Hot Stuff (24 page)

“Bullshit.”

“No, no, Skip, there's a reason.”

A breeze was blowing through the open truck windows and I could smell the salty fish odor coming from the bay as we drove down the road.

“What's the reason?”

“Guys are taller than women. It's that simple. Guys are stabbing in a downward motion.” He took his right hand off the wheel and made a downward stab. I was glad when he put it back on the steering wheel as the truck swerved.

“Because the woman is shorter than he is. And because he is going for the heart.”

“God, I wish I didn't even know this.”

“Women, when they are stabbing a guy, are stabbing upward. Toward the heart. Therefore, underhand.”

“The heart is most often the target?”

“It is. The heart and the neck. Most killers know that the heart will bleed out, that, and severing the carotid artery can also cause massive hemorrhaging.”

“How do you find the heart?” I knew it was on my left, and if I concentrated I could hear it beating—sometimes—but I would have been guessing if I was trying to identify it with the point of a knife.

“Doesn't matter, Skip.” He stared straight ahead, one hand on the steering wheel, one hand out the window, the ashes of his cigarette blowing behind us. “Anywhere in the chest can cause someone to bleed out. Big thoracic blood vessels cover almost as much area as the heart.”

I was impressed. James had gotten to the heart of the matter, so to speak. But I wasn't quite sure what it all had to do with our murder investigation.

“But we're not worried about that. We're not worried because our killer stabbed Amanda in the stomach and abdomen.”

“And that means what?”

He tossed the cigarette and we pulled into the parking lot. I looked around for a '96 Dodge Intrepid, hoping that Juan Castro had come back to wash dishes. That didn't seem to be in the cards.

“I'm not sure what it means. It could have been, like, a guy who kept the knife in his hand, arm distended, and he just walked up to her and stabbed her from that position. I mean, I can picture that. Arm hanging down, you just walk into someone.”

Again, something you don't want to imagine.

“Could have been a woman. Stabbing up, this person might have been a short woman.”

“Like Sophia Bouvier.”

“Bite your tongue. That's the hand that feeds us, pal. But yeah, someone of that stature.”?

“What about depth of the wound?”

“We don't know how deep the wounds were. And apparently it's hard to tell, because the skin and other organs compact and contract as soon as they are invaded.” James reached across the seat and grabbed his chef's jacket.

“Think about a five-inch knife. Five inches, and you stab someone. As you push into their abdomen, you can probably feel the cavity give another three or four inches. Maybe more. So,” he paused, probably for dramatic effect, “you could get a nine-inch-deep cut on someone's torso with a five-inch blade. And apparently there is so much blood, that until the body is totally drained, the actual length, depth, and other damage done by the stabbing is almost impossible to decipher.”

“You've really done your homework.”

James smiled, proud of himself. “I'm not sure it does us any good. I still think Joaquin Vanderfield is the prime suspect. And I go for the knife hanging below the belt, and just pushing it in.”

Vanderfield was easily six foot or six one. I was trying to picture how low his hand would have to be to stab someone almost a foot shorter below their stomach. I knew it could be done, but it almost felt unnatural. And here I was, thinking that stabbing a young woman was unnatural? Duh.

“What kind of knife does the pirate wear?”

“Pirate?”

“Never mind. Just this kind of fantasy—” I was somewhat embarrassed. “Vanderfield. What brand, style of knife?”

“Same as I do. A Wüsthof.”

A very popular brand and style of knife.

“Tell you what, Skip. We need to contact Cheryl Deitering, the knife lady from the lab. Get her take on this. Seemed like a pretty sharp woman.”

James opened his door, leaning into it a little.

“Hey, pardner, no squeaks. No groans.”

“But we are minus some of the carpet fibers. That's going to hurt the truck's resale value.”

James laughed as we walked toward the kitchen door. Turning to me, he suddenly stopped.

“Oh, I got some information on Chef Marty.”

“Anything we can use?”

“He's been sued a couple of times for firing people, and he's written several articles about his cooking style. Oh, and Bouvier has had him on The Food Channel show four or five times. Not much there, really.”

“Married?”

“Yeah. One kid. So if he did have an affair, that could cause a problem. But the thing that I found interesting? Before he went to The Illinois Institute of Art in Chicago, before he got his culinary art major, he worked for a slaughterhouse. Right outside of Chicago. Butchering hogs and cows.”

I winced as James opened the door and we walked in.

“Think about it, Skip.” He turned to me, his eyebrows raised.

“About starting out as a butcher?”

“Yeah, but I'm talking about appearances on The Food Channel.”

“What about it?”

“If I play my cards right, amigo—”

Two cooks and Marty were already working prep. One guy with a green headband was stirring soup and Kelly Fields was busy putting dough in the oven.

I offered my services to Chef Marty who seemed genuinely surprised to see a dishwasher volunteering to do anything other than their mundane task of scraping and washing.

“Sure. Help with the baked goods. Kelly can tell you what she needs. Special dessert tonight. Okay?”

I walked up to the attractive brunette, tapping her on the shoulder.

“Skip?”

“Chef said you could use some help. And since I don't have dishes until we open, just tell me what to do.”

She studied me for a moment, and even in the L'Elfe kitchen with its smells of onions, carrots cooking in the soup, garlic, and savory sauces, I detected the gentle floral tones from her perfume. If she wasn't married, if I didn't think things were back on with Em, I'd have been tempted.

“A caramel frosted cupcake is on the specials tonight.” All business.

“And what do I do?”

“The big mixer over there, you're going to mix butter, brown sugar, milk, and confectioner's sugar.”

“A couple of cups?” The few times I'd helped James make anything, a couple of cups was quite a bit. “That's a pretty big mixer.”

She laughed. “Lots and lots of butter, brown sugar, milk, and sugar, Mr. Moore. We are going to serve a lot of cupcakes tonight.”

Handing me the recipe, she glanced around the small kitchen.

“Skip,” she was almost whispering, “There is something I didn't tell you when we talked.”

“Yeah?” Now I glanced around. Still Marty, the green head-banded soup guy, James at the stove, and me and Kelly.

“I heard this thirdhand, and I'm not sure even now I should mention it. It could just be like an urban legend. It has to do with the other sous chef.”

“Vanderfield?”

She looked me in the eyes. “Keep it down. I told you there was a love-hate relationship between the two of them.”

She pounded dough with her fists on a long stainless table, her piercing eyes still focused on mine.

“Please, understand, you can't tell anyone this because it may not be true.”

“I'll keep it quiet.” I wouldn't. Not if it meant solving the murder.

“I'm certain that this meant nothing. I really believe that, if it did happen, it was a one time thing, but supposedly Marty caught the two of them taking a break together one evening.”

“That was it? A break?”

“Behind the Dumpster.”

“And?”

“The story that got back to me was that neither was wearing anything below the waist.”

Halfway through the evening, James and I passed each other.

“James, Kelly Fields says Amanda and Vanderfield were doing the nasty one night out by the Dumpster.”

He paused, a pan in his hand with some sort of hot liquid still bubbling.

“Could be.” He glanced over at Kelly, busily applying my frosting to her cupcakes. “Also, it could be that Mrs. Fields was interested in Joaquin's actions and she was jealous of Amanda. Maybe we missed something on our list, Skip. Suppose Kelly Fields had it in for Amanda Wright?”

“Why?”

“Think outside the box, amigo. Why would someone feed us false information? Not that I'm saying it's false. It's just that, we need to be looking at every angle.”

Short girl, accomplished cook, probably owned a knife, although what a pastry chef was doing with a Wüsthof I couldn't imagine. Damn, instead of eliminating suspects, we just kept adding new ones.

The evening was slow, good for me, bad for the business. I
asked for a smoke break, and Chef Marty grunted. I took that as a yes and walked outside, immediately calling Em.

“Hey, Skip. Any more news?”

“Lots of news, Em. We need to meet.”

“Ted wants to talk, too.”

“About?”

“What do you think?” She sounded peeved. “About the case. He wants to know what you've found, and he's got some interesting information to share with you.”

“When?”

“Tonight. When you get off.”

I heard a voice in the background.

“Is that the TV?”

She was quiet for a moment. “Can you and James come over here?”

“Sure.”

“Ted's here right now,” she said.

Taking a deep breath and closing my eyes, I said nothing.

“He's leaving at this moment and he'll come back when you guys get here. Okay?”

I couldn't talk.

“Skip, he stopped over to ask for the meeting. He's not staying. The four of us will talk in a couple of hours.”

She hung up the phone and I concluded my smoke break with an uneasy feeling.

We met at Blue Moon, one of the restaurant-bar establishments in Em's building. The food wasn't that great, but it was a sports bar and grill, open until two a.m., so the timing was perfect.

“I understand someone pushed you off a boat.”

Conway started the conversation. At the four-top, he was to the right of Em, I was to the left and James was across the table. I wasn't certain who Em was with, but the cop and I were both close enough to vie for her attention.

“Yeah. I was pushed.”

“And this Joaquin Vanderfield wasn't on the yacht? He's the guy you've been leaning toward implicating?” He sipped on his black coffee.

James glowered. “And I'm the guy you've been implicating. Am I right?”

Conway shot Em a quick look, surprised at the accusation.

“I'm not sure what you mean.”

“You told me yourself, my alibi might not hold up. The fact that I claimed to be watching TV by myself. Since then, I've heard the same thing from others.” James glanced at Em. “And
then,” he paused for dramatic effect, theatrics being a part of James Lessor's persona, “and then you have a team come out and sweep my truck?” He was way up at the end of the sentence. “For fibers that had been found on the body.”

Righteous indignation. James was at his finest.

“Seriously? Sorry to bust your bubble, Lessor, but we're not that interested in you. You're way down on a long list. But, if it makes you feel any better, that list is narrowing.”

“So why the truck sweep?” Which hadn't actually been a sweep at all. More of a tape and forceps.

“Settle down, guys. It's simply an elimination process.”

“The two officers who did it—”

“Overzealous perhaps?” Conway smiled. “Don't take it personally. It's simply what we do.” He watched James for a moment. “And, the way that we do it.”