Hot Stuff (13 page)

“No shit?”

“No shit.”

“She thinks we're going after her husband?”

“Sophia said, get this, that she'd heard someone was looking very seriously at Jean. The lady was very concerned for her husband.”

“What? We haven't considered him at all. No motive that I can see.” I stopped, trying to rationalize the thought. “James, they're paying us. She can't possibly think we are considering him. We work for these people.”

James glanced around to make sure we weren't being overheard. “Skip, he goes down, the money train runs out.”

“Who told her we were looking at Bouvier? For God's sake, he's the one who hired us. He and the missus.”

“She was pleading, amigo. It was like, someone is pegging Jean Bouvier as the killer. That never crossed our minds. Why would Bouvier kill someone who was going to head up his next restaurant?” James just shook his head.

I nodded. It made no sense to me either. Bouvier had too much going on to bump off a sous chef. Didn't he?

“Unless—”

“Unless what?” I could think of no “unless.”

“Unless the cops are investigating him. What if it's Ted Conway. For some reason he may be looking into a motive. Maybe the MPD have something on him and are making
inquiries. I mean, she might have heard that questions were being asked and she naturally thought they were coming from us.”

I nodded. Sometimes James comes up with good ideas. Not often, but sometimes.

“And one other thought, amigo. Maybe she thinks he might have done the deed.”

“What?”

“She's concerned he may be the killer and she wants to go on record as defending him.”

I intercepted Carlos with a full tray and started scraping.

“James, watch yourself. Seriously. No smoke breaks by yourself, no ducking out back for a phone call. You're a target. Don't play Mr. Macho, okay? I'm serious. Play it safe.”

“Yeah.”

“I've got to get back to my station, washing the damned dishes, but did you see the Vanderfield guy?”

“Hard to miss. Now there's Mr. Macho.” James smirked.

“Well,” I was still thinking it through, “Bouvier must have told the staff he was hiring you last night, before you showed up. He only hired you yesterday so he couldn't have mentioned you any earlier than that. Right?”

“So?”

“This Joaquin guy, he wasn't there. Took the night off, unannounced. So he didn't know about you. He probably didn't know that you were hired to take Amanda's place. Am I right?”

“Yeah. So he wouldn't have left the apron and knife?”

“I'm thinkin'.”

James glanced back at the cooks, each of them busy at their station. “I'm not going to get that position in South Beach if I don't get back to work.”

“Yeah. And good luck with that promotion, roomie.” As usual, he was delusional.

James walked back to the grill, giving the brunette pastry
chef a grin. He never turned it off. I just felt strongly that someone in that operation wasn't all that swayed by his charms. I shook my head, feeling the sweat running into my eyes. It was going to be a long, hot night.

I was groggy the next morning. James and I had sucked down a six-pack after work and I had to force myself to crawl out of bed. A quick shower, a check in the mirror for my daily body evaluation, and a pair of faded jeans, sandals, and T-shirt. The body evaluation didn't go so well. I needed a couple weeks in a gym. I couldn't afford a gym, but it sure would help.

The new sous chef was still sleeping, sprawled on the stained couch where he'd passed out after his third beer, so I borrowed the keys to the truck and drove to the Purple Pelican mall, a small strip of shops on Miami's north side. The Miami heat and the absence of air-conditioning in James's truck was giving me a headache. I wiped the sweat from my forehead as I saw the mall sign ahead.

Pulling into the parking lot, I watched for store signs. The Purple Pelican Bar and Grill anchored the strip of stores on one end with a faded plastic pelican mounted on a pole above the saloon, and halfway down I caught the white flashing neon diamond. Kahn's Jewelers.

Parking the truck, I walked down the sidewalk, hesitating as I stood in front of the establishment. It appeared to be a middle-class operation. Nothing ostentatious, but the window display showed a decent selection of rings, pendants, and necklaces. Of course, what the hell did I know about jewelry? I wondered why Em would ever visit this side of town.

I took a deep breath and walked into the store, hearing the electronic bell sound in the rear. I knew the routine. One person in the back. The bell sounds and they scoot to the front of the store. I'd sold security systems to a couple stores like this one. No chance that I can break a glass case and get out with any of the expensive stuff. But then, why does my mind work like that?

He was moving quickly, behind the counter with Bulova watches and thin gold chains. Brightly colored gemstones decorated the third section of the case as he reached me.

“Hi there, what can I do for you? A new watch? Something for the girlfriend? Maybe a tennis bracelet?”

Sandy-haired guy, about my height and age. He was dressed in khakis and a lightweight sweater vest, and his eyes didn't quite focus on me, just looked off to the side, to his other displays.

“Yeah. I have a couple of questions.”

“I can probably help,” he said. “Kevin Kahn. Jim Kahn's son.” He reached for my hand, and I shook his.

“Skip Moore.”

“I've been in this store for over ten years. It's my dad's, technically, but I've been working here since high school, so fire away. You've got questions, I've got answers. I got my education in jewelry at a pretty young age.” Lots of nervous energy and too much information. He smiled and raised his eyebrows, waiting for me to make the next move.

“You've got, uh, nice stuff.” What are you going to say?

“Thanks. I do a lot of the buying. You tell me what you're looking for, and I'll bet we can find it. If I don't have it, I'll order
it for you. Nothing is impossible.” He spoke in quick sound bites, his gaze drifting around the store.

“There was a robbery here about nine years ago.”

His eyes snapped to focus. On mine. And I could see a question mark. Maybe he wouldn't want to discuss it, but I could tell he remembered. I doubted if you could forget something like that.

“It was a diamond ring. Do you remember?”

His gaze went left, right, and out the door.

“Any recollection at all?”

“Maybe,” he said. “That was a long time ago. I don't know. We've had two or three thefts here since Dad bought the place and—”

“Amanda Wright. She admitted to the theft and then it turned out she wasn't the one who took it. Emily Minard was implicated as well. Two young ladies were caught up in this theft and neither one was guilty. You do remember, right? I mean, what was that all about?”

“Look, who are you?”

“Skip Moore, like I told you.”

“What's your relation to Amanda?”

“She was killed two nights ago. Were you aware?”

Now he stared at the floor. The guy was acting very strange.

“I saw it online.”

“It's just that—”

“Who are you?”

“Skip.”

“Why are you asking me these questions? Are you a cop? What gives you the right to come in here and ask these questions?”

“No. No. Settle down.” He was obviously agitated. “I'm a private detective. I'm just following up a couple of leads and this robbery is one of them.”

“That happened nine years ago. I hardly think that a theft in this store nine years ago has any impact on the murder of a girl in Miami.”

“You're probably right,” I said. I was actually thinking he really was right. I was fishing. But his nature, his defiance, his shifty attitude had me interested. Bouvier said he went with his gut. I was thinking that the celebrity chef might be on to something. Go with my gut.

“Did you know Amanda?”

This time he focused his entire attention on me. I could feel the heat, his eyes boring into mine.

“Get the hell out of my store.”

“I'm simply trying to find out if—”

“Get the hell out of my store. Do it now and I won't call the cops.” He stepped from behind the counter and approached me. “Wait another twenty seconds and I will call them and tell them you were trying to steal a diamond ring. I'm very good at convincing the local law enforcement agencies. Do you understand? Do you?”

I did. I walked out and drove out of the parking lot. I planned on coming back, but I had one more stop to make before I did.

The small stucco block house on East 39th Avenue in Hialeah was sorely in need of a paint job. The once white exterior was a dirty gray color and the red tile roof was broken, with jagged pieces of clay lying in the front yard. The lawn was scraggly and the ground bore large bare patches of dirt and sand where grass should have grown. An overgrown bush pushed its way onto the front porch, barely giving me room to stand there and ring the doorbell. The place was a palace compared to where James and I lived.

I rang it three times. Even though a rusty Ford Ranger and a Volkswagen Jetta were parked in the gravel out front, it seemed that no one was home.

I considered walking around back, but waited another minute. Then I knocked loudly, knuckles pounding on the cheap, hollow door.

She answered it twenty seconds later.

“Yes?”

“Mrs. Wright?”

“Yes.”

“I rang the doorbell, but—”

“Like most of the things around here, young man, it doesn't work.”

“I'm Skip Moore. I'm a friend of Emily's. I'm one of the detectives who's working at L'Elfe to—”

“Oh, goodness. Please, excuse my manners. Do come in.”

She opened the door wider, and I could smell the stale odor of fried fish.

“I am so glad to meet you. The thing about Amanda, it's just,” she choked, and I just kept nodding. What can you say? I needed to get my information and leave. I wanted this to be brief.

“Please, sit down.” She picked up an armload of laundry from the worn sofa and dropped it on the floor next to a pile of newspapers and magazines. It could have been dirty clothes or clothes just washed, but it was obvious that it had been a while since the room had been cleaned.

“Now,” she dropped down beside me, between a sigh and a cry, “tell me what you've learned. The police won't tell me anything. Nothing at all.”

I couldn't either. But the question had to be asked.

“Mrs. Wright, was Amanda dating anyone? Anyone from the restaurant?”

She shook her head. “She never told me if she was. But there was something about the way she acted, a little giddy, that made me think she might have someone she was interested in.”

“Did you talk to her about it?”

“Well,” she paused, “she didn't live here, you know. And we didn't talk that much. Occasionally she'd stop over or call me on her cell phone. Do you think a boyfriend might have—”

“I don't know.”

“The police asked me the same thing.”

At least I was doing it right.

“They asked me to list all of the friends that she kept in touch with. We found a lot of them on her phone and on her Facebook account.”

We'd been hired to find out who from the restaurant might have wanted her dead. Thank God we didn't have to worry about everybody else in her life. To sift through someone's Facebook account. And phone. It just seemed to me that the process could take weeks.

“She never mentioned anyone from the restaurant?”

“Skip, was it?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“My Amanda, she was a beautiful girl. Men were drawn to her. She'd tell me about guys who, as she put it, hit on her. And just about everyone on that staff, every male, seemed attracted. She even thought the chef was interested.”