Forrest rushed to greet me when I pushed through the doors of the Presidio. A mountain of a man, he had played defensive end for some Steel Belt football team, I couldn’t remember which. Now, he defended the residents of the Presidio against the outside world.
He’d gained a bit of weight in the few months since I’d darkened his doorway. Now, his jacket strained at the seams as it fought to cover the layer of softness over what had been a hard, muscular frame. Any vestige of vanity seemed to have fled—he had given up tending the little hair he had left, preferring to trim it to a short fuzz. His smile was still bright, his skin dark, his presence comforting.
Stopping in front of me, he grabbed my hands in his bear paws. My cringe didn’t slow him down. “Miss Lucky, it’s been too long. I was so glad when the movers showed up today with your boxes.” Concern dimmed his smile as he leaned in, lowering his voice. “You do know Mr. Teddie is back.”
“Did you lock up all the sharp knives, just in case?” His eyes widened—I forgot Forrest wasn’t used to my snark. I softened it with a smile.
“Oh, you were teasing.”
I gave him a noncommittal tilt of my head. “Sort of.”
“Broken hearts, they take some time.”
I wished people would stop saying that—of course, it was better than the avoidance people often gave someone newly diagnosed with a terminal illness, so I took that as a good sign.
“I had the cleaning crew in this morning. The movers put everything away.” Forrest chuckled. “The folks with that damn bird just left. He took a chunk out of one guy’s fingers. I think he taught our feathered friend some new words. But everything should be just right for you now.”
Just right. Not everything. But I knew what he meant. If only one could quiet the inner turmoil by setting the outer self straight. “It’s good to be home.” I squeezed his hands, very lightly—mine were still numb, but they’d started to twinge—then let his go as I stepped around him. “Elevators still in the same place?”
“Yes ma’am. If you need anything, I’m here,” he called after me.
I waved my thanks as I stepped into the elevator and hit the button. When the doors closed, I sagged against the back wall, assaulted by memories, suddenly unsure about this whole going home thing. Conflicted once more . . . or still. At least I was consistent.
As I ascended, I remembered the first time Teddie and I had known we would have each other. Driven by the heat of anticipation, we’d practically disrobed each other right here in this elevator. Closing my eyes, I could feel his hands on me, insistent, teasing, his kisses taunting, plundering. Driven by desire, neither of us could catch our breath. For a moment, I’d thought I had everything.
What had I missed?
How could I have been so wrong?
Why hadn’t I hunted him down and shot him? Men!
The elevator slowed, and I opened my eyes, bracing myself—I hadn’t set foot in the place since right after the night Teddie had left. I had no idea how I would feel. Angry? Hurt? Sad?
I needn’t have worried. When the doors opened, and I stepped into my great room with its burnished hardwood floors, stark white walls, bright paintings, and comfortable furniture in a variety of styles, I felt happy. This was home, the place where I belonged . . . my space. Moving farther into the room, I was enveloped in the comforting hug of peace. I almost didn’t recognize the feeling—it had been a while. Yes, my fault, but I always did have to take the long road. For some reason, I just wasn’t a shortcut kind of gal.
Drowning in emotion, I hadn’t immediately noticed the soft music coming from the kitchen. Nor the aroma of marinara sauce, heavy on the oregano and basil. A loud sound startled me—it sounded curiously like the pop of a Champagne cork. Who would be here?
I narrowed my eyes. Teddie wouldn’t dare. . .
Stalking toward the kitchen, by the time I burst through the door I had worked up a pretty good bit of red ass. The sight in front of me stopped me in my tracks and diffused my anger like a swift breeze brightening a stale house.
“Jordan?”
He graced me with one of his best Hollywood-heartthrob grins. In two strides, he was in front of me. Grabbing me, he swept me around, bending me backward in a dip as he kissed me. Our normal greeting, so I was semi-prepared, but he still left me breathless. Putting me back on my now unsteady feet, he grabbed a flute of sparking bubbly off the counter and presented it to me. “Welcome home, sweetie.”
I downed the whole thing in one long swallow.
Jordan raised an eyebrow, but refilled my flute when I thrust it at him. “What did you do to those hands?” He grimaced when his eyes found mine.
With his short-cropped black hair running now to salt and pepper, angular features, strong jaw, bedroom eyes, perpetual tan, and youthful physique, Jordan Marsh was every woman’s dream, except for that minor sexual-orientation issue. Just another cruel injustice heaped on the female gender. The thin white tee shirt and fitted European jeans pressed home that point. Even the frilly pink apron didn’t dim his masculine appeal.
After I’d consumed half of my second flute, my progress slowed. “It’s a long story, and I’ll need more to drink to repeat it. What are you doing here? You were on my list of things to do tomorrow.”
“Honey, you can do me anytime, but don’t put me on a list—my inflated Hollywood ego would be dashed.” He turned back to stir a pot simmering on the stove. “I’m underwhelmed by your delight in seeing me.”
“Sorry, just momentarily side-tracked by the visual of doing Jordan Marsh.”
“You can look, but you can’t touch.” Rudy Gillespie, Jordan’s partner, sailed into the kitchen. Tall, thin, with curly, dark hair and a wicked smile, he grabbed my shoulders from behind and leaned around, planting a kiss on my cheek. Then he joined Jordan at the stove. Individually, they turned every head when they walked into a room, but together, they could stop traffic. “Smells divine. There is just something really sexy about a man who knows his way around a kitchen.”
“Tell me about it.” I joined them at the stove and peered into the pot. “Is that your famous marinara sauce?”
Jordan dipped a wooden spoon into the thick red slurry, blew on it for a minute, then held it out for me to taste. “Careful, it’s hot.”
One tiny taste and flavor exploded on my tongue. I groaned in delight. “When’s dinner?”
“Soon.” He handed me the spoon. “Here, keep stirring for a minute.” Thankful that, for once, someone else was making the decisions, I did as asked. “Where’s the bird?” I directed the question at Jordan’s ass, which was poking out of the open fridge as he gathered ingredients.
“In the pantry.”
“You put the bird in the pantry?”
“He’s in time-out.” Jordan stood, his arms laden with deliciousness, and gave me an accusatory look. He tried to hide his smile, but with little success. “For the record, I am not amused by the recent additions to his vocabulary.”
Jordan turned his back and carefully offloaded his armful onto the counter, sorting the items by dish. “A good salad caprese—fresh basil. And the tomatoes!” He bunched his fingers, then put them to his lips and made that exaggerated Italian gesture of fabulousness. “Fresh mozzarella to die for.” He held up an elongated bottle. “Twenty-five-year-old balsamic, so thick it pours like molasses. And”—he held up a finger, pausing dramatically—“the pièce de résistance.” He reached for plate on the other side of the stove. With a flourish, he removed the light towel covering the contents, then waved the plate first under Rudy’s nose, then mine.
My stomach growled. “Yum, prosciutto and figs.”
“Not prosciutto, Culatello de Zibello, and not just any fig, fresh Southern Blacks from South Africa.”
Rudy snagged a half a fig and its coat of thinly sliced, meticulously cured exotic ham. If I’d tried that, I would’ve lost a hand. Then he topped Jordan’s flute of Champagne. Proffering the bottle in my direction, he raised his eyebrows in a silent question. When I shook my head, he drained the last of it into a flute for himself.
“Keep stirring,” Jordan admonished me. “If you let that burn, I will carve out your soul and roast it on a spit.”
“I have no soul, haven’t you heard?” I risked another taste of the sauce. “Did you bring all this from L.A.?”
“No. Amazingly, I found it here in this horticulturally challenged wasteland.”
“Who’d you have to kill?” I cringed at my word choice—somehow, it didn’t seem funny anymore.
“Nobody.” Jordan took the spoon from me. “You are the worst stirrer.”
With Jordan’s attention diverted by my woeful lack of kitchen skills, Rudy snagged another fig, making me laugh. Jordan narrowed his eyes at me. “What’s so funny?”
I gave him a straight-faced, wide-eyed look of innocence.
He whirled to face Rudy, who managed a similar look, even with his mouth full. Jordan tried to look angry, but he didn’t pull it off—so much for his acting skills. “As I was saying.” He stopped stirring and focused on another larger pot that was beginning to put off some steam. “I found this little specialty food stall.” Measuring out fresh-made whole-wheat tagliatelle, he salted the boiling water and carefully immersed the pasta, checking his watch.
“Food stall?” Since I’d been demoted from head stirrer, I needed something to do, so I went in search of the proper beverage for such a feast. If I recalled correctly, I’d left two bottles of Ribolla Gialla in the wine refrigerator under the bar. The bar was in the great room, so I raised my voice to stay in the conversation. “Where is this purveyor of exotic treats?”
Jordan’s voice followed me out of the kitchen. “In the garage.”
The wine was where I’d left it.
Returning to the kitchen, a bottle in each hand, I proffered them for Jordan’s approval. “Will this do?”
“Impressive.”
“I bought it from a lady in Sonoma—a small vineyard. She’s cultivating some varietals from her grandfather’s hillside in Friuli. A great story.” I set about grabbing the right stemware and pouring us each a dose. “This food stall was in a garage?”
Jordan swirled the wine in his glass, then eyed it as he held it to the light. Sniffing deeply, he then took a sip, swishing the liquid around his mouth before swallowing. “Sublime. It should go nicely with the sauce and the subtleties of the appetizer and salad.” He lowered the glass and gave me a quizzical look. “Not a garage. The garage.”
“The garage? You mean at the Babylon?”
Jordan turned off the heat under the pots, then lifted the pasta pot and poured the contents through a strainer in the sink. “I’m surprised you didn’t know about it.”
“News to me. Who put you on to it?”
Rudy had set the kitchen table—there were four settings.
I eyed the two men. “Anybody else joining us?”
Rudy wouldn’t meet my eyes as he filled an ice bucket and nestled the bottles inside.
Jordan waved airily. “No. Just us three.”
Personally, I thought the wine was cool enough, but I didn’t feel like trotting out my burgeoning wine snobbishness—a result of spending too much time in the company of a certain French chef who had gone missing. The comfort of good friends dimmed my worry for a moment, but like a bug bite in a place I couldn’t scratch, it still tormented me.
Jordan ladled the pasta into a bowl, then topped it with the entire contents of the saucepan. The men brought the food to the table, then Jordan helped me with my chair.
I settled the napkin across my lap. “Why did you set four places if no one else is coming?”
Rudy shot Jordan a glare. “Your friend there thought it would be a good idea to invite Theodore.”
I took a deep breath and let it out slowly as I counted to ten . . . then twenty, fingering the knife as I silently tried not to fume.
“Not to worry. He’s not coming,” Jordan harrumphed as he focused on piling pasta on each plate, reaching for mine, then Rudy’s, saving his own for last. “I went up the back stairs, looking for him, but he wasn’t home.”
“Saving you from a slow and painful death.” In my half-starved state, I couldn’t resist any longer. The aroma from my plate inciting an irresistible need to feed, I attacked my pasta. “My God, if you ever want to open a restaurant, I’ll back you.”
“Food is about love. I only cook for people I keep in my heart.”
I reached over to squeeze his hand. Remembering the state of my own, I gave his a pat. “I really am glad you’re here.” I included Rudy with a look. “Jordan, seriously, I thought you were arriving tomorrow—did I screw up?”
Jordan finished his bite and wiped a bit of sauce off the corner of his mouth. “Miss P. called me. Neither one of us thought you should have to come home to an empty house.”
Unbelievably touched, I fought down my emotions for a moment—like a cat left out in the rain, Jordan got twitchy when I cried. Clearing my throat, I changed the subject, returning to an unanswered question. “So, tell me about this food stall in the garage.”
“It really wasn’t a stall per se, more like the back of a panel truck.” Jordan sampled a fig. “This really is manna from heaven . . . an amazing find.”
“Let me get this straight, some guy is selling foodstuffs in our garage from the back of his truck?”
“They do it all the time in L.A.”
I had no idea. “Who put you on to this guy?”
“Brett Baker. I knew him in L.A.—his sushi is positively orgasmic. And he specialized in some of the more exotic stuff—the things that make your lips go numb and can stop your heart. Truly, I remain in awe of what that man can do with eel and urchin.”
I knew there was a scathing reply laden with innuendo somewhere in there, but I just wasn’t up to the task. “Why would he share that kind of information?”
Jordan gave me his best Hollywood A-Lister smile. “The stuff that people tell me would make you blush.”
* * *
I had a rule in my home that whoever did the cooking was exempt from cleaning up. Needing time to think, I’d shooed Rudy out of the kitchen as well. Dinner in the company of good friends was just what the doctor had ordered, and I was feeling a bit more settled, comfortable in my skin and in my space . . . despite Jean-Charles and Teddie and everyone’s meddling.
As if on cue, Teddie’s voice interrupted my peace and quiet. “Hey, anybody home?”
I didn’t need to look to know he stood in the opening to the back stairway we had installed between our apartments—before I minded him popping in unannounced.
With dish towel in hand, drying the last pot, I turned.
When he caught sight of me, his smile fled. “Oh, sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt. Jordan didn’t tell me you were back.”
“I live here.” Of course, that was a recent occurrence.
Teddie was smart enough not to point that out. “I had a note from Jordan inviting me down—his marinara is hard to resist.”
“The stuff of legend.” Finished, I pulled out the drawer under the counter and put the pot away. “There’s leftovers.”
“Seriously?”
“Why not?”
Teddie looked at me as if weighing the odds his meal might come laced with poison. “As invitations go, that was one of the least encouraging.”
I didn’t feel the need to excuse or explain as Teddie took his usual place at the counter while I pulled out the food I’d just put away.
“I wouldn’t have come down the stairs unannounced had I known you’d be here. Back at the hotel, I got your message. You need time and space, I get that.” He tried to sound sincere, I could see it in his face, but he didn’t pull it off.
“The guys killed the wine. How about some Prosecco?”
“I’ll get it.” Teddie backed off the stool and headed toward the bar with a galling air of familiarity.
Still warm, the pasta only needed a slight bit of reheating. I chose the stove rather than the microwave in deference to Jordan’s culinary sensibilities—he’d often complained the microwave toughened pasta. As it warmed, I assembled a small salad—we’d consumed all the figs and culatello—and Teddie popped the cork and poured us each a flute of Italian sparkling wine.
He raised his glass in a toast. “To friends.”
Reluctantly, I clinked my glass with his. “In the span of less than twelve hours, I’ve gone from wanting to shoot you on sight to being able to tolerate your presence without going postal.”
With a little less “jaunty” in his stride, Teddie carried his plates to the table. “Not exactly the progress I was hoping for, but I’ll take what I can get.”
I followed with the bubbly. Awkward would be the word I would’ve chosen had anyone asked how all this felt.
Teddie attacked the pasta, forking it in without reverence—I was glad Jordan wasn’t witnessing. “Amazing stuff. Do you know his secret?”
“Many, but not the one you’re looking for. He said it had to do with love.”
“Doesn’t everything.” Pausing with his fork, dripping with pasta, halfway to his mouth, Teddie held my gaze for a moment longer than necessary.
Immune to the BS Teddie ladled with ease, I looked past him through the kitchen window—a different angle of the Vegas Strip, but equally as spectacular as the view from the great room. I fought the pull of the warm familiarity of having Teddie in my kitchen, of sharing my home and my life with the man who had been my very best friend. That’s the part I wanted back.
Teddie ate in silence. Consumed by his food, he seemed unaware as I surreptitiously took stock. The few months since I’d last seen him had deepened the worry lines bracketing his mouth and perhaps added a few wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, but overall he looked as delicious as ever.
The movement of his hands drew my attention. Artist’s hands, graceful and beautiful, with long fingers to stretch across the keys. I’d loved to sit next to him at the piano while he played. But today, his hands didn’t have the beauty they had once held. Red scrapes marred his knuckles, scratches sliced his fingers, a fingernail . . . no, two fingernails were torn, one badly enough to sport a Band-Aid.
When my eyes lifted to his, I caught him staring at me, his fork lifted halfway.
“You were there,” I whispered, I don’t know why. “Were you following me?”
“I told you I wanted to help. You wouldn’t let me go with you.” He set his fork down, deliberately placing it just so before he answered. “Two people have died already, Lucky.” His eyes had turned a deep, serious blue.
I knew that look. “Learn anything interesting?”
He didn’t answer me immediately. And inner battle raged—I could see it in his eyes, in the tautness of his expression.
“Tell me.” Propelled by a need to know, I leaned forward. “You have to tell me. As you said, two people have died already—and one almost.”
Teddie swallowed hard, a pained look contorted his features. “Your French chef was there.”
“Jean-Charles?” Suddenly feeling light-headed, I reached for my flute. As if that was going to help. Without taking a sip, I replaced the glass, forcing a calm tone. “What was he doing?”
“I saw him talking with the scientist who . . . got hurt, then I lost him in the crowd.” With his finger, Teddie pushed at a slice of mozzarella. The cheese had a dark slash across it, an angry balsamic stain that looked like dried blood outlining a wound. “I worked my way through the crowdk trying to catch sight of him again.”
“And did you?” My hand shook, so I placed it palm-down on the table. The other one, I kept in my lap.
Teddie glanced down at my hand. Pain pinched the skin between his eyebrows. His voice faltered.
“Tell me.” My voice had gone hard as I braced myself.
His eyes met mine. His face cleared. “I was far away—on the other side of the pit. And the crowd was pressing in, so I could hardly move. But I saw Jean-Charles. Just before the show started, he jumped on the crane and started climbing to the cockpit.”
“Did you see him get inside?”
Teddie drew his lips into a thin line and shook his head.
Thinking back, I tried to remember the timing. “The crane’s engine, had someone already cranked it over?” Adrenaline blew through my brain, clearing some of the alcohol fuzz.
Teddie furrowed his brows and glanced away. When his eyes returned to mine, they were untroubled. He nodded, slowly at first, then more vigorously, as his lips curled slightly upward. “Yes. Yes, the engine was already running.”
“Are you sure?”
This time, his smile broke through. “Absolutely.”
“So someone else was in that cab.” My heart beat faster with renewed hope. “What did you do then?”
“I fought through the crowd, trying to get to him. I’d almost made it . . .” He stopped.
“What happened?”
He looked at me just like he used to. “I saw you dive into that rock pile.”
* * *
Teddie had hugged me long and hard before he’d climbed the stairs back to his place. Several hours later, as I curled under a cashmere throw in the comfort of my winged-back chair in front of the window, I still felt the press of his body against mine. A fire flickered in the fireplace—gas logs, but they provided some heat and a comforting ambience I was grateful for.
Sleep refused to come.
Jordan and Rudy had tiptoed off to their quarters when Teddie had shown up. At first, I’d been peeved, as if the whole thing was a setup. Now, I didn’t care. Everyone had been right: dealing with Teddie was something I had to do.
By carrying around the hurt and the anger, I hurt only myself.
My phone, a new one Miss P. had handed me as Mona led me away, sounded at my hip. I had yet to personalize anything, much less the ringtone. So, no more “Lucky for Me.” I didn’t miss it.
Two a.m. Who could it be?
My heart rate accelerated as I thought of Mona—even though her due date was still weeks away, anything could happen. I pulled the phone from its holster and squinted at the number. No name—I had no idea how to synch my contacts through the cloud, as Brandy had told me to do. I thought the number looked like Romeo’s.
I hit the green spot, then pressed the phone to my ear and took a flier that I might just be right. “Hey. You okay?” I whispered, not wanting to awaken my houseguests.
“Sorta.” Romeo sounded dog-tired. “Are you still awake?”
For some reason, recognizing his number felt like a small victory. I thought of my normal flip response, but decided this wasn’t the time. “Yeah.”
“I know this is weird, but can I come up?”
“You know I’ve moved back to my apartment, right?”
“I’m downstairs.”
“I’ll send the elevator.”
* * *
When the elevator doors opened, disgorging the crumpled detective, I thrust a beverage in his hand—three fingers of single malt in a cut-crystal Steuben tumbler.
“Nice digs.” Romeo took a long pull on the scotch as he glanced around the apartment. I’d left the lights dimmed, so the Technicolor reflection of the Strip lights painted the walls in a rainbow of soft colors.
The view beckoning, Romeo walked to the window. Silently, I stepped in beside him. “You’d never been here?” Considering the lifetime of disasters we’d shared over the past year, that seemed impossible.
“Maybe once. I don’t remember.” He sipped as he drank in the view. “This town . . . ,” he started, then quit, shaking his head.
“Is like a good woman—tough on the outside, tender in spots.” I crossed my arms to keep myself from hugging him. For some reason, I sensed he needed to stand apart, to find his own strength, to work through whatever had brought him here.
“But all I see is the bad side of human nature, all day, every day.”
“That’s all you allow yourself to see. Look harder.” I risked putting a hand on his arm and giving it a squeeze. “And if that fails, remember you always have me. I mean, how bad can life be with me in your corner? Life has graced you immeasurably, Detective.”
He snorted twenty-five-year-old scotch through his nose as he doubled over. Personally, I didn’t think my comment was all that funny. When he’d dried his eyes and wiped his face with the napkin I’d handed him, he finally got down to business. “Your hunch about Barrymore was right. The chef had two more RFID chips, and a story about how Jean-Charles had asked him to order some high-end stuff and chip it.”
“What kind of stuff?”
“Foie gras, mainly. And some Kobe beef for the hidden menu burger.”
I stepped over to the couch and relaxed into its welcoming embrace. “Tell me about The Barrymore.” I pulled the pillows closer, packing them around me—my normal defensive position.
“Not much to tell. Chef fed us, which was . . . amazing. What a romantic place. And the food! An undiscovered gem, if you ask me.”
“Yes, it won’t be undiscovered for long.” I let him enjoy his memory for a moment, then I brought him crashing to earth. “And the murders? Did you find anything new?”
“Just the chips.”
“What did you do with them?”
“None of them can be read by a normal RFID reader. Apparently, Mr. Peccorino added some sort of extra hoop to jump through. Curiously, none of the other Berkeley guys knew a work-around, so I handed all the chips to Homeland Security.” At my sharp intake of breath, he held up a hand. “Don’t worry, I didn’t use you to chum the waters. They’ve got a bunch of scientists working on tracking our food supply—all in the name of national security, or so they say. They’re reverse-engineering the thing, but it’ll take time.”
“And they probably won’t share.” I thought about Special Agent Stokes . . . Joe. Maybe I had a work-around of my own. “Do you have any new info on Dr. Phelps?”
“Not out of the woods yet, but they’re pretty sure he’ll make a full recovery.” Romeo plopped down next to me. Stretching his legs out, he leaned back and closed his eyes. His hands cradled his glass on his belly.
“Anything interesting on the alibi front?” I asked.
“Looking for easy answers?” The young detective shot me a smirk.
“Any answers.” I curled farther into the corner of the couch, tucking my feet underneath me, and pulled even more pillows around me—if we were going to talk murder, I needed my defenses.
Romeo stared at the ceiling. “Alibis. When Fiona was killed, the workday had pretty much started. Practically everyone was wandering around on property at the Babylon. Everyone except Chef Wexler, who said he was off trying to find some interesting things at the Asian market in Korea Town.”
“Was Jerry any help?”
Romeo shook his head. “No cameras on the back lot, or in the kitchens at Burger Palais. Everybody still is a suspect.”
“And for the time Mr. Peccorino died?”
“Jean-Charles and Teddie were on the Cielo property. As you know, your security system isn’t up and running yet. So no video feeds.” He raised his head and took a long draw from his glass. “Everybody else was roaming around town, by themselves. Wexler was once again doing his shopping—some of the food vendors remember seeing him, just not exactly when. Gregor was in the hotel, or so he said, checking on the cooking completion setup.”
“The doors should have been locked.”
Romeo nodded, but didn’t look at me. “They were. He had some other song-and-dance. We’re checking it out. Chitza said she was with Dr. Phelps, but he’s in no condition to say yea or nay.”
“No corroboration, then?” I said, thinking out loud.
“Only you.” Romeo smiled as he turned his head in my direction. “You were with me.”
“Desiree?” I picked at some stuffing poking through a hole in one of the pillows.
“She said she was with her daughter.” I started to say something, but Romeo stopped me with a slight gesture with one hand. “I didn’t even ask—of course, the girl would support her mother.”
I tried to push the stuffing back in the little hole, then decided I was making it worse, so I tossed the offending pillow onto the chair out of reach. “What about Brett Baker?”
Romeo’s mouth turned down at the corners. “He drives around in that dang food truck all day. But some of the workers at Cielo told me he swings by there every day.”
“Really?”
“But again, no one remembers exactly the time or date.” Romeo undid the top button of his shirt and loosened his tie. “Like Adone as well. No alibi, but no one to place him at the scene, either.”
My fingers and hands ached, but I worked the joints slightly, trying to increase range of motion. “I think the whole thing started innocently, whether it was Homeland Security being overzealous, or Jean-Charles being anal about quality, it doesn’t matter. What does matter is that somehow, he stumbled onto a scheme involving high-end specialty items.”
“Okay.” Romeo picked up the thread. “Let’s assume you’re right. So, your chef steps into a nest of vipers. Now, somebody wants to clean up the mess.”
“Exactly.” Still flexing my fingers, I uncurled my legs and rose—I did my best thinking when in motion. “So, someone is eliminating loose ends and framing Jean-Charles, or at least putting him in a very bad PR position. And we know, once the public finds a chink in the armor of someone’s reputation, they go after it, ripping it to shreds like a pit bull with a play toy.”
Romeo’s eyes followed me as I paced in front of him. “The person we’re looking for has tracks to cover and a bone to pick with Chef Bouclet.”
I stopped in front of the detective, my hands on my hips. “That really doesn’t help. Just about everyone in this ugly mess holds Jean-Charles accountable for some transgression.”
Romeo pursed his lips and gave me a little shrug, then he grabbed the baton. “And the UC-Berkeley guys just got into the mix by sheer dumb luck.”
I turned to my view, my hands clasped behind me as I drank in Vegas. “Everyone except Mr. Peccorino, I think. He added a layer of unreadability to the chips. I wonder why?”
“His colleagues are in the dark.” Romeo sounded fatalistic. “Here.” He rattled the ice in his glass. “Please.”
Thankful for a mission, I grabbed the glass and headed to the bar.
He talked as I poured. “I think we’re looking for a guy.”
“A guy?” I measured two fingers, paused, then added another. “Why?”
Romeo rolled his head back and looked at me over the back of the couch. “It would take a ton of strength to stuff a man, deadweight, into that oven.”
“I’ve been thinking about that. Initially, I came to the same conclusion.”
“But now?”
“The oven wasn’t all that high.” I returned to stand in front of him and handed him his fresh drink. “Amped on enough adrenaline, and with a bit of leverage, I could probably do it.”
“Yeah, but you’re not . . .” He eyed me over the rim as he took a sip.
“Careful.” I eviscerated the warning with a grin.
Romeo recovered. “You’re not average.” He seemed pleased with himself, then he shifted gears, almost leaving me flat-footed. “So, I’m siding with you on the theory that Jean-Charles is sending you the pictures, leading you to the RFID chips. It doesn’t make sense it would be anyone else. But why? We can’t read them, surely he would’ve known that.”
“Unless Peccorino added that little twist all on his own.”
Romeo shot me a look as if he hadn’t thought of that possibility. “Interesting. But again, why?”
“Hell, I’m making this up as I go, how would I know?” Now, it was my turn to sound frustrated. “But I have a feeling the chips will lead us to a location—the one where shipments are getting tampered with. Somehow, that seems to be the key. And it seems to me that Peccorino must’ve coded those chips to route all the shipments through one location. That just makes sense—how else would all of them end up flowing through the hands of the person who tampered with them?”
“Good point. But hiding that little scam seems a pretty weak motive for murder.”
I gave him a little grin. “I’ve contemplated it for less.”
He conceded the point with a chuckle. “So, if your chef doesn’t have all the chips, and he doesn’t have the reader, and his science guy is dead . . .” Romeo let the thought hang.
I felt hope and fear at the same time. “Then Jean-Charles doesn’t know who the killer is, either. He’s running, but he doesn’t know from whom.”
“Then time is short.”
I blew out in exasperation. “Of course, it’s short. The killer has practically told us he’s going to kill again. And if we don’t move, then the whole operation that set this killing spree off will move.”
“And we’ll be back to square one.”
“With several dead bodies.”
“Okay.” Romeo set his glass down on the side table and pushed himself to a more upright position. “So, why do you think Jean-Charles thinks someone is listening in on him?”
I eyed Romeo’s drink, suddenly craving one of my own, but I’d already far exceeded my daily allotment. “I know he said that, but I passed it off as overly dramatic. I mean, I know someone could follow him, but listen in on his conversations? Only the government would be able to do that, right?”
“You did say Homeland Security showed up on your doorstep.” Romeo ran a hand through his hair. I was going to have to tell him to stop doing that—his cowlick would never remain tamed. “But there’s also another way.”
“Really? How?”
“Spyware. You can download it. Technically, it’s a huge crime to use it against others, but the government hasn’t blocked the sale of it because personal use is cool.”
“The sanctity of personal privacy resting solely on the exalted character of humankind.”
“Look on the positive side.” Romeo teased. “But point taken. One would assume that a person who had already shown flagrant disregard for the law, like a killer, would not be put off by a pesky little federal statute, no matter the severity of the penalties for violation.”
I mulled over Romeo’s theory, trying to shoot holes in it, but I couldn’t . . . or didn’t want to. “What about the note?”
Romeo mumbled, “Pigs to find a feast so rare. But eat a morsel taking care. A bit is fine but take heed. Death will come to those with greed.”
“Pigs to find a feast so rare. Sounds like the truffle to me.”
Romeo nodded. “The middle part seems straightforward. But that last part about greed—hell, it could be any one of the current cast of players.”
I had to agree—they all seemed to be playing their own angles for personal gain. But really, who in life wasn’t? “If you have any theories as to a lead suspect, I’d like to hear them.”
“If I was a betting man, I’d say Gregor.” Romeo reached to the side and grabbed his glass with his fingers, then wiggled his hand, tinkling the ice in his glass.
Even in my diminished state, I got the hint. “Another dose?”
“Make it a double.”
“Grasshopper, do as I say, not as I do.”
“Not tonight.” Romeo’s voice actually had a hard edge that I’d never heard before.
“Okay.” I held out my hand. “Give me your car keys.”
He hesitated.
“I know your limits.”
He opened one eye, then rooted in his pocket. The ring caught on the lining of his pocket, but he yanked the keys loose, ripping a hole, then dropped them into my open palm.
“I’ll put these on the hook by the elevator.”
When I returned with not only his knockout drink, but also a pillow and blanket, I thought he was already asleep. As I leaned across him to set the glass on the side table, he reached for it. After a sip, he cupped both hands around the glass, holding it in his lap, his eyes still closed, his head back.
I thought he might be drifting off, but I kept talking, it helped to think out loud. “This is like one of those group cluster fucks at that swinger place—everybody here is doing everybody else. We have Chef Wexler, who got his head handed to him by someone who calls himself The Phantom Phoodie. And Gregor beat him out of the restaurant space in the Bazaar . . . the one that is now occupied by Jean-Charles. Chitza DeStefano, Jean-Charles’s former lover, is shacking up with the injured Dr. Phelps. Fiona Richards was shacking up with Desiree Bouclet’s husband—who has a huge bone to pick with his brother-in-law. And Fiona goes to Gregor with news of the missing truffle, pushing the stone off the cliff, and I’m running all over town collecting RFID chips. Homeland Security is breathing down my neck. Jean-Charles is on the lam.” I rubbed my eyes. “My head hurts.”
“Don’t forget Teddie,” Romeo added, surprising me. “He’s sure turned up at some interesting places. And him taking the note from the scene of the second murder—that sorta piqued my interest.”
Piqued mine, too, but I wasn’t going to add fuel to that fire. The thought that practically everyone close to me was working individual angles, that they were being less than forthcoming, shall we say, just hurt my heart too much. “Christ.” I glanced at Romeo, who had rotated his head and was watching me. “Jean-Charles is at the center of this whole thing.”
“And he’s nowhere to be found.” Romeo once again closed his eyes. “Even with all that in the hopper, I still think Gregor is the likeliest candidate. He’s got a missing truffle, Fiona was right in the middle of that.”
“What about the Berkeley guy?”
“If the truffle was chipped, he knew where it went. Maybe he wasn’t telling.”
“Doesn’t really make sense, then, for Gregor to kill him.” I tired to figure out where Romeo was going with all of this.
“Maybe he didn’t care about finding the truffle.” Romeo raised his eyebrows as he raised that question.
“And why wouldn’t he want to find it?”
“He had it insured for a huge sum. Without the truffle, he’d get cash, and all of it, as the value of the truffle would be impossible to dicker over.”
“So this was just about money?”
“Well, more like life or death, for Gregor.” Romeo tried to push himself higher in the chair, then gave up. “I can’t prove it…yet…but rumor has it Gregor was in deep to some bad dudes.”
“In deep?” That little confusion bomb exploded in my head. Then a thought hit me. “You know, back when he was running the Italian place, a rumor that he had some important friends was making the rounds.”
“If he’s taking money from those guys, he better be careful,” Romeo said needlessly.
“What if he borrowed the money to buy the truffle?” I was plucking at straws, but I’d always been told to follow the money when a crime had been committed. It had worked before.
“I’ll check it out, but you’d be better at chasing that lead. You have sketchier friends.”
I didn’t argue. “I’m sure Gregor could shed some light.”
Romeo’s eyes shut and remained that way. “We’ve been looking for him, but can’t find him.”
I reached over and extricated the young detective’s almost empty glass from his loosening grasp. “We both saw him at Dr. Phelps’ show.”
“Well, he’s dropped off the grid since then.” There was a hint of fatality in Romeo’s voice. “Just once, wouldn’t it be fun to have an investigation just sort of come together seamlessly?”
“You have the proverbial smoking gun. What more do you want?” I deadpanned, rather proud of my delivery.
“You’re a pain in the ass, you know that?” Romeo said without even a hint of tease.
“You’re just figuring that out? We should send you back to detective school.”
“Nope.” Romeo still stared at the insides of his eyelids—sleep fuzzied his voice. “If I had a do-over, it’d be truck driving school. Then I could get the hell out of here.”
This time, when the urge to give him a hug struck me, I didn’t stifle it. Amazingly, he gave me an appreciative smile.
Pausing, I touched his face. His skin was hot. Running this long at full throttle on high-octane fuel, he was heading straight for a flameout.
Settling back, I patted my pillows back into place. “When I saw Gregor yesterday, he was all over me about that damned truffle. Got in my face pretty good.” I leaned my head to the side, resting it on the back of the couch. Well past tired, I’d been fighting a losing battle with sleep for most of the evening. “It’s funny, but at the time, even though he was at full voice, I got the impression he was more scared than angry.”
“Fiona was dead. I don’t know what he has to be scared of.”
“A life sentence?”
“Or his own funeral.”