Hot Stuff (5 page)

The whole question and answer thing had really upset Em. His final question was about James.

“You set your friend up on a date with a James Lessor. What's your impression of Mr. Lessor? Does he seem to be a stable person?”

“Damn,” Em said after the conversation, “James? Stable? I hope I never get asked that question in court. I couldn't lie under oath.”

I steered the truck by the MacArthur Causeway where two giant cruise ships were docked off to our right.

“I'd think that tonight you get a chance to listen, pick up some of the conversation.”

“I was thinking the same thing,” he said. “They're going to be discussing it. It's all over the 'net, TV.”

“Should be a lot of rumors flying around. A lot of gossip in the kitchen, it's a given, right?”

“I'm sure the dining room will be buzzing too.” He was starting to get into it, I could tell by the excitement in his voice. There was also some apprehension. Starting a brand-new job was stressful.

“There is going to be a lot of interest in you, too. People wanting to know why you were hired so soon. What magic ingredient you have that caused Bouvier to make the hire.”

James nodded. “I thought of that. And since I don't have a good backstory, I'll go with what I've got. Four-year degree, brief internship, and Cap'n Crab. Bouvier thinks I have potential. Other than that, I'm going to attempt to do a whole lot more listening than talking.”

“Good idea.”

“There will probably be a lot of thrill seekers in the restaurant who can Tweet their friends and say ‘guess where I am?' “

“You said the little guy will be there?”

“Told me that he needed to be the calming influence for the next couple of nights. I think it's a good idea. And Sophia, his wife, is supposed to be there as well. I'm not sure that's a good thing. I mean, the way she barged into the interview. I've been told she kind of brings the place down.”

Sophia Bouvier. Arguably, one of the main reasons that Chef Jean was so successful. She ran the commodity side of the business, selling the spices, the pots and pans, the cutlery.

We'd researched the husband and wife team on the Internet. Besides the business venture, hundreds of full-time employees, the multimillion-dollar corporation with its various streams of income, besides the celebrity, the fame, and instant credibility, there was the death of Jean-Luc. The drug deal death of their son seemed to overshadow everything in the celebrity duo's life. Maybe Sophia's dour attitude was based on the price she paid for her position in this world.

“But remember,” James said, “I'm just there for decoration. My job is to see if there's a killer in the house. They couldn't give a damn about my culinary skills.” He was still miffed.

I'd only seen him on television. Jean Bouvier was a small guy with a big mouth. He had a shtick where he'd start preparing a meal, get to a certain point, then look to the camera. He'd point his index finger in your face, give you a cute little smile and, I swear, his eyes would sparkle.

“Any one of you can do what I just did,” he'd say. “That part is simple. But can you do this?”

Then he'd whisk something or slice something or sprinkle something and supposedly the magic would happen. I'd seen him
do it a half dozen times when James was watching The Food Channel. “But can you do this?” had become a tagline. It was even an answer on
Jeopardy
one night, and James found it in a
New York Times
crossword puzzle. “But can you do this?”

“You know,” James was staring out the window, watching the water catch the late afternoon sun, “there's one common denominator in that kitchen.”

“Common denominator?”

“Yeah. There's something that qualifies almost anyone on that kitchen staff to be the killer.”

“And what's that?”

“They all know how to use a knife, Skip. They all know how to filet, slice, dice, chop. It's part of the culture.”

I couldn't argue with that.

I saw his expression change, his eyes reflecting with a blank stare. “Well, that's not entirely true,” he said.

It had made sense to me. “No?”

“The dishwasher. I mean, you start as a dishwasher. Bottom of the chain, you know? That guy, that girl doesn't have to know how to use a knife. Dishwashers are exempt. But everyone else—”

We drove the rest of the way in silence, and five minutes later I dropped him off at the rear of the small white-stucco building.

“You've got your knife?”

“Yes, Mother. And I'll play nice with all my new friends.”

“Be safe, James.”

He took a deep breath, slowly exhaled, and forced open the squeaky door. Glancing back at me, he folded his hands in front of him.

“Think about me, amigo.”

“I will.”

“And one more thing.”

“What's that?”

“Both of these doors get harder to open every day,” he said. “Get some WD-40, Skip. Oil the damned doors.”

“Call if you find work,” I shouted as he walked into the restaurant.

Em lives just down the street in a condo twenty-three stories over the water. I love waking up there in the early morning, looking out at the clear blue water and South Beach in the distance. I love going to sleep there, watching the tiny lights of South Beach, Star Island, and the causeways twinkle. I actually love waking up next to Emily. Most of the time I wake up at the crummy apartment where James and I live, where I can see a muddy dirt-brown ditch running behind the units. Not quite the same. I shared James's dream about one day being rich and famous. But the longer I spend time with him, I realize the way to achieve that dream is not always the same as my best friend's.

Em was waiting for me, and we'd decided to spend some time going over Amanda's past, seeing if there was anything Em might remember about her friend that would shed some light on the grisly killing.

I immediately thought about Amanda confessing to a crime that Em was accused of committing, but my girlfriend had told me that story wasn't going to see the light of day. Emily, being a strong woman, had laid down the rules long ago.

Her mom had died when she was eleven, a victim of breast cancer. Em had grown up an only child with a workaholic father who wanted only the best for his daughter. She'd taken on adult responsibilities at an early age and now practically ran the construction business for her father. She'd begged me to work for the company, I guess hoping that I'd finally grow up and be responsible for a change. But I couldn't convince myself to do it. Working for Em's dad would have been like working for Em, and that just wasn't going to fly.

When she was right, she was right. And, she seldom was wrong. If you didn't believe it, just ask her.

I was halfway to her condo, the white box truck sandwiched between an Escalade and a Porsche Panamera, when Bruce Springsteen's ring tone blared from my pocket.

“James, it's only been fifteen minutes. You've solved the crime?”

“Skip, there's a little matter here that I could use some help with. You know you said you had my back and all?”

I remembered that. “And we do. We have your back. Why would you even question that?” I'd told him that we were going to be approaching the murder from a different perspective. “James, tonight we're going to talk about Amanda and see if Em can remember—”

“Kind of a change in the plans, amigo.” I heard him take a breath. I was certain it was a lungful of smoke.

“Got a smoke break already?”

“Chef Bouvier phoned me and asked me to go out and call you.”

“Come on, James. What's so important?” Jeez, had something happened already? Fifteen minutes had passed and he was already either panicked or had the murder solved. Amazing, even for James. He was quiet for a moment, and my heart was racing. I had no idea where the conversation was going.

“Has something happened? It has, right?”

“I hate to ask this, Skip.”

“Damn you, tell me what you need.”

“A dishwasher.”

I shook my head. “A what?”

“Dishwasher.”

“And how can I help you with that? I don't know any—”

“You, Skip.”

I was taken aback. Stunned. Taking my eyes off the road for two seconds, I about slammed into the back of a BMW. “Me?”

“Dishwasher didn't show up. With two of us back here, we can talk to a lot more people, put together a lot more scenarios.”

“Oh, no. No. No. No.”

It was a pattern. James would sucker punch me if it meant getting him out of a jam. “You volunteer to wash the dishes. Em and I have stuff to do. Research, doing background checks. You need someone on the outside. You know that and we've already discussed—”

“Em's on the outside, pard. You and me, we're a good team.” I heard another intake and exhale.

“Come on, James, what am I going to do about my job? It's not as easy to ask for time off. I mean, you can date your boss. Ernie and I would not work out well on a date.”

He coughed. It served him right.

“You blow that job off half the time anyway.”

I did. I sold security systems to apartments and businesses in the urban community of Carol City where no one had anything worth securing. I didn't punch a time clock and I could make my calls any time I wanted. Anyway, it wasn't like I was setting the world on fire with my sales. Far from it.

“James, I didn't sign on to scrape plates and dispose of other people's garbage. That's not my end of the job.”

“Skip, there's three thousand dollars a week on the line here.
Three thousand dollars a week. Minimum two weeks pay. Do you hear me?” I could sense the frustration in his voice. He'd been on the job for a quarter of an hour and already it sounded like he was losing it. “I told Chef you'd do it. The title of the job says it all, amigo. Dishwasher. You don't have to have any experience. So get your ass back here. Okay? We're going to solve this crime and we're going to become an agency that gets a lot of attention. And business. We're a team, amigo. A team. Got it?”

“I can't believe you're doing this. Hell, we just started this gig, and already you're pushing my buttons.”

“Skip, the only buttons you have to worry about are on the dishwasher. The two of us are going to be a whole lot more effective. Will you do it?”

And like a dumb ass, I agreed.

“Give me twenty minutes.” I was not happy.

“Fifteen, Skip. These dishes are piling up pretty fast.”

James was busy scraping plates when I walked in. Tossing me an apron, he pointed at a box of rubber dishwashing gloves sitting on a stainless-steel counter.

“Glove up, pard.”

I looked to my right as fire erupted under a cast-iron skillet. A young man with a white coat and Miami Dolphin cap deftly picked up the skillet and flipped whatever was in it, setting it back on the stovetop as the flame went out.

Looking back at James, I said, “You could have done the dishes.”

“Could have, but they need me on the line.”

I think James could have gotten along just fine without me, but I'd agreed to be the stooge.

“The runners bring trays of dishes, you scrape 'em, sort 'em, and put them in the dishwasher.”

“Just like that?”

“It's not hard, Skip. It's minimum wage.” James always had a way of making me feel small.

Minimum wage. That was about what the two of us were
making from our regular jobs. Not much more. For all the high-end dreams that we both had, for all the what-ifs, and mistakes that we made, we were still struggling. Maybe age would bring more maturity, but I doubted it.

The steamy sizzle of meat, the bubbly boiling of liquids, the clanging and banging of pots and pans, and the shouting back and forth between cooks when an order was placed and when that order was ready for pickup all filtered through the small kitchen as I tied on the apron and pulled on the rubber gloves.