Hot Stuff

by Don Bruns

  “The but is she wants to know a little more about me. Like maybe I’m a serial killer or something.”

  “She’s probably going to Google you.”

  He grinned. “That’s my thought.” Looking down at his phone, he said, “Let her. No big deal. I mean, there’s not much on there about me. Facebook information, and there’s stuff about my degree and Cap’n Crab. You know, some credibility about my cooking prowess.”

  If you’re going to enter into a relationship, it made sense to do a background check. The girl was smart. And as simple as a Google search was, I was reminded that we still hadn’t checked out everyone from the staff. I’d have to get Em on that.

  “Speaking of killers,” and we were, “did anybody call about the knife? The forensic unit or Ted, the cop?”

  “Mine? You’re talking about my knife, or the one that appeared with the apron in my locker and ended up in the Dumpster? Or are you referring to the knife that Bouvier had Chef Marty give me last night?”

  Obviously, I was talking about the knife in the locker, but there were a lot of knives in play.

  “The one from your locker, James.”

  “No. I haven’t heard anything. I’m not that concerned, Skip. I figure if they want my explanation, I’ll hear from them.”

  I sat down beside him on a worn webbed lawn chair and explained my morning travels. I described the confrontation in the jewelry store and the emotional conversation with Amanda’s mother.

  “Busy guy.”

  “Two nights in the kitchen, James, and we still don’t have any idea what happened. We’ve got to get more aggressive. Ask more questions. We can’t just wait until something falls in our laps.”

  “And people will start to get suspicious. It’s tricky, my friend. I agree, we’re not where we need to be, but like Chef Jean said, we’ve got to convince the staff of our cover story. We start asking too many questions and—”

  “But the positive side is we’re getting there, man. I talked to the setup guy, Mikey Pollerno. He got me looking into the boyfriend angle. We know the dishwasher has disappeared. We also know that Joaquin Vanderfield took a hike the night after the murder, and he is pissed that he was passed over for the head chef job on South Beach. I think they all need a background check. We can get all of that online.” We really did have a lot of loose ends to work on. “Plus, we should find a way to interview Kelly Fields. Reportedly, she was one of the few people Amanda was close to.”

  “Ah, the beautiful pastry queen. I may have to take that on myself.”

  “Keep it professional, James.”

  He smiled. “I’m a sous chef, Skip. Got to stay in touch with my staff. Oh, and by the way, while you were out harassing a local retailer, I called Em this morning and asked if she’d look into background checks on these guys.”

  He could read my mind. “Really? What did she say?”

  “She was already on it, doing some computer stuff. Some outfit that charges by the name, but she says you can find out if somebody spit on the sidewalk. Pretty thorough.”

  “I guess you’ve got to spend money to make money.”

  “And the sous chef Vanderfield?” A question he was going to answer.

  “I don’t know what background checks will find, but this guy is brilliant. I don’t like him, Skip, but he seriously knows his way around that kitchen. And he can throw a plate together that would be acceptable at Buckingham Palace, in a matter of minutes. I hate to admit it, but this guy would shine as a head chef.”

  “Really? Because I was getting some seriously bad vibes.”

  “Last night, he’s doing this sauce, and it’s like he’s almost making it up, calling for butter, sliced button mushrooms, ground nutmeg—”

  “James, fine. He’s a great chef.” I really didn’t care about the recipe.

  “But this thing with the jeweler, Kevin Kahn, I think you’re off on a tangent.” He stared out toward the brown water that floated in the ditch behind our complex. Waterview complex. “It’s a coincidence that the detective gets involved a second time with Em and Amanda. Just that. A coincidence. There’s no way some sixteen-year-old kid whose dad sells diamonds is responsible nine years later for a murder at L’Elfe. No way.”

  “I’m not saying he killed her, James, but there’s something more to it. This thing goes deeper than we’re digging. I’m going with my gut on this. And Em refuses to discuss it because she’s still protecting Amanda. I can’t explain it, but I feel certain that’s why she won’t share what happened that day.”

  “Em is protecting a dead girl’s reputation. That’s your take on this whole thing?”

  “It is.”

  “And you think that if she spills the beans, tells us why she’s so secretive, it will be a big clue as to who killed Amanda Wright?”

  “I do.”

  James shrugged his shoulders, hit send on his phone, and stretched out his legs.

  “Want to wager?” he asked.

  “James, we’re talking about Em’s friend. Somebody you dated.”

  “We went out twice, amigo. That’s hardly dating.”

  “You know damned well what I’m saying.”

  “The jeweler and the stolen diamond have nothing to do with this murder, Skip. Obviously Em doesn’t think so either. If that story has anything to do with the death of Amanda Wright, I’ll buy beer for a month. If it doesn’t—”

  “James, I’m telling you, it’s not something you can just—”

  “Beer for a month, Skip.”

  I let out a slow breath. “Done.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  The call came at noon. We’d cracked our first beer of the day when my ringtone jangled and I answered with, “Hi, Em.”

  “Ted has information on the knife.” Just like that.

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. He wants you two to come to the forensic lab and talk to one of the investigators.”

  “I thought this was an undercover operation. Now we’re meeting investigators?”

  “Skip, all I know is he wants to meet with you. It’s east of the Miami Airport in Doral.” She recited the address, and I concentrated hard. Enough to remember it and enter it in my phone.

  “When?”

  “Now.”

  James was watching me intently.

  “Any chance it was James’s knife?”

  It was quiet on the other end.

  “Meet us, Skip. He’ll explain everything.” She hung up.

  “They’ve got information, right?”

  “They do. And I have no idea what that information is, but you know what I don’t like?”

  “What?”

  “It’s Ted. All of a sudden it’s Ted instead of Detective Conway or Conway. And she said, ‘meet us,’ like they’re a couple. It’s just a little strange.”

  “You’re jealous of a cop?”

  “A cop who has a steady job, probably a pretty good pension, is a good-looking older dude? Yeah.”

  “That’s his future, Skip.” James sipped from his bottle. “It’s bland, predictable, and boring.”

  Slamming the bottle down on the cheap vinyl table, he stared at me, eyes opened wide.

  “You, on the other hand, you’ve got a blank canvas in front of you. The colors, the textures, the patterns, and lines, they haven’t even been invented yet. That’s what Em finds attractive about you.”

  “You’re crazy. You do know that, right?”

  “You, pard, are a work in progress.”

  He chugged the beer, stood up, and walked into our abode.

  I wondered if she had taken a liking to the detective. She was very businesslike in her attitude toward me, showing a different side. Or maybe it was Amanda. Em was still protecting her dead friend. Or her reputation, whatever that was. And maybe that was what was at stake, Amanda Wright’s reputation. It hit me that in addition to background checks on the dishwasher, the setup guy, and the pissed off sous chef, I should do a background check on the victim. It w
ould take some extra work, especially considering that there was someone in our group who already knew much of Wright’s background. Emily.

  As I sat there, I thought about what James had said. My life was like a big blank canvas. That’s what I felt like at that moment.

  • • •

  Thirty minutes later, after adding two quarts of oil and ten dollars’ worth of gas, we drove to Doral, famous for its golf and spa resort. We passed big homes, lush green lawns with towering palms, and luxury cars parked in circular driveways. The truly elite lived behind tall stucco walls, protecting them from the occasional belch of black smoke that shot out the back of our ancient Chevy truck.

  Pulling into the parking lot of the sprawling complex, we walked into the entrance. Conway was standing in the lobby, glancing at his watch and frowning.

  “We don’t live right around the corner, you know,” James said.

  The detective simply motioned to us and we followed him down a series of hallways.

  “In there,” he said.

  We walked through a door into a room that reminded me of the kitchen at L’Elfe only much more sterile. Two long stainless tables ran the length of the interior with benches surrounding them. Bottles of colored and clear liquid lined the shelves on the far wall, and Em sat on a stool at the end of the first table. My heart jumped.

  “Hi, guys.” She gave me a faint smile.

  James looked around the lablike room.

  “For the experiment to be a success,” he said in an eerie voice, “all the body parts must be enlarged.”

  I knew the movie. Young Frankenstein. I gave him the last line. “He’s going to be very popular.”

  We both laughed. Em and Conway just stared at us.

  “So what’s the news?” James had a job to go to this evening. He wanted to get in and get out.

  Before Conway could answer, a tall, attractive woman with waves of golden hair walked through the door. Probably early forties, she gave us a nod and a smile, her lab coat hiding her figure. She laid a clear plastic bag on the table and nodded toward Ted Conway.

  “Gentlemen,” the word didn’t seem comfortable coming from his mouth, “this is Cheryl Deitering. She’s one of the scientists here at the forensic lab.”

  She smiled, flashing her perfect white teeth. “As Detective Conway is lead investigator on the Amanda Wright murder, he has cleared it that you three can receive privileged information regarding the findings here.”

  With gloved hands, she removed the Wüsthof knife from its plastic bag and motioned for us to come closer.

  “This German knife is made from a single piece of forged steel.” She glanced up at me and smiled. “It’s a wonderful piece of craftsmanship and Wüsthof has a sterling reputation.” She balanced the knife in her right hand. “It also holds its edge quite well.”

  I saw James nodding. He knew a little about kitchen knives.

  She addressed me. “Do you know what the tang is?”

  “Powdered orange drink?”

  The smile turned to a frown. “In this case, the tang is the part of the steel that attaches to the handle. As you can see, it extends the length of the knife handle and is secured to the handle with three rivets. This gives the knife weight, balance, strength, and durability. A cook will find that important when chopping, slicing, butchering.”

  And stabbing, I thought.

  James was nodding again. The cook who did all those things, except stabbing.

  “As I said, Wüsthof makes a very durable knife, and they go to great lengths to make the tang and the handle as seamless as possible. They don’t want food to get into the seams, as it will cause bacteria to grow.”

  “So,” Em spoke up, “there’s no way any blood could get between the tang and the handle?”

  “Theoretically, no. Especially on a new knife. I’ve tested brand-new knives and it’s almost impossible, after being sterilized, that a Wüsthof or most other commercial kitchen knives would retain any waste products. However—”

  She held the knife by the blade.

  “This knife has been around the block.”

  “Used hard?” James asked.

  “Very hard. It’s probably ten or twelve years old, and what happens is that these rivets and that seal give a little. Every time you cut a lamb chop, cut up a chicken, rock the knife to cut carrots or celery on a wooden cutting board, there’s wear and tear on the seal between the tang and the handle. Even with a thorough cleaning, there’s a chance to trap food.”

  “And blood?” Em was looking very closely at the nine-inch weapon.

  “And blood.” She nodded. “Did you know that forty percent of the murders committed in the United States are done with a kitchen knife. Forty percent.”

  Shaking her head, she said, “People need background checks to own a gun, but everyone has access to a kitchen knife.” Deitering pointed to the handle. “This composite handle will hold fingerprints. And palm prints.”

  “And you found fingerprints?” I’d assumed as much. After all, that was the original reason for the police to take the knife.

  “We did. But in order to find out whose prints they are, those prints have to be in our database. Unfortunately, we only found one set that we could match.”

  “Who?” The three of us said almost it in unison.

  “James Lessor.”

  He’d been arrested in Islamorada on a suspected murder charge. He was let out almost immediately, but there it was. His prints were on file and the Miami PD had easily identified them.

  “Of course, they were on the handle,” he said. “I pulled the knife out of the apron that was hanging in my locker. No big deal.”

  “Ah, but it is a big deal.” Conway finally spoke. “The big deal, Mr. Lessor, is that this knife appears to be the murder weapon. A minute amount of Amanda Wright’s blood was found where the tang meets the handle.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Once Cheryl Deitering had left, Conway gave us his scenario on what happened. He informed us that the police had totally cleaned out every Dumpster for five city blocks, the night of the murder. It seems that that’s where killers throw their weapons. Dumpsters. Go figure. Instead of tossing the knife into the Dumpster, the killer had stashed it in James’s locker the next night. Whoever had committed the murder had shoved the Wüsthof through a catsup-stained apron, and stored it there until the following evening.

  Now came the tricky part.

  “What I can’t figure out is why they did that,” Conway had said. “I think it was to scare you off. But here was the actual murder weapon planted prominently in your locker. So maybe he, the killer, wanted you to pick it up, get your prints on it, and we’d consider you a strong suspect. And that’s exactly what happened. A pro never would have picked up the knife.”

  Once again, reminding us that we didn’t know what the hell we were doing.

  “So I’m thinking,” Conway said, “maybe the killer wanted prints on the handle so James would be considered a suspect.” He smiled at Em, and I got a cold chill down my spine.

  “Except,” I pointed out, “James didn’t even know about the murder till I told him that night.”

  “Except,” Conway pointed out, “James Lessor is an ex-boyfriend. And James Lessor owns an identical knife. And does James Lessor have an airtight alibi? Where was he the night of the murder? Can anyone back up his story? And maybe he’s got motives we may not be aware of.”

  “What the hell does that mean?” James protested.

  “Probably nothing.”

  “Give me a break. I was home, watching TV.”

  He couldn’t prove that he was by himself that night, and he couldn’t deny that Amanda had gone out with him. Within the last several months. But to make him a suspect in a cold-blooded murder? No way. I could tell that Conway wasn’t buying it either, but there was that little doubt that still hung in the air. They couldn’t convict James. I understood now how someone who was totally innocent might have to defend himself
against circumstantial evidence. It wasn’t a comforting thought.

  “But why did someone throw the knife in the Dumpster? By rights it should never have been found. The trash haulers were going to dump it in the landfill.” Em had been puzzled as we all had.

  Conway pursed his lips, his eyes sweeping over the three of us. “I wondered the same thing. It was as if they almost knew that we’d check the Dumpsters the night of the murder, so they kept the knife out of sight. Then, after threatening Lessor, they tossed it away the next night. I know, it doesn’t make a lot of sense, does it? Hell, if I had all the answers, we’d solve the murder.”

  James asked him what his next step would be, James actually being agreeable and laid-back in the presence of a police officer.

  “Look, I agreed to bring you information in this case. You’ve now got a lot of what we have. We are going to fingerprint everyone on staff at the restaurant, well, everyone who is still working there. And we’re going to put out an all-points bulletin on the dishwasher, this Juan Castro. I think his implication in the murder is a long shot, but we’re going to find him. We’ll print him and question him.”

  The meeting seemed to be over, and we’d gotten more than we’d given. At least that was my angle.

  “One more thing, Detective.”

  He raised his eyebrow, glancing over at Emily. I didn’t like the look.

  “Is there any chance you’ve put Jean Bouvier on your suspect list? As the possible murderer?”

  Now he studied me, cautiously weighing what I’d asked and how he should frame his answer.

  “As much as I can share with you, which isn’t much when it comes to our possible suspects—”

  I assumed that was largely because they didn’t have any suspects, just like the three of us.

  “Everyone in that restaurant is a possible suspect. Are we pursuing the chef? At this point we are simply trying, as you are, to define who was there the night of the murder and who may have had a motive.”