Hot Stuff (7 page)

“I thought you said no one knew who we were.” I looked away from the props, watching him as he remained frozen on the spot.

My partner was silent, never taking his gaze from the apron with the bright red stain.

“James,” I walked closer, inspecting the staged stabbing, “it's a joke. Just a knife and an apron. Settle down, man.”

Finally, he shuddered and spoke.

“It was locked. Locked, dude.”

“I'm sure there's an explanation.”

“Like someone doesn't want me here.”

“Hey, you can't make friends with everyone.”

“This doesn't scare you? You don't look at this as a threat?”

James glanced around the room as a waiter and another cook walked in.

“Skip, maybe we should reconsider our commitment here.”

James and I left the truck in the parking lot and Em picked us up in her new car. Always a new set of wheels. So we'd have a drink, a little catch up on the evening's activities, and maybe we'd solve the case.

We kissed and she opened the door to the black Jag XJ as I crawled into the leather passenger seat. James sat in the rear, still a little shaken up, his knees cramped in the small space.

“Amanda was about to have the dream of a lifetime come true, guys. Can you imagine? Her own restaurant. Her own damned restaurant.” Em had her daddy's company. There was no doubt she was going to be running it in the future. I think she was set for life. But her friend was about to realize a lofty goal that she'd apparently worked very hard for.

“She'd dreamed about it for years, guys. We've got to find out who killed her. I mean, really, can you imagine? Getting your own restaurant? And then—”

I knew James could imagine. He'd shared that dream for a long time. And now some girl he'd dated had almost done it. In a perverse way, I knew his ego was somewhat bruised.

Em reached into her purse. “Someone didn't want that to happen.” She turned the key and the throaty roar of the engine reverberated down the alley.

“And we found a couple people who may have had a problem with that dream.” I turned to her. “There's a dishwasher who may have found her very attractive, and there's a sous chef who was a little jealous of her promotion. He thought he was better than she was.”

“So if she was gone, this chef might be in line to get the job?”

James spoke. “This guy, Joaquin something, he wasn't there tonight. But for five hours he was pretty much the topic of conversation. About every half hour someone would say something about him being upset regarding the appointment of Amanda Wright. And, the cooks agreed, she wasn't nearly the caliber that Joaquin was.”

“She was a good chef. I'm sure of it.”

“Well,” James paused, drawing it out, “according to the kitchen crew, she wasn't that good. They used the word ‘adequate.' Maybe she was good at something else? Business skills, personnel.”

“She was a good friend, James. Don't push it.”

“If we're going to get to the bottom of this, we've got to discuss Amanda Wright on every level, Emily. We may hear a lot of things about her, good and bad, but you can't put a roadblock up when we uncover a negative. You know what I mean?” He hesitated, waiting for a response. When there was none, he said, “I think all cards need to be on the table.” She was quiet the rest of the ride.

Em pulled to the curb in front of Wet Willie's at Ocean and 8th in South Beach and an attendant in a black jacket opened her door.

As we walked through the throngs of locals and tourists up
to the second level deck I asked her, “Do you ever worry that the guy who's supposed to park your car may not even work here? He's just going to drive off in that new Jag?”

Em gave me a dazzling smile, her perfect teeth gleaming. “Skip, Skip. That's why I buy nice, expensive cars. They stick out. They're hard to hide. It's not hard to hide a Honda Civic or a Chevy Nova. Even a beat-up Chevy box truck or your twelve-year-old Taurus, but the black Jag? Nobody would dare steal it.”

Every once in a while, she likes to rub it in.

We sat and ordered ice-cold margaritas, watching the steady flow of evening traffic down below, a solid stream of headlights. The humidity was thick enough we could cut it with James's knife and we could smell the salty ocean air.

“Okay, tell me about the dishwasher,” Em said.

“Ah, the dishwasher. You know, for his first day on the job, Skip did okay.” He grinned, his passion to bug my girlfriend having been fed. “Never got in the weeds, did you, amigo?” James said with a smug look on his damned face.

“Of course I'm talking about the old dishwasher, smartass. The one who didn't show up tonight.” Em sighed, rolling her eyes.

“We're all hoping he shows up tomorrow,” I said. At least one of us was.

“Skip, you said the dishwasher had a thing for Amanda.”

I nodded. “One of the runners mentioned it.”

“Runners?”

“Guy who brings the dishes back from the dining room. I saw the two of them all night long. I actually got a little tired of seeing them. Anyway, this guy Carlos said that he and Juan Castro would go out for drinks sometimes after work and apparently this Castro mentioned that he thought she was attractive. It's a little thin, but that's all that I've got.”

Em sipped her drink, sensually licking the salt from the rim of the glass. “Amanda and a dishwasher? I don't see it.”

“What about you?” James smiled. “You do realize that you're now officially dating a dishwasher, Em.”

My girlfriend stared at him for a moment, then turned to me. “Maybe Amanda had higher standards than I do.”

“And maybe he made his move and she turned him down.” I wanted to drop the dishwasher putdowns. “People have been killed for less.”

“We're starting a list?” James took a long swallow and tapped his fingers on the table.

Em pulled a pen from her bag. “We are.”

“And we start with—”

“Juan Castro. Dishwasher. May have wanted a romantic involvement with the victim.”

“It's Amanda, Skip. Not just the victim. Not some anonymous girl. Let's call her by her given name. Okay?”

“Noted.”

We drained the sour drinks and ordered another round. It was good to be employed and on an expense account, just as long as the kitchen duty was temporary. Very temporary.

“Then we've got Joaquin Vanderfield, sous chef. Upset because he was passed over for the head job at the new South Beach restaurant.” James was half done with his second drink, his bandaged hand holding the stem tight. “I think he's got some serious motive.”

“And apparently the staff thinks so, too.”

James nodded. “Joaquin Vanderfield may have been interested in Amanda. That was sort of an undercurrent in the conversations. He was upset that she got the promotion, partially because he felt he was a much better choice and partially because the two of them may have had an affair. But nobody came right out and
said that. I got the impression it might have been a one-night thing, but it's too early to know for sure. Anyway, it was implied.”

“Anybody else?” Em had two lines on her sheet of paper.

“Nothing else came up. Tomorrow's another day.”

“Not much to go on, boys. I was hoping for a little more information.”

“One thing we failed to mention,” I said. “James had a message when he got back to his locker.”

“Oh?”

“An apron, with a red liquid smeared on it to look like blood and a Wüsthof knife thrust through the cloth.”

“Ooohhh. Gross.”

“The knife appeared to be identical to James's.”

James finished the drink. “Somebody broke into the locker and hung the apron on a hook. We're not sure if they know who I am, or if it was some sort of a warning. If someone thinks I'm a threat to their job or something.”

Em nodded. “They could think you pose a threat. If they know you're investigating the murder or, especially, if they think you might be training to take the South Beach job at La Plage.”

“So it could be either of our two suspects.”

“Only one thing wrong with that scenario,” I said.

“What?” They both said it together.

“Neither of them were at L'Elfe tonight.”

We left Willie's and Em drove us back to the restaurant.

“How about James drives the truck back to your apartment and you and I have another drink at my place?” We'd stepped out of the car, standing by the white truck.

I liked the sound of that. “James?”

“Sure, pard.”

I handed him the key.

He got into the truck and Em held out her fob.

“Want to drive?”

It appeared I was going to be lucky twice this evening.

“Emily?”

The male voice came from the dark place behind her Jag. I grabbed Em's hand and pulled her toward me.

“Emily Minard?”

“What do you want?” My voice was shaky. There was an empty feeling in my stomach and I realized I hadn't eaten. With two margaritas down there and no food since breakfast—

A shadowy figure rounded the car, a flashlight beam moving slowly over the two of us. As the body moved past our truck, I was startled by the loud squeak of the Chevy's door. It opened with a hard thrust as James leaned into it, hitting the man with the full force of the rusty metal.

The flashlight went flying as the dark form fell backward, cracking his head on the blacktop parking lot. Everything was quiet for a moment, then James stepped from the truck.

“Skip, Em, you guys okay?”

In the dim evening light I saw Em nodding emphatically.

“Dude,” James's voice was shaking, “I almost didn't get it open. I told you to use some WD-40 on these doors.”

The flashlight battery was strong and the light was still on as I picked it off the pavement and focused the beam on the man's face. His eyes were closed and his breathing was shallow.

“I'll call nine-one-one,” Em said as she searched in her purse for the iPhone.

Kneeling, James studied the form for a moment. Sport coat, green polo shirt, jeans, and a pair of white Nikes. James pulled the coat aside.

“Oh, shit.” He shuddered and looked up at me. “We may have stepped into it this time, Tonto.”

I saw what he was talking about in the ray of light. A shoulder holster with a gun tucked into the tan leather.

“Nine-one-one?” Em was staring at his weapon as well. “We've just been attacked by a man with a gun in the parking lot of—”

“Em. Hang up. Now!” James was rising, grabbing for her black phone.

“Never mind.” Em pushed a button and as I swung the light to her, she threw her hands up in disgust. “What the hell was that
all about? We've got an unconscious man with a gun who tried to attack us and you try to shut my—”

“Em, Skip.” James opened his palm. “Look.”

I focused the beam on his hand. He was cradling a gold badge with an embossed star in the center. The word “Detective” was at the top and “Sheriff's Office Miami Dade County Florida” surrounded the star.

“Uh-oh.” I switched the light back to our uninvited guest and could hear his ragged breathing. “Guys, we've obviously got a serious problem. We've got to do something.”

“We just assaulted an officer of the law,” James said. “I've had dreams about that, but this time—”

Em played the cell phone back and forth, hand to hand.

“Skip, James, assaulting a police officer is one thing. Letting him die is something else.”

“If we call the cops,” I found myself breathing fast, taking shallow gulps of air, “we could seriously be arrested.”

“Think, boys, think.” Em was always the voice of reason. “James was getting out of the truck to see who was shouting out my name.” She pointed to James. “That's all you were doing, right?”