Chicken Bones and Corn Oil
The note just says, ‘You have now been warned a fourth time. Signed, XT,’” Neil said with frustration as he, Angel and Larry sat down at a patio café in the plaza. “Okay, I get that, but warnings of what exactly? I already know what I have to do—don’t go to the cops and lose in the final. So why keep warning me?”
“Maybe it’s just a friendly reminder?” Larry suggested.
“Well, they can save their precious paper,” Neil said, crushing the brief note in his fist, and slamming his fist on the table. “I don’t plan to go to the cops, or lose.”
“Neil, do you want to find Isabella so you can save her or so you don’t have to throw the final?” Larry asked as he sipped his coffee. His stomach was bouncing back in fine form: he’d already devoured Neil’s leftover tamales and was hard at work on the churros and ice cream Giselle had abandoned in her kitchen.
“What kind of stupid question is that?” Neil asked.
“That’s not an answer,” Larry said. “Are you going to save her, or win so you can save the restaurant?”
“I’m going to do both, so it doesn’t matter,” Neil said.
“But what if we don’t find her before the final?”
“Shut up.”
“Also not an answer.” Larry said, popping the tail of Giselle’s abandoned chihuahua into his mouth. “This is pretty good. I’ve never had dog before—that I know of.”
Angel sighed. “Let’s please focus on the note and the hair. Do you notice anything else besides the corn oil?”
Neil had been rubbing the hair gently between his fingers ever since Larry had handed him the envelope, hoping to warm whatever aromatic molecules might be sticking to the delicate curls. “There’s still the lavender of her perfume,” Neil said. He didn’t like to show it, but he was also holding onto the hair as long as he could to stay close to Isabella. He had to admit Larry’s question wasn’t totally stupid. Neil wasn’t completely certain what he would do if Isabella was still missing a week from now.
They’d called Nakamura as soon as Neil had wrapped up his post-match interviews, and he was on his way over now with his portable forensic kit. Soon he’d be exposing the hair to all sorts of chemical analyses and tests, which might yield some new evidence, but would also destroy the unmediated connection of this hair in Neil’s hand to Isabella, wherever she was.
“The corn oil is only on the envelope,” Neil said. “As for the hair, there’s also a faint scent of flowers, lilies for one. Possibly she was being held at the flower collective before they set it on fire.”
“Possibly,” Angel said. “But now it’s a smoldering mess.”
“The hair doesn’t smell like smoke, so if she was there, she was gone before the fire started burning.”
“Or it was sent to you before the fire started.”
“Either way, it doesn’t tell us where she is now. There’s also a faint smell of cocoa, and”—Neil sniffed again—“one other very faint smell. It’s a little like cooked . . . bugs.”
“What? Are you kidding?” Larry said.
Neil took another sniff. “No.”
“Ugh. Please don’t upset my stomach again,” Larry said quietly. “I can barely hold down the last three tamales.”
“I hope that’s not what they’re feeding her,” Neil said.
“Please stop.” Larry suppressed a gag.
“Why not feed her that?” Angel said. “Bugs are used as a great source of food protein all over the world.”
“Remind me never to try your raisin cookies,” Larry said, getting up. “I need to go stand by the bathrooms for a little bit, just in case.” He ran off.
“I’ve smelled cooked bugs,” Neil said, “but this isn’t quite the same. Those are usually fried or baked, but these smell boiled. Not an ordinary way of getting the most flavor from them.”
In the distance Larry slammed the door of a portapotty.
Sean Nakamura walked up to the table.
“Something bugging Larry?” he asked.
Neil groaned. Even when Nakamura made an unintentional joke, he wasn’t funny. “He’ll be fine. What did you find out?”
“I’ve got some good news and some bad news. I’ve been doing some digging since you called. My friend on the force wants to remain anonymous, but Larry’s suspicions about the policía Mexicana aren’t unfounded.” It always hurt Nakamura to admit that there were corrupt cops in the world, but he continued. “I’ve also done some digging into Rodrigo. His Cortez Corn Oil company isn’t just sponsoring this event, it also owns the Pollo Polo poultry farm.”
“Where the container at the dump was from.”
Nakamura nodded. “Cortez just took over Pollo Polo a couple of weeks ago. In fact, Cortez has been buying up all sorts of food distribution companies lately.”
“Interesting,” Angel said.
“Maybe. Maybe not. Cortez is a multinational company. That’s what they do. None of that gives them a reason to kidnap anybody.”
“Anything else, like maybe something useful?” Neil asked.
“Well, once Angel told me he was going to help you cook, I decided to check out that flower collective myself. I found some empty corn oil containers in the bushes.”
“Cortez Corn Oil?”
“It looks that way, though they were pretty mangled and blackened by the explosions.”
“So no prints?”
“No. Now, all of this could be just a coincidence—the company is a huge supplier both here and around the world.”
“Well, why don’t we track down Rodrigo and ask him?” Neil said.
“That’s the bad news. Rodrigo was last seen a half an hour ago.”
“He’s left the country?”
“In a manner of speaking,” Nakamura said. “He was in a big car crash. His suv exploded after colliding with a dump truck. He’s in a coma.”
As soon as news of Rodrigo’s accident became public, the organizers of the Cocina held an emergency meeting at the head offices of the Cortez Corn Oil company. The fate of their host called the continuation of the competition into question. In the end, they decided that Jose Aciete, the vice-president of the company, would take over as both president and emcee. Aciete gave a moving speech about how important the tournament had been to Rodrigo and how much it would mean to him to go on.
Neil, Larry and Nakamura retreated to a restaurant near the hotel to wait for news of the meeting, and to see whom Neil would face in the next fight. Angel had stayed behind at the Plaza to see if he could glean any information from the TV crew about the strange envelopes or Rodrigo’s involvement in any extortion scheme. “I promise to be discreet,” was all he had said.
Neil was worried about asking anyone anything. He was obviously being watched. Someone seemed to even know what bathroom Larry was in at the Plaza. Neil was feeling a little creeped out.
“Why was Rodrigo rushing away from the competition at all?” Neil wondered. “He warns me not to leave early, and then takes off before the judges’ verdict?”
“Maybe he was on his way to another battle,” Larry said. “The traffic in this city is unbelievable. Maybe he wanted to get a head start.”
“Or maybe he was heading back to the office,” Nakamura offered. “Who knows? My friend on the force says the dump-truck driver seemed totally stunned. By all accounts it was an accident, pure and simple.”
“That could make things worse,” Neil said.
“How do you mean?”
“Let’s assume Rodrigo was the mastermind behind the kidnapping. If this was an accident, then it could mean that nobody else knows where he kept Isabella.” Neil felt a chill at the thought of Isabella all alone. “Maybe Rodrigo was on his way to check on her, and now no one will ever find her.” His eyes began to mist and he gave an involuntary sniffle.
“Hold onto your imagination there, Nose,” Nakamura said, placing a hand on Neil’s shoulder. “The notes all say ‘we.’ It could be that Rodrigo’s buddies will release her now that their leader is on life-support.”
“Or Rodrigo could be completely innocent,” Larry said.
“That is certainly possible,” Nakamura had to admit.
“Does anyone know where Giselle has disappeared to?” Neil asked. “She seemed pretty ticked off.”
“I told my contact to keep an eye out for her, but we don’t have any other way of tracking her down, I’m afraid.”
“Maybe she’s behind all this. She sure hates me enough,” Neil said.
“You know, Neil, you should really consider trying to make more friends,” Larry said. “Or maybe start wearing a bulletproof chef jacket.”
“If you don’t feel safe, maybe Angel could fill in for the rest of the competition.”
“Sorry, Neil,” Angel said, walking slowly to the table and sitting down. “I was an emergency replacement. Larry, judging by his appetite, seems ready to return.” Angel nodded at the four empty nacho chip baskets in front of Larry.
“Quick, Larry, have another drink of tap water,” Neil said.
Larry shook his head.
“I’ll be more useful elsewhere,” Angel said, “looking for Isabella while you two try to stay alive in the Cocina.”
“Did you find out anything from the TV crew?” Larry asked.
“Rodrigo was the only one with access to the chests. Delivery people would drop off the food, but he placed the secret ingredients inside. Then he personally locked the chests.”
“So I guess Rodrigo is back as our number-one suspect,” Larry said.
Just then a waiter approached the table. “Is one of you the chef, Neil Flambé?” he asked. Neil raised his hand. “I have a message for you, señor.” He handed Neil a translucent envelope with Neil’s name written in red ink on the outside. Neil opened it immediately. The note said simply: “Two victories. Keep winning. XT.” Neil’s hands began to shake. Inside was one more lock of Isabella’s hair.
“We’d better find her soon or she’s going to go bald,” Larry said.
“Who gave this to you?” Neil demanded, standing up and grabbing the waiter by the lapel.
“It was left at the front desk, señor. We didn’t see anyone drop it off.”
Neil let go of the waiter’s shirt. “Sorry, um, gracias.” He handed the man a 100-peso note. The waiter pocketed the bill and smoothed his shirt before walking away.
Neil sat down and looked at the lock of hair. “Maybe Rodrigo dropped this off before the accident.” But he didn’t believe it.
“Maybe,” Larry said. “But the note says ‘two victories.’ You said you looked for him after the match, but didn’t see him. How did he know you’d beaten Giselle?”
Neil took a big sniff of the curls. His eyes opened wide. “Oh, my goodness.” He took another, deeper sniff to be sure. “Isabella rubbed food in her hair and mushed it in as much as possible.”
“Gross,” Larry said.
“No, brilliant,” Neil said. “This was no accident—there’s too much food.”
“I repeat, gross.”
Neil ignored him and concentrated on the smell. “This food is wonderful—a glorious, gourmet Mexican buffet. And I know exactly where that buffet was cooked.”