Sunday was a light day for most restaurants, but not Chez Flambé. Neil didn’t open for brunch, so the demand for dinner tables was still revved up.
And because dinner service was earlier, Neil was often more frantic than usual about getting prepped early—which usually meant Larry had to work harder than usual. But this Sunday was different.
“I’ll do all the prep work,” Neil told Larry. “You lock yourself in the office and don’t come out until you’re finished translating the notebook.”
“Okay, but why the rush?”
“I’ve got a theory,” Neil said, “but before I call Nakamura again I want to be sure.”
Larry had restarted his translating work around noon, right after they’d returned from the police station. Neil watched the clock nervously as it inched closer and closer to dinner. He’d been too busy to check on Larry’s progress, but he was going to need his assistant back soon.
Finally, right before five, Neil couldn’t wait any longer. He knocked on the office door. Larry didn’t answer. Neil turned the handle. It was locked.
“Larry?” he called. “Larry, are you okay?”
Still no answer. What if he’d been poisoned by the notebook? Neil had seen Larry lick his fingers when he turned the pages—maybe he’d picked up poison from some residue on the sheepskin.
Neil wasn’t sure what to do. His only set of keys for the door was on the inside with Larry. He looked at the lock. He was sure Larry could pick it with a chopstick. In fact, he probably had at some point or another. But Neil was no good at that kind of thing. He ran over to his knife rack and grabbed the thinnest—and cheapest—paring knife he could find.
He rushed back to the door and stabbed at the lock. He shoved the blade in between the door and the frame and lifted the knife hard. There was a click, and miraculously, the door swung open.
Neil rushed inside. He looked under the desk, half expecting to see Larry slumped on the floor, his face turning blue. But Larry wasn’t there. The tiny window beside the cabinet was open and a slight breeze rustled the papers on the desk. Neil looked at the safe. It was closed. Luckily it was also bolted to the wall.
Suddenly, Larry’s face emerged in the window.
“Oh, hey, Neil,” Larry said. He put a hand onto the frame and pulled himself up and through.
“‘Hey, Neil’?” Neil said, incredulous. “What the heck are you doing? Where were you?”
“Well, I got through a bunch of the notebook, and then I just needed some fresh air, so I slipped out the window and went for a walk.”
“Oh, that’s logical,” Neil said, shaking his head. “Why didn’t you come out through the door?”
“Where’s the fun in that?” Larry said, walking over to the desk.
“That’s it? That’s your explanation?” Neil said. “You’re kidding!”
“Nope.” Larry shrugged. “Now let me tell you what I’ve been able to translate so far.” He gathered his notes and some pens. “I also grabbed a map like Nakamura’s while I was out.”
“You went for a heck of a trek.”
“Yeah. It was invigorating.” Larry headed out to the kitchen counter and unfurled the map that he’d tucked under his arm. It already had fresh circle stains from a coffee cup and looked a little crumpled.
“Stopped for a coffee as well?” Neil asked
“Of course.” Larry smiled, pulling a pencil from somewhere in his hair. Then he pointed to the map and drew a circle around Ceylon. “Now, this is as far as I’d translated when Cruyff was killed. The official red line on the map says Polo headed to this spot in southern India.” Larry pointed to the bottom tip of the country and a city named Cail. “But the notebook you got from Angel says he actually headed farther north up the east coast to a place called Kavali.” He circled the city. “Kavali, by the way, has been known for centuries as one of the rice bowls of India.”
Neil didn’t respond. “Rice bowl,” he muttered, chewing meditatively on his lip. “Eastern India!” He quickly walked over to his cell phone and dialed Nakamura.
The inspector answered on the third ring.
“Why are you always laughing when I call you?” Neil asked.
“I was just reading a funny book,” Nakamura lied. The image of Neil as a Muppet was still floating before his eyes. “What can I do for you?”
“I know the killer’s next target,” Neil said confidently. “It’s Vinjay Daloo.”