Hot Stuff (15 page)

“You're crazy. You do know that, right?”

“You, pard, are a work in progress.”

He chugged the beer, stood up, and walked into our abode.

I wondered if she had taken a liking to the detective. She was very businesslike in her attitude toward me, showing a different side. Or maybe it was Amanda. Em was still protecting her dead friend. Or her reputation, whatever that was. And maybe that was what was at stake, Amanda Wright's reputation. It hit me that in addition to background checks on the dishwasher, the setup guy, and the pissed off sous chef, I should do a background check on the victim. It would take some extra work, especially considering that there was someone in our group who already knew much of Wright's background. Emily.

As I sat there, I thought about what James had said. My life was like a big blank canvas. That's what I felt like at that moment.

• • •

Thirty minutes later, after adding two quarts of oil and ten dollars' worth of gas, we drove to Doral, famous for its golf and spa resort. We passed big homes, lush green lawns with towering palms, and luxury cars parked in circular driveways. The truly elite lived behind tall stucco walls, protecting them from the occasional belch of black smoke that shot out the back of our ancient Chevy truck.

Pulling into the parking lot of the sprawling complex, we walked into the entrance. Conway was standing in the lobby, glancing at his watch and frowning.

“We don't live right around the corner, you know,” James said.

The detective simply motioned to us and we followed him down a series of hallways.

“In there,” he said.

We walked through a door into a room that reminded me of the kitchen at L'Elfe only much more sterile. Two long stainless tables ran the length of the interior with benches surrounding them. Bottles of colored and clear liquid lined the shelves on the far wall, and Em sat on a stool at the end of the first table. My heart jumped.

“Hi, guys.” She gave me a faint smile.

James looked around the lablike room.

“For the experiment to be a success,” he said in an eerie voice, “all the body parts must be enlarged.”

I knew the movie.
Young Frankenstein
. I gave him the last line. “He's going to be
very
popular.”

We both laughed. Em and Conway just stared at us.

“So what's the news?” James had a job to go to this evening. He wanted to get in and get out.

Before Conway could answer, a tall, attractive woman with waves of golden hair walked through the door. Probably early
forties, she gave us a nod and a smile, her lab coat hiding her figure. She laid a clear plastic bag on the table and nodded toward Ted Conway.

“Gentlemen,” the word didn't seem comfortable coming from his mouth, “this is Cheryl Deitering. She's one of the scientists here at the forensic lab.”

She smiled, flashing her perfect white teeth. “As Detective Conway is lead investigator on the Amanda Wright murder, he has cleared it that you three can receive privileged information regarding the findings here.”

With gloved hands, she removed the Wüsthof knife from its plastic bag and motioned for us to come closer.

“This German knife is made from a single piece of forged steel.” She glanced up at me and smiled. “It's a wonderful piece of craftsmanship and Wüsthof has a sterling reputation.” She balanced the knife in her right hand. “It also holds its edge quite well.”

I saw James nodding. He knew a little about kitchen knives.

She addressed me. “Do you know what the tang is?”

“Powdered orange drink?”

The smile turned to a frown. “In this case, the tang is the part of the steel that attaches to the handle. As you can see, it extends the length of the knife handle and is secured to the handle with three rivets. This gives the knife weight, balance, strength, and durability. A cook will find that important when chopping, slicing, butchering.”

And stabbing
, I thought.

James was nodding again. The cook who did all those things, except stabbing.

“As I said, Wüsthof makes a very durable knife, and they go to great lengths to make the tang and the handle as seamless as possible. They don't want food to get into the seams, as it will cause bacteria to grow.”

“So,” Em spoke up, “there's no way any blood could get between the tang and the handle?”

“Theoretically, no. Especially on a new knife. I've tested brand-new knives and it's almost impossible, after being sterilized, that a Wüsthof or most other commercial kitchen knives would retain any waste products. However—”

She held the knife by the blade.

“This knife has been around the block.”

“Used hard?” James asked.

“Very hard. It's probably ten or twelve years old, and what happens is that these rivets and that seal give a little. Every time you cut a lamb chop, cut up a chicken, rock the knife to cut carrots or celery on a wooden cutting board, there's wear and tear on the seal between the tang and the handle. Even with a thorough cleaning, there's a chance to trap food.”

“And blood?” Em was looking very closely at the nine-inch weapon.

“And blood.” She nodded. “Did you know that forty percent of the murders committed in the United States are done with a kitchen knife. Forty percent.”

Shaking her head, she said, “People need background checks to own a gun, but everyone has access to a kitchen knife.” Deitering pointed to the handle. “This composite handle will hold fingerprints. And palm prints.”

“And you found fingerprints?” I'd assumed as much. After all, that was the original reason for the police to take the knife.

“We did. But in order to find out whose prints they are, those prints have to be in our database. Unfortunately, we only found one set that we could match.”

“Who?” The three of us said almost it in unison.

“James Lessor.”

He'd been arrested in Islamorada on a suspected murder
charge. He was let out almost immediately, but there it was. His prints were on file and the Miami PD had easily identified them.

“Of course, they were on the handle,” he said. “I pulled the knife out of the apron that was hanging in my locker. No big deal.”

“Ah, but it is a big deal.” Conway finally spoke. “The big deal, Mr. Lessor, is that this knife appears to be the murder weapon. A minute amount of Amanda Wright's blood was found where the tang meets the handle.”

Once Cheryl Deitering had left, Conway gave us his scenario on what happened. He informed us that the police had totally cleaned out every Dumpster for five city blocks, the night of the murder. It seems that that's where killers throw their weapons. Dumpsters. Go figure. Instead of tossing the knife into the Dumpster, the killer had stashed it in James's locker the next night. Whoever had committed the murder had shoved the Wüsthof through a catsup-stained apron, and stored it there until the following evening.

Now came the tricky part.

“What I can't figure out is why they did that,” Conway had said. “I think it was to scare you off. But here was the actual murder weapon planted prominently in your locker. So maybe he, the killer, wanted you to pick it up, get your prints on it, and we'd consider you a strong suspect. And that's exactly what happened. A pro never would have picked up the knife.”

Once again, reminding us that we didn't know what the hell we were doing.

“So I'm thinking,” Conway said, “maybe the killer wanted
prints on the handle so James would be considered a suspect.” He smiled at Em, and I got a cold chill down my spine.

“Except,” I pointed out, “James didn't even know about the murder till I told him that night.”

“Except,” Conway pointed out, “James Lessor is an ex-boyfriend. And James Lessor owns an identical knife. And does James Lessor have an airtight alibi? Where was he the night of the murder? Can anyone back up his story? And maybe he's got motives we may not be aware of.”

“What the hell does that mean?” James protested.

“Probably nothing.”

“Give me a break. I was home, watching TV.”

He couldn't prove that he was by himself that night, and he couldn't deny that Amanda had gone out with him. Within the last several months. But to make him a suspect in a cold-blooded murder? No way. I could tell that Conway wasn't buying it either, but there was that little doubt that still hung in the air. They couldn't convict James. I understood now how someone who was totally innocent might have to defend himself against circumstantial evidence. It wasn't a comforting thought.

“But why did someone throw the knife in the Dumpster? By rights it should never have been found. The trash haulers were going to dump it in the landfill.” Em had been puzzled as we all had.

Conway pursed his lips, his eyes sweeping over the three of us. “I wondered the same thing. It was as if they almost knew that we'd check the Dumpsters the night of the murder, so they kept the knife out of sight. Then, after threatening Lessor, they tossed it away the next night. I know, it doesn't make a lot of sense, does it? Hell, if I had all the answers, we'd solve the murder.”

James asked him what his next step would be, James actually being agreeable and laid-back in the presence of a police officer.

“Look, I agreed to bring you information in this case. You've
now got a lot of what we have. We are going to fingerprint everyone on staff at the restaurant, well, everyone who is still working there. And we're going to put out an all-points bulletin on the dishwasher, this Juan Castro. I think his implication in the murder is a long shot, but we're going to find him. We'll print him and question him.”

The meeting seemed to be over, and we'd gotten more than we'd given. At least that was my angle.

“One more thing, Detective.”

He raised his eyebrow, glancing over at Emily. I didn't like the look.

“Is there any chance you've put Jean Bouvier on your suspect list? As the possible murderer?”

Now he studied me, cautiously weighing what I'd asked and how he should frame his answer.

“As much as I can share with you, which isn't much when it comes to our possible suspects—”

I assumed that was largely because they didn't have any suspects, just like the three of us.

“Everyone in that restaurant is a possible suspect. Are we pursuing the chef? At this point we are simply trying, as you are, to define who was there the night of the murder and who may have had a motive.”

It was a cagey answer, giving us nothing. They were still eliminating staff members, but why did Sophia think her husband was a suspect? I didn't trust Conway. The guy was just a little too slick.

“While you're here, Mr. Moore, why don't we fingerprint you?”

It wasn't a request. It was an order in the form of a request.

I turned to Em and asked her if she'd driven, but she just shook her head and looked away. And then I got it. The detective must have picked her up and brought her here.

“Need a ride?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

Conway didn't stick around for the paperwork. I knew he wouldn't, and I was seething inside.

After my printing, James and I drove back to the apartment by ourselves.

“Not a pleasant situation no matter how you slice it.” James smoked a cigarette, flicking the ashes out the window on the driver's side.

“I thought you quit.”

“Now's not the time, amigo.”

I should have been more worried about the case. Instead, “What the hell was that all about? Ted. Is he going out with her?”

“You two have never been committed. I don't mean to be cruel, but she's taken off before, Skip. She plays by her own set of rules. You know that, but you keep going back for more.”

“Yeah.” James was right about one thing. Em had taken off before. And I had no idea where or even if she was with someone. But he was wrong about the commitment. Em wasn't committed. I had been committed since high school. If Em had ever shown any sign of a full-time commitment—

“Sometimes I think I should
be
committed.”

He looked sideways at me, then understanding I meant to an asylum, he gave me a broad grin. “I've thought that about you too, amigo.”

We were quiet for a moment.

“Talk to her about it, Skip. She's apparently going through some emotional thing since Amanda was killed.”

And I'd decided that her concern about Amanda was part of it. I concentrated on my conversation with the baker babe and how I might approach her tonight. Screw James. Forget Em. If my girlfriend could play nice with the cop, I could flirt a little
with Amanda's kitchen friend. And maybe I could get some answers on this boyfriend thing that kept coming up. Had the dead sous chef been dating someone on staff? The inference had come up a couple of times. And there was the teenage incident with her jeweler boyfriend.