ever worry that the guy who’s supposed to park your car may not even work here? He’s just going to drive off in that new Jag?”

  Em gave me a dazzling smile, her perfect teeth gleaming. “Skip, Skip. That’s why I buy nice, expensive cars. They stick out. They’re hard to hide. It’s not hard to hide a Honda Civic or a Chevy Nova. Even a beat-up Chevy box truck or your twelve-year-old Taurus, but the black Jag? Nobody would dare steal it.”

  Every once in a while, she likes to rub it in.

  We sat and ordered ice-cold margaritas, watching the steady flow of evening traffic down below, a solid stream of headlights. The humidity was thick enough we could cut it with James’s knife and we could smell the salty ocean air.

  “Okay, tell me about the dishwasher,” Em said.

  “Ah, the dishwasher. You know, for his first day on the job, Skip did okay.” He grinned, his passion to bug my girlfriend having been fed. “Never got in the weeds, did you, amigo?” James said with a smug look on his damned face.

  “Of course I’m talking about the old dishwasher, smartass. The one who didn’t show up tonight.” Em sighed, rolling her eyes.

  “We’re all hoping he shows up tomorrow,” I said. At least one of us was.

  “Skip, you said the dishwasher had a thing for Amanda.”

  I nodded. “One of the runners mentioned it.”

  “Runners?”

  “Guy who brings the dishes back from the dining room. I saw the two of them all night long. I actually got a little tired of seeing them. Anyway, this guy Carlos said that he and Juan Castro would go out for drinks sometimes after work and apparently this Castro mentioned that he thought she was attractive. It’s a little thin, but that’s all that I’ve got.”

  Em sipped her drink, sensually licking the salt from the rim of the glass. “Amanda and a dishwasher? I don’t see it.”

  “What about you?” James smiled. “You do realize that you’re now officially dating a dishwasher, Em.”

  My girlfriend stared at him for a moment, then turned to me. “Maybe Amanda had higher standards than I do.”

  “And maybe he made his move and she turned him down.” I wanted to drop the dishwasher putdowns. “People have been killed for less.”

  “We’re starting a list?” James took a long swallow and tapped his fingers on the table.

  Em pulled a pen from her bag. “We are.”

  “And we start with—”

  “Juan Castro. Dishwasher. May have wanted a romantic involvement with the victim.”

  “It’s Amanda, Skip. Not just the victim. Not some anonymous girl. Let’s call her by her given name. Okay?”

  “Noted.”

  We drained the sour drinks and ordered another round. It was good to be employed and on an expense account, just as long as the kitchen duty was temporary. Very temporary.

  “Then we’ve got Joaquin Vanderfield, sous chef. Upset because he was passed over for the head job at the new South Beach restaurant.” James was half done with his second drink, his bandaged hand holding the stem tight. “I think he’s got some serious motive.”

  “And apparently the staff thinks so, too.”

  James nodded. “Joaquin Vanderfield may have been interested in Amanda. That was sort of an undercurrent in the conversations. He was upset that she got the promotion, partially because he felt he was a much better choice and partially because the two of them may have had an affair. But nobody came right out and said that. I got the impression it might have been a one-night thing, but it’s too early to know for sure. Anyway, it was implied.”

  “Anybody else?” Em had two lines on her sheet of paper.

  “Nothing else came up. Tomorrow’s another day.”

  “Not much to go on, boys. I was hoping for a little more information.”

  “One thing we failed to mention,” I said. “James had a message when he got back to his locker.”

  “Oh?”

  “An apron, with a red liquid smeared on it to look like blood and a Wüsthof knife thrust through the cloth.”

  “Ooohhh. Gross.”

  “The knife appeared to be identical to James’s.”

  James finished the drink. “Somebody broke into the locker and hung the apron on a hook. We’re not sure if they know who I am, or if it was some sort of a warning. If someone thinks I’m a threat to their job or something.”

  Em nodded. “They could think you pose a threat. If they know you’re investigating the murder or, especially, if they think you might be training to take the South Beach job at La Plage.”

  “So it could be either of our two suspects.”

  “Only one thing wrong with that scenario,” I said.

  “What?” They both said it together.

  “Neither of them were at L’Elfe tonight.”

  We left Willie’s and Em drove us back to the restaurant.

  “How about James drives the truck back to your apartment and you and I have another drink at my place?” We’d stepped out of the car, standing by the white truck.

  I liked the sound of that. “James?”

  “Sure, pard.”

  I handed him the key.

  He got into the truck and Em held out her fob.

  “Want to drive?”

  It appeared I was going to be lucky twice this evening.

  “Emily?”

  The male voice came from the dark place behind her Jag. I grabbed Em’s hand and pulled her toward me.

  “Emily Minard?”

  “What do you want?” My voice was shaky. There was an empty feeling in my stomach and I realized I hadn’t eaten. With two margaritas down there and no food since breakfast—

  A shadowy figure rounded the car, a flashlight beam moving slowly over the two of us. As the body moved past our truck, I was startled by the loud squeak of the Chevy’s door. It opened with a hard thrust as James leaned into it, hitting the man with the full force of the rusty m
etal.

  The flashlight went flying as the dark form fell backward, cracking his head on the blacktop parking lot. Everything was quiet for a moment, then James stepped from the truck.

  “Skip, Em, you guys okay?”

  In the dim evening light I saw Em nodding emphatically.

  “Dude,” James’s voice was shaking, “I almost didn’t get it open. I told you to use some WD-40 on these doors.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The flashlight battery was strong and the light was still on as I picked it off the pavement and focused the beam on the man’s face. His eyes were closed and his breathing was shallow.

  “I’ll call nine-one-one,” Em said as she searched in her purse for the iPhone.

  Kneeling, James studied the form for a moment. Sport coat, green polo shirt, jeans, and a pair of white Nikes. James pulled the coat aside.

  “Oh, shit.” He shuddered and looked up at me. “We may have stepped into it this time, Tonto.”

  I saw what he was talking about in the ray of light. A shoulder holster with a gun tucked into the tan leather.

  “Nine-one-one?” Em was staring at his weapon as well. “We’ve just been attacked by a man with a gun in the parking lot of—”

  “Em. Hang up. Now!” James was rising, grabbing for her black phone.

  “Never mind.” Em pushed a button and as I swung the light to her, she threw her hands up in disgust. “What the hell was that all about? We’ve got an unconscious man with a gun who tried to attack us and you try to shut my—”

  “Em, Skip.” James opened his palm. “Look.”

  I focused the beam on his hand. He was cradling a gold badge with an embossed star in the center. The word “Detective” was at the top and “Sheriff’s Office Miami Dade County Florida” surrounded the star.

  “Uh-oh.” I switched the light back to our uninvited guest and could hear his ragged breathing. “Guys, we’ve obviously got a serious problem. We’ve got to do something.”

  “We just assaulted an officer of the law,” James said. “I’ve had dreams about that, but this time—”

  Em played the cell phone back and forth, hand to hand.

  “Skip, James, assaulting a police officer is one thing. Letting him die is something else.”

  “If we call the cops,” I found myself breathing fast, taking shallow gulps of air, “we could seriously be arrested.”

  “Think, boys, think.” Em was always the voice of reason. “James was getting out of the truck to see who was shouting out my name.” She pointed to James. “That’s all you were doing, right?”

  “True,” James said, the three of us knowing full well that he’d deliberately hit the man with the truck’s door.

  “We didn’t mug him. We didn’t threaten him or hit him with our fists. James stepped out of the truck and this guy, this detective, happened to be in the way.” Em was trembling but sure of herself.

  “Yeah. The guy walked into it. We cannot be accountable for that, right?”

  “It happened that way. We had no idea who he was.” I was in total agreement. We had our defense all ready for the trial.

  “So we call 911? We tell them there’s been an accident, and—”

  “Right after we called and said we were being attacked?” James said.

  “Right after we thought we were being attacked, James.”

  “What happened?” The voice was shaky and weak.

  I swung the light back to the horizontal body, and his eyes were open. A puzzled expression on his face, the prone figure lifted his arm and felt his chest, searching for the pistol in his holster.

  “What the hell happened?”

  “James,” Em pointed to my best friend, “James was getting out of the truck and it so happened you were walking by at the exact same time, and—”

  He struggled to sit up. “That the way you remember it?” The cop looked at me as he worked himself into a sitting position.

  “Exactly.”

  He nodded, still touching his chest and stomach.

  “Where’s my badge?”

  James leaned down and handed him the shiny gold metal. “We were just doing an ID check,” he said. “We didn’t know who you were and we just wanted to make sure everything was all right.”

  Sitting on the blacktop, the man pointed at Em.

  “You’re Emily Minard.”

  The light was dim, the moon and a lamp from the rear of the restaurant throwing shadows on the property. The cop appeared to be in his forties, hair slightly gray. I was pretty sure I’d never seen him before, but he seemed pretty confident in his identification of Em.

  “Do we know each other?” Em was studying him, and I flashed the light back on his face.

  “We do,” the man slipped the badge into his shirt pocket. “Get the damned light out of my face.”

  I did.

  “And you’re eventually going to tell me what our relationship was?” Em’s voice projected her irritation. A minute ago she was worried the man might die and now she was upset about his gamesmanship.

  “I arrested you about nine years ago.”

  There was no response. There was no sound. James and I had nothing to add and Em was stunned. So this was back when her world was collapsing around her. I’d never heard the story.

  The detective pushed himself off the black pavement and staggered to Em’s Jaguar. Putting his right hand on the shiny black metal, he rested for a moment.

  “The diamond theft. From Kahn’s Jewelers. The one your friend eventually confessed to.”

  No sound. Em said nothing.

  “You walked on that one.”

  “So did my friend, Detective Conway. Amanda Wright walked on that case too. The case ended up with no conviction. Do you remember that? You didn’t have a lot of luck with that case, did you, Detective?”

  This time it was the detective who said nothing.

  “Did you ever find the robber? Ever figure out where the ring went? I don’t recall ever hearing that you solved that case. You just put two people through a lot of stress.”

  “No, we never found the perp.” Leaning on the new car, he gingerly rubbed the back of his head.

  “Sorry about that,” James said. “Really, I was just getting out of the truck when you walked by and—”

  The detective ignored him.

  “We had a pretty good idea. We still think we know who lifted the ring.” He sounded sullen.

  “Statute of limitations run out on that?” Em was goading him.

  “Five years, Miss Minard. If you did it, you’re off the hook. However, I was looking you up for another reason.”

  She nervously ran her hand through her blonde tresses.

  “You looked me up in the parking lot of a restaurant at this hour of the night? For God’s sake, what for?”

  “What for? Because I’m now working homicide, and I’m the lead on the Amanda Wright murder. And you’re supposedly still a good friend of hers. Or you were.”

  Conway took his hand off the Jaguar and stood up straight. A good sign for him, and good sign for us.

  “I’m looking you up because I’ve dealt with the two of you before and because Amanda’s mother told me that you referred a private investigation agency to the restaurant. Lessor and Moore?”

  I glanced at James who was shaking his head. The cover was blown in less than twenty-four hours.

  “Is that against the law?”

  “No. By law they can solve this damned case if they want to, but if they get in my way, if they interfere in any way with the investigation, it will be against the law, and I’ll come down on them like a ton of bricks.” His voice had an edge. “Do you understand?” Tough guy attitude.

  “And you’re telling me this because?”

  “Because I can’t find this agency in the phone book, online or—”

  “They’re licensed with the state,” Em said. “How hard can it be? Is this another case you can’t solve?” My girlfriend, sticking up for us. She sou
nded very frustrated.

  We were licensed. With the Florida Department of Agriculture. Yeah, I know, what is FDOA doing licensing private detectives? I have no idea. This is Florida and Florida does some strange things. However, when they licensed us they misspelled James’s name and we never bothered to correct it. Their letter said that “Moore or Less Investigations” had been approved as a private investigation firm, but James’s name was spelled Leser on the official form. Not even close to the real spelling.

  “Couldn’t find them. This Lessor and Moore.” He rubbed his head again. “I came to the restaurant to talk to the owner, and as luck would have it, they’re closed. It was a long shot that you would be here, but since you recommended these guys I thought maybe you were involved.”

  Em said nothing.

  “Anyway, I’m asking you to tell them for me—don’t interfere. We’ll find whoever did this and we don’t need a couple of amateurs getting in the way. It usually makes things a lot harder. Okay.”

  He moved from the Jag, walked over to me a little wobbly on his feet, and grabbed the flashlight from my hand. Heading away from us, he looked back over his shoulder.

  “I mean it. Those guys get in my way, I’ll put them away.”

  “Detective, what if they could put someone in the kitchen? Someone who was a cook. Undercover?”

  I was stunned.

  He stopped and turned, the beam hitting James square in the face. The prominent frown on his face told me my partner was not happy.

  “Who? This Lessor and Moore?”

  “If they had someone who worked the kitchen, they could talk to the employees, get a feel for the inside of the operation. Would that help the investigation?”

  The light was off James, but I knew he was pissed. There was no way he wanted to work with cops.

  “They could do this?”

  “Maybe.” She was being coy, a little hesitant after his threat to shut us down. “This would be someone who has a culinary degree. Someone who knows his way around a kitchen.”

  “It’s not something that we normally do. Asking someone who isn’t in law enforcement to go undercover. I may have a hard time getting this approved.”