Hot Stuff (9 page)

He gave me a grim smile. “It gets confusing, pardner.”

Em and I nodded.

“Conway said we don't tell anyone. So that's settled.”

“If we can trust Conway.” The “Can-Can” played on Em's phone and she grabbed it from her purse and pushed the button.

“What?”

Pausing, she gritted her teeth. “I'm sorry. It was all a mistake.” Obviously. someone on the other end was grilling her.

“No, no. It was, it was a friend playing a prank.”

Another long silence.

“Believe me, I would never—no, please. It was a mistake, someone was messing with me. Okay?”

She nodded and hung up. “Damn. Nine-one-one does not like to be fooled with. Not in the least.”

James climbed back into the truck. I opened the passenger door of the Jag and Em got in. I was going to drive to Em's place in a brand-new Jaguar, a sleek, sexy sports sedan. Then I was going to make love to a sleek, sexy sporty young lady. Her fire, her passion had ignited my passion.

“I'm serious, Skip. There's only one thing I want from this investigation, from this job. I want the killer. I'll do anything that has to be done to achieve that end. Please understand that.”

“I believe you.”

“If your roommate, if your best friend screws this up, I'll have no mercy. I've never been so serious.”

I'd seldom seen her so worked up.

“Em?”

“What?”

“You were accused of a diamond heist? They thought you stole a ring from Kahn's Jewelers?”

“I told you that was off limits.”

“Look, there's you, Amanda, and this cop. For the second time in the last nine years the three of your lives are intertwined. And one of you isn't alive right now to discuss it. Don't you think it is kind of important that—”

“Drop it, Skip.” Her tone was icy.

“You tend to call the shots a lot.”

She crossed her arms and stared out the window into the dark evening. Finally, she spoke. “Look, I loved Amanda. She wasn't the easiest person to be close to, and in the end,” she paused for a moment, a break in her voice, “in the end, she turned out not to be the nicest person in the world. But understand this. I place a lot of emphasis on loyalty. And even though we had grown apart, Amanda Wright was always there for me. It's a very personal thing, Skip, and I don't care to go into it with you. Please, work with me here. The diamond thing, it's not worth discussing.”

“You said it brought your whole world down.”

“It's in the past, Skip. My position in this world has evolved, okay? Let's leave it there.”

I drove down the street, not even thinking about the automobile I commanded. I was always there for Em. We went to bed and never touched each other till morning, when she gave me a chaste kiss. James picked me up at nine and asked me how the night had been. I never gave him an answer.

James was in the permanently reclined recliner. I sat on the beer-stained sofa sipping the last Yuengling beer.

“Maybe the cop thing is a good idea.” I couldn't believe he was admitting that playing along with the cops was a positive thing.

“You? You're admitting that it might be a good idea to team up with the professionals?”

“I want to know the wound reports. Do you think that the cops might give that up? They have the information.”

“Wound reports?” I had no idea what he was talking about.

“You know. Do the wounds telegraph what kind of knife was used in the stabbing? How deep were the cuts? Did it take some strong guy, or could a slight woman make those wounds? We need to know this kind of stuff, Skip, if we want to be serious investigators.”

I nodded.

“You know, I've cut enough meat in school and in restaurants to know that flesh, muscles, and other organs are flexible. They contract, they expand. With that in mind, you could stab
someone with a short knife, and as you push the blade, you could go in a lot deeper than the blade is long. I've done it. But I've never wondered what kind of a knife someone is using. We need to know if there's a science to stab wounds. At least that would make sense to me.”

I'm sure he was right.

“What did they find in the alley? I mean, were there foreign fibers on the body? Was there evidence of someone else's blood? If this guy, this hotshot detective, really is willing to share information, we could learn a lot, Skip.”

I nodded. There was a certain amount of maturity in his outlook. A maturity that wasn't there in the past.

“While you and I are in that kitchen—”

“While you're in that kitchen, James. I'm out of there. No more dishwashing. Please understand that.”

“While
we're
in there, we need to be looking at knives, right? If I knew something about what kinds of wounds certain knives make, I could see what kind of knives the cooks are using.”

It actually made sense.

My cell phone erupted with the Springsteen anthem, “Born in the U.S.A.” I really needed to update the ring.

“Skip, I need the knife that James found in his locker.” Emily sounded a little icy, matter-of-fact.

“We were just talking about—why do you need the knife?”

“Fingerprints.”

“I'm sure James's are all over it.” James had pulled it from the apron, and even passed it to— “Oops. Mine are on it too.”

“So they'll take that into consideration,” she said. I heard another voice in the background. “Listen, I talked to Ted, and he thinks—”

“Ted?”

“The detective, remember?”

“Oh, it's become Ted? Not Detective Conway?”

“He'd like to examine the knife, Skip.” Cold, impersonal.

I glanced at James. “You got the knife?”

“Mine?”

“The one from your locker. The Wüsthof that was sticking through the catsup-stained apron.”

“It's still in the locker. Along with my Wüsthof.”

“Skip, I heard that. Can you get it?”

“If you and
Ted
think it's important.”

“What I think is that the faster we resolve any questions, the faster we can wrap this up.” I felt the icy chill coming through the phone.

“Yeah. We'll get it.”

“The detective said pick it up with plastic wrap, okay? Plastic wrap, Skip. I'll meet you there.”

And she was gone.

“The cop wants to check it for fingerprints. You and I picked it up last night so I'm sure ours are on it.”

“So, she told him about our knife and apron.” Surprisingly he smiled. “That's good, man.”

“Why is that good?”

“We shared. We've given him some information. Now he knows we're serious. We're involved.”

“And?”

“He owes us, amigo. It's his turn to tell us something about the case.”

Twenty-five minutes later James pulled the white, four-wheeled oil burner into L'Elfe's parking lot. Two in the afternoon, and my partner still had the evening stretching out in front of him. I hoped that I wasn't pulling dishwasher duty two nights in a row.

There was no Jaguar waiting for us.

“Em's not here yet. You sure you can get in?”

He nodded. “Cleanup guy, setup guy, somebody'll be inside.”

“And your excuse for showing up hours early?”

“I forgot something from my locker. Which, it so happens, is the truth. Sometimes, Skip, the truth is the best answer.”

I'd never found James to follow that rule.

“Come with me. We may be able to talk to one of the guys for a couple of minutes. We've got to interview as many people as we can.”

“Without coming off like an interview.”

Walking up to the back door, James pushed it open. The heavy metal gave easily and we walked into the rear of the kitchen.

Holding the door open for a moment, I said, “Check this
out, James. A magnetic alarm system on the door. Do you know how easy it would be to disarm this? These guys are ripe for a break-in.”

There was no fire-breathing grill, no pans banging, no knife artists wielding their shiny blades of steel and, thankfully, no scalding hot water or garbage cans of people's leftovers.

The rap music was loud, blaring through the kitchen and probably out into the empty dining room.

“I'll go back to the locker.” James raised his voice several decibels. “You check out front and see who's working. Tell them you just came along with me for the ride, and say something like, I don't know, wasn't it too bad about the Wright girl and what do you think happened, you know?”

“I do know. I can handle this. Are we supposed to be friends?”

He nodded. “Yeah, we are. And you know you didn't exactly show that kind of confidence when you talked to the runner last night.”

“I've got it under control now, okay?”

“You go that way, I'll go this way.” James headed to the left toward the lockers, and I walked through the kitchen, past the gleaming stainless counters and took a right through the swinging doors into the dining area.

Black tables, stark against a ceramic white inlay, and a blood-red carpet that almost squished under my feet. The small bar, complete with granite top and twelve leather stools, was off to my left, and a glassed-in wine cabinet to my right. When Em and I had eaten here, it didn't seem so severe. The dining area was empty, except for the little guy in the far corner. He was wiping down the tables, bopping to the music.

“World Series attitude, champagne bottle life.”

A song by Drake and Lil Wayne.

“You do the cleanup?” I shouted to him.

There was no response, just the heavy beat of the music as the man danced and took swipes with a cloth at the table.

“Hey, you.”

Finally the dark young man lifted his shaved head and concentrated his attention on my voice.

“Whatchu want?”

“Just wondered if you do the early cleanup? Setup?”

“Is that what it look like?”

I nodded.

“Then don't be askin' stupid questions.”

Smiling, I reached out to shake his hand. He didn't reciprocate.

“I'm Skip.”

“You work here? Or you stealin' food from the walk-in?” Stepping back, he folded his arms and watched for my reaction.

“Stealing food?”

“Could be both. You could work here, and you could steal food. Believe me, it's been done. Just don't steal it on my watch, okay?”

“Who are you?”

Studying me for a moment, he wiped his hands on his apron.

“Mikey. Mikey Pollerno. Again, whatchu doin' here?”

“My friend, he's new here, he had to come early to get something from his locker and I—”

“He gonna walk some meat out to his car? Not on my watch. There be no food stealin' today.”

“Nobody's walking any food out of here, okay?”

“Damn straight. There're two locks on the walk-in. Two padlocks. Ain't nobody walkin' free food.” A grin broke out on his face. “Unless it's me.”

“You take food?”

“No. Come on, man. It's a joke. No way. Two locks on the
cooler. And Marty and Chef Jean? They don't trust nobody. Understand? Nobody. Sophia had 'em install cameras, dude. Three of them security things mounted outside the locker, just waitin' for you to walk some food out the door.”

I was thoroughly confused.

“I'm messin' with you, dude. You couldn't take the food if you wanted. Although, some people try when the walk-in open. Steaks, lobster, scallops, they have a way of just disappearin'. So now, locks and cameras.”

I hadn't considered taking anything. My mission was to get information.

“So, lots of excitement here a couple of nights ago.”

“Yeah. Your friend, he takes the Wright girl's place?”

I was the one who was supposed to be asking the questions.

“What exactly happened?”