Hot Stuff (11 page)

Juan Castro didn't show up for work, so Chef Marty told James to call me. I refused at first, but after several threats and James begging a great deal, I said yes to one more night as dishwasher.

This time I got fed. The meal is standard in upscale kitchens. It seems the cooks prepare a meal for the staff before the customers show up. It wasn't the gourmet food that customers would be served, but it wasn't half bad. According to Chef Marty it was a French beef stew with more vegetables than beef, but it was filling. And Bouvier showed up. After the last time, I hadn't expected to be impressed, but having seen him half a dozen times on television, knowing his marketing influence and branding power, I have to admit I found him to live up to his hype. He seemed charged up, in broadcast form as he stood in front of the assembled kitchen staff. Smiling, his artificially whitened teeth glistening, he faced the staff.

He addressed them by saying, “You people—you are what makes this thing happen. It's not just me, it's you. Don't forget that.”

I was reminded of Danny DeVito on steroids. He was short, somewhat rotund, with a fringe of hair around his ears. He bobbed and weaved as his hands did much of the talking.
Wearing an apron that appeared to be somewhat soiled, he showed he was still a working man, yet he hadn't cooked a thing. Either he didn't wash his aprons, or he simply wanted people to assume that he was busy in the kitchen and had just grabbed a break.

“You do things that our customers can't do. When I say to the TV audience, ‘But can you do
this
?' it simply means that they probably can't. But you, my loyal staff, you can do this. You are the magic. That's exactly why our customers are here. Because when they go home, it turns out they can't do what we do. In the privacy of their own home kitchens, they fall short. Whatever they try, it lacks a little flavor, it doesn't have the same presentation, the portions aren't perfect. They can't do it, but you can. Our customers are here to experience the supernatural. They come here for the magic of Bouvier and L'Elfe. Don't forget that.”

He paused, smiling, watching the reaction of the cooks and waitstaff.

“I've worked hard to bring this dream to life. You, my wonderful staff, you are the bridge between reality and dreams. Don't forget that.”

He kept repeating that phrase,
don't forget that
, as if we all had attention deficit disorder.

“Make it happen tonight. Make some magic, people. We've had a little setback, and I feel bad about that. I'm certain that the person responsible will be found soon, but in the meantime, there's no reason for you to let down.”

Pointing at the assembled staff, he smiled, a mellow, fatherly kind of look on his face, his eyes twinkling.

“When I say, ‘can you do this', your answer to me should be, ‘of course we can.' Because you can.”

I found “a little setback” to be somewhat trivial when it came to the life of a young lady, but Chef Jean was on a mission. A mission to rally the troops. I forgave him the understatement.

“I want the food to be excellent, I want the service to be superb. I want people to walk out of here tonight saying, ‘I could never make a dish like they do.' Don't forget that. They should look at each other and say, ‘no, I couldn't do this!'” Bouvier glanced at me. “From the dishwasher to Chef Marty. From our sous chef trainee, James,” I couldn't believe he was addressing us individually, “to our head waiter Justine and our pastry chef Kelly. Astound our customers tonight. Can you do that? Can you? Make this an experience they won't forget.”

There was a brief round of applause, and I saw genuine enthusiasm on the faces of his staff. I noticed a scowl on Mikey Pollerno's face, but for the most part Bouvier's speech was well received. These people were working a celebrity kitchen, part of a team that was revered around the world.

I remembered James telling me that a handful of French chefs actually studied under Bouvier. He was an impressive little guy, and here he was, inspiring us, telling us to astound his customers with great food and great service.

For a brief moment, that's exactly what I wanted to do. Astound our customers. It was easy to see why James was caught up in the moment. I wanted Jean Bouvier to be proud of
my
efforts.

That brief moment was very brief. I was a dishwasher, and nobody in that fancy dining room, with the tablecloths, the flowers, and the fine wines and food ever considered that someone was scraping the remains of their meals off of the expensive china in the bowels of this famous kitchen. But it was fun being on the inside. That didn't often happen. It was exhilarating having a celebrity addressing me. Actually talking about me. Well, not by name, but—

“Eugene, James, could I see you for a moment.”

I froze. Chef Jean Bouvier had just singled us out. And I wasn't sure that was a very good idea.

He motioned to us and we went down the hall. I glanced up as we walked by the walk-in and saw the second camera, directly pointing at the door. Just before we entered the employee locker room, he opened a door in the middle of the hallway and entered his cramped office. I would have thought that a celebrity chef would have a spacious office with expensive walnut paneling and a mahogany desk. We followed him in and he pushed the door shut.

“Damned handle is jammed on the inside here. Can't lock it from the inside,” he said. “Need to call a locksmith.” He glared at it, as if a look would free it up.

“So, what do you have?” He sat down behind the banged-up steel desk. We stood in a room with no other chairs. One desk, one chair, a filing cabinet, and a three-foot-high red rolling tool cart with five drawers. A video monitor was mounted on the file cabinet, a stack of CDs sitting beside it.

James and I looked at each other. I spoke first. “We have a dishwasher who had a crush on Amanda. He's not shown up for two nights.”

“What else?” Gone was the charm, the warmth. This was business. Cold, hard, ruthless.

“Joaquin Vanderfield,” James said. “He thought he should have been chosen as the head chef of your South Beach restaurant.”

“And?”

I glanced at James. In his white jacket with L'Elfe embroidered on the chest, his light brown hair falling over his forehead, he should have been a celebrity chef. A younger Bobby Flay. Given the right circumstances.

“Somebody threatened me.” James brushed back his hair. “Last night I found an apron with a catsup stain on it and a knife stabbed through the cloth. It was hanging in my locker. At least, I took it as a threat. And, today when I went to retrieve my knife and the one in the apron they were gone. It appears that whoever broke into my locker stole both of the Wüsthof knives.” He paused. “Apparently, we've pissed someone off.”

Bouvier looked away, studying a couple of his poorly framed certificates carelessly hanging from the wall. A
Time
magazine cover featuring the chef and his stocky wife also hung in a frame, with the title splashed on the cover, “Celebrity Duo Defines French/American Cuisine.”

“You could say that somebody is afraid that I'm grooming you for the South Beach restaurant.”

“That's what we thought.”

“I know they think that,” he said. “It's because I told the staff that you were the heir apparent.”

“What?” I studied him for a moment, and he gave me a wry smile.

“Why would you?”

“I wanted to flush out the killer. So we're getting there.”

James's eyes were wide open. “Are you trying to get me killed?”

Bouvier stared at James for a second, that faint smile still on his lips. “Mr. Lessor, if I hadn't said it, everyone would have assumed it.”

“I don't think that was a very good idea.” I felt the need to disapprove.

Squinting his eyes, he nodded at James. “I've made a very good living trusting my gut instincts. I tend to think it was a very good idea. Whoever killed Amanda is considering your immediate rise in the company. Don't forget that.”

“Making me the target.”

“Mr. Lessor, you were a target the moment you walked into this kitchen. That's why I hired you.”

“How do you figure that?”

Elbows on the desk, he crossed his plump fingers under his chin, resting his head on his hands for a moment. “You're considered undercover right now. Am I right? You are assuming an identity that isn't entirely yours.” He watched James, trying to gauge his reaction.

“Yeah. Sort of. I mean, I am a cook. I'm actually pretty good at it. I work fast and I understand kitchen protocol.”

“But you're a detective pretending to be a chef. And I have to support that undercover role. I want people to pay attention, respect you on the job, and fear your position. If I don't throw my full support behind you, no one will believe for an instant that you are really my chosen head chef.”

I had to admit it made sense. A simple background check would show that James lacked serious experience.

“You lack experience. You have almost none, at least not what we would expect for such a position. Do we agree on that?”

The guy was reading my mind.

“Thomas Keller, executive chef and owner of the French Laundry in Napa, was just a kid when he took over as staff chef at the Dunes Club. Early twenties. But,” he held out his hands,
“he showed promise. He had the magic that can be seen by other chefs. Keller owned his own Wall Street restaurant in New York by the time he was thirty, and when he opened the French Laundry, one of the fifty best restaurants in the world,” he paused, “he hired a twenty-two-year-old girl as his commis. She impressed him so much, he gave her that job. Do you understand?”

We both nodded, although I'm not sure we did.

“I tell you this to prove my faith in James. As far as the staff is concerned, I believe he has talent that can't be ignored, regardless of experience. Someone saw the talent in Keller, and he in turn saw the talent in the twenty-two-year-old girl.”

Pushing his chair back, he licked his lips.

“I see the talent in you, Mr. Lessor.”

For a brief moment, I think James believed it.

“I don't hire people to fill a position. I hire them because of their gift. For two weeks we have to convince my staff that you have that gift and, more importantly, that I believe in that gift.”

If Bouvier made the case for James being groomed for La Plage, the staff would believe that somewhere, buried ever so deep, James had the talent. It was obvious that Chef Jean had a better understanding of undercover than we did.

Bouvier slapped his hand on the desk, the sound reverberating in the tiny office.

“You see. I tell you about Thomas Keller, who had little experience, and that proves the exception. I want people here to believe that you are my handpicked head chef. If I don't tell them, then you lose believability. And if you lose that, you are no longer undercover and no longer of use to me.”

And I knew he was right. I also realized we had probably jumped off the deep end. It was as if we were puppets and Bouvier was pulling the strings. I'd often felt that James tried to control our relationship, positioning himself as a leader and me
as his follower. But I could walk away at any time. Chef Bouvier had alerted his staff about James, and the only way James could regain control was to quit. Walk away. I didn't believe he thought that was an option at this time.

“My staff out there, the right mix of people, it works. Like a well-oiled machine. Like a magician and his apprentices.” The short man reached into a cardboard box on his desk and pulled out a jar. The label featured his photo and name.
Bouvier's Essence
. “This rub, these spices that are in here, people think they're magic. The mix works.”

Setting the jar on the desk, almost as a barrier between us, he tapped his fingers on the metal desktop. “Nutmeg, rosemary, some garlic, sea salt, basil, and black pepper.” He stared at the jar. “I'm good at mixes. Don't ever forget that. I brought you in as part of the mix and I believe you will be successful.”

I shook my head. “I still think you've put James in jeopardy.”

We heard footsteps down the hall and as the door opened, Sophia Bouvier stuck her shaggy head into the room.

“Jean, we have things to do. Come along.” Her words were slightly slurred.

He stared after her as she retreated back to the kitchen.

“She drinks a little,” he murmured. “But, she has reasons.”

Pausing for a moment, he closed his eyes.

“She cries a lot too—we lost a child. You never get over losing a child.”

Looking up, he raised his voice.

“You are private investigators, gentlemen. It's what you do. You put yourself in jeopardy by the nature of your work. I'm simply moving the process along.”

“Still,” I said.

James took a step back, surveying the small office. “What's with the red tool chest?” he asked.