Hot Stuff (3 page)

“The cops are pretty good at this. I still don't understand, Em. Why would they use an outside firm? The cops are not going to be happy about it. I mean, it makes no sense.”

She took a breath. “Do you remember about two years ago, their kid who was killed in a drug deal that went bad? He was—”

“In Miami? No. There are no drug deals that go bad. I'm pretty sure there are no drugs in this city.”

I could picture her rolling her eyes.

“I'm serious, Skip. Think back. Sophia and Jean Bouvier had a seventeen-year-old son, Jean-Luc, who was gunned down on Biscayne Boulevard. Middle of the day. It was a big story.”

I concentrated, trying to remember.

“Middle of the street, Skip. Broad daylight. And dozens of witnesses.”

“I've got it, Em.”

I did remember. Not that I paid a lot of attention to the news, but this story had gotten some serious play. The kid had been in his Ferrari, driving down Biscayne Boulevard, when a Chevy Suburban pulled up alongside the sports car and, according to eyewitnesses, opened fire with a multitude of shots. The cops counted twenty-seven holes in the car. It took just one to kill the teenager.

“They never found the killer, am I right?” I seemed to recall that the press had a field day with the MPD. There was a rumor that some of the investigators were paid off by the coke dealers. Nothing was ever proven, and no one was ever convicted of the shooting.

“Never. The Bouviers spent hundreds of thousands of dollars trying to find the murderer, but they've had no success. They mounted an ad campaign, offering a big reward for anyone who supplied a lead. They hired a private agency out of Chicago and an attorney who looked into suing the Miami police department, but the case remains unsolved. The firm charged them a lot of money and came up with zilch.”

For all of the Bouvier money, the drug guys apparently had more.

“And as far as the Bouviers are concerned, the cops are useless. The case remains open, but Sophia and Jean don't believe there is any real effort to solve the murder. Like Jean said, to the police it simply meant that one more drug user was off the street.”

“If that is the way the cops approached it, it's pretty cold.”

“Yeah. On the phone Bouvier told me his first reaction was that Amanda was like a daughter to him, and he wasn't going to let her death go unpunished like his son's. He was very passionate about that.”

I took a deep breath. Again, I couldn't imagine the anguish someone must go through when losing an offspring.

James was obviously not paying any attention to the conversation, sipping his beer, feet up on the plastic coffee table, watching some stupid infomercial about hair replacement.

“So what are they going to do?”

“Are you sitting down?”

I was. Permanently reclined in our broken lounge chair. “Tell me.”

“I've convinced him to interview James for a job.”

“James?” I was stunned.

My partner turned his head, looking at me with raised eyebrows.

“Your roommate's got a degree in culinary arts, Skip. What better way to use his skills? Go undercover and investigate the murder from the inside. Also Bouvier knows that James dated Amanda. I filled him in on the relationship.” She paused, letting me soak all of it in.

“Em, I think it's a terrible idea. And James never had a relationship with Amanda. It was like two dates.”

“Anyway, Bouvier and his wife think this would be a perfect fit. James can keep his ear to the wall and get a feel for who might have been responsible. Chef is very interested in the idea.”

“Jean Bouvier doesn't know James.”

Now James was on his feet, slowly walking to my chair.

“Give him some credit, Skip. You and I work the outside, James works the inside, and we'll see if we can learn something.”

“And the cops are just going to go along with this?”

“They don't have to know, Skip. We stay out of their way. This would be an internal investigation.”

“This is crazy. This is something that James would come up with, not you. You do know that he's only had intern experience in a high-class restaurant? I mean, even that didn't go well.” Half the kitchen staff at Jack's Half Shell had threatened to walk out unless James was replaced.

James stood over me, frowning.

“Skip, James spent four years learning how to cook and run a restaurant. A culinary arts degree. Think about it. He knows how it goes together. Maybe it wasn't L'Elfe, but he does work in a restaurant environment. I sincerely believe he could pull this off. And, Bouvier is willing to pay three thousand a week, two week minimum.” She paused and I didn't say anything. I think I was in shock.

“Do you hear me? Three thousand a week. You could use the money, boyfriend. And I know your roommate could use it.”

“What the hell are you discussing, amigo?” James drained the beer and pointed his finger at me.

I nodded to him. “Trying to figure out how you can get some time off at Cap'n Crab.” A line cook at the Cap'n didn't make much money.

“And why would I want to do that?”

“Because for the next two weeks, you're going to be a sous chef at L'Elfe.”

“I'll be damned,” he said.

“Yes, you may well be.” I gave him a grim smile. “Brush up on your cooking skills, James. This is the big league.”

“Joanne gave me the two weeks, amigo.” James sipped his latte as we felt the morning sun warm the ceramic tile inside Starbucks.

“And how did you arrange that?”

“Threw her a couple of bones.”

“James?”

“Yeah, well, she likes me, pally. Thinks that maybe we two might have a future together. So I promised her a date when I get back.”

Maybe Amanda Wright had thought that she and James had a future together as well. It seemed that everybody succumbed to the charm and personality of my handsome roommate.

According to James, the interview at L'Elfe had been brief. Jean Bouvier had asked for help. When James asked about the actual position, the work, the employees, the format, the chef had shrugged his shoulders.

“This isn't a full-time position, Mr. Lessor. You are here for one reason and one reason only. To see if someone in my kitchen, in my restaurant, had anything to do with the death of the young
woman. I will have my executive chef or our number two sous chef on duty at all times.”

James had persisted, asking Bouvier about the actual duties. After all, he was a cook with formal training. He wanted to know what was expected.

James said that Bouvier's wife had interrupted the interview, walking into the tiny office and immediately asserting herself.

“She's a pain in the butt, amigo. This little short guy has an equally short, dumpy wife. As I thought, Sophia runs the business side of his company, and believe me, she was all business.” He frowned. “Right in the middle of the interview, she marches in, stares at me for a second and says, ‘This is who we're going to hire? I thought we'd find someone who appeared a little more mature.'”

“And?”

“Pissed me off. I can play mature if it means three thousand a week.”

I studied him for a moment, his three-day beard growth, shaggy hair curling around his neck, dressed in ragged cutoffs and a Sheldon Cooper
Big Bang Theory
T-shirt that said, “Don't you think that if I were wrong, I'd know it?”

“I don't like someone judging me after they see me one time.”

“There was a waitress the other day who judged you, and she actually asked you out, remember?”

“Yeah. Well, that's different. Anyway, this stubby little woman looks at her husband and asks, ‘Are you going to hire him?'”

“And his answer was?”

“This titan of the kitchen, the one-man money machine of culinary arts, the little guy says, ‘Only if you approve, sweetheart.'” James cringed. “If I ever get married, pard, please deliver me from someone who wears the pants.”

Bouvier's wife apparently had made it clear that James and
his agency were being hired to scope out the restaurant staff. When he was in the kitchen, he would do the work, act as if the job mattered to him a great deal, but his main job was to see if the killer was on the premises.

“No thoughts about using this job as a launching pad to work for us,” she had told him. James said Bouvier sat at his desk and didn't say a word.

“Did she say anything about Jean-Luc? The murdered son?”

“Matter of fact, she did. Very direct comments. She said the police had ignored her son's case. The lady even insinuated that the cops had possibly thwarted the investigation due to—”

“Payoffs, right?”

“She was on script. Same story she told two years ago, when they couldn't turn up anything.”

“And?”

“She was a bitch, Skip. Rude, demanding, but I still had empathy. She's lost her only kid. And this time, with our efforts, she expects results. She was very clear about that. The two of them want to know if anyone on staff killed Amanda. That's our mission, to scope out the employees.”

I thought back to what Em had said about the Bouviers spending hundreds of thousands of dollars to find Jean-Luc's killer. And we were offered six thousand bucks. There was some discrepancy there. No results for hundreds of thousands, but results expected for six thousand.

When she left, he'd received his orders.

“Chef told me I'd be working the broiler, under supervision. The line, under supervision, and once in a while working the,” he cleared his throat, “the dishwasher.” I could hear the disgust in his voice. Apparently, there was no supervision on the dishwasher.

“You have a problem with that, James? The dishwasher?”

“I don't know. He said any new hire would have to work the
entire operation to get a feel for how it goes. I get that. You need to know how the kitchen works. But I get the distinct feeling that I'm just decoration.”

I rolled my eyes and drained my black coffee. “James, think this through. You are a detective, for God's sake. Give me a break. Why should they be interested in your culinary skills. He wants someone to find out if the kitchen staff was responsible for Amanda's death. That's the job.”

“Skip, I'm aware of that. Still,” James smiled at me over his cup of latte, “it would be nice to be appreciated for my cooking talent.”

“Which, I will admit, is considerable. At least all the great meals I've had the pleasure to taste.”

He nodded, almost taking his bow.

“But, interning for three months at a two-star restaurant and being a line cook at Cap'n Crab hardly qualifies you for running the kitchen at L'Elfe.” Michael Trump, the chef at Jack's Half Shell, had actually liked James, and if I remembered correctly, he had bestowed upon him a kitchen knife that James had treasured. Maybe Trump had given him the present just to get rid of him. That also was a strong possibility.

We were both quiet, watching the patrons and the baristo as he blended the ingredients for the customers, his eyes glazed over like a robot.

Finally, James spoke, stating the obvious.

“Somebody in the kitchen could be a murderer.”

“You think? That's the point of your hire.”

James nodded and I saw one of the cute servers glancing his way. She smiled when she caught me looking at her.

“And if they think that I'm checking them out, if his staff realizes that I'm looking for a potential suspect—”

It was my turn to nod. “You could be in trouble.”

“Yes, I could.” He reached into his back pocket and pulled out two sheets of paper. “We've been in some serious trouble before, Skip.”

We had.

“This sheet of paper is for you, the duplicate I'll hang onto.”

Staring at the list, I saw names and titles.

“These are the suspects, Skip. This is the staff. If we can clear them all, we've done our job. If we suspect any one of them, I guess we follow that hunch. Let's hope that they all come out squeaky clean.”

Names and titles. No personalities. A brief note as to how long each one of them had worked at the establishment. Nothing about relationships any of them may have had with Amanda Wright. Relationships were going to be our responsibility. James would have to find a way to ask some very sensitive questions.

He looked at me, hands flat on the table. “And what are you and the lovely Em doing all this time?”

“Following up leads on the outside.”

“Give me an example.”

I thought for a moment. “Okay, you come to me and say you're suspicious of a commis or an expediter and—”

“Whoa.” James leaned back, giving me an admiring look. “What do you know about a commis or expediter? You're this guy who yesterday didn't know what the hell a sous chef was.”

“This guy is paying us three grand a week, James. I figured I'd better get familiar with his world.”