With the swipe of a hand, I brushed an arc through the dust on my desk—nothing like living in a construction zone. In the clean space, Romeo smoothed the note lightly until the message was legible. “We’ve already processed it for prints and whatnot.”
I moved, taking my shadow with me, so the light from the exposed bulb on a wire above me illuminated the single sheet of paper, protected in plastic. Five lines long, the message had been scrawled in a generic blocked print using what looked to be a black Sharpie, medium tip. It read
Two chef, one chef,
Sous chef, done chef,
Smoke and air,
Cook with care,
Broil and baste, in your haste Lucky no more.
I read it three times. “Great, a psycho with a Theodor Geisel complex.” Seated in my chair, with Romeo parked on the corner of my desk, I poked at the edges of the plastic, pushing the note away. I glanced up, catching Romeo looking at me.
He quickly looked away, hiding his worry, which didn’t give me any warm fuzzies. “Theodor who?”
His question made me feel old, though I didn’t know why. “Dr. Seuss.”
Romeo’s eyes widened. “No shit? That’s his name?”
I shrugged him off. “Please, you know I only lie about serious things.” I eyeballed the note like it was a rattler, coiled to strike. “Is this a threat, or am I being paranoid?”
“Seems like.”
“Like what?”
He rolled his head side to side, waffling. “A threat.”
“But why?”
“Why would be nice, but who would be a better place to start.” Romeo dropped into one of the client chairs across from me. Glancing around, he let out his breath in a long sigh. “Are they working on this office at all?”
“Not that I can tell.” As I leaned back, my desk chair groaned under the strain. With the toe of my left foot, I pulled out the lower drawer, then propped my feet on it. Steepling my fingers, I tried to remain calm. “The reference to smoke and air seems obvious.”
“Fiona Richards.” Romeo nodded as his gaze drifted from mine. He stared over my shoulder, but his eyes had the unfocused glaze of a man lost in his thoughts. “Somebody trussed her up like a turkey at Thanksgiving, then wrapped her head in plastic wrap, cut a slit for her mouth, then lit the reservoir on the smoking thing and stuck the nozzle through the slit.” His focus returned, and his eyes caught mine.
“Sick son-of-a-bitch.” Closing my eyes, I let my thoughts wander. My corner of Vegas was a magical place, most of the time. I hated it when someone felt the need to burst my little bubble of delusion and happiness. No matter Fiona Richards’s sins, I felt sure she didn’t deserve to be tortured and slowly suffocated. “But she wasn’t a chef.”
“I’m working on that. She was in the food service business—it is possible she started out in a kitchen somewhere and then made her move.” Romeo jotted a note on a sticky pad on my desk, then peeled off the page, folded it, and stuck it in his pocket. “The coroner said Fiona didn’t die easily.”
“That much is evident.”
“You should take this threat seriously.”
“You know me better than that. Pinheads with Post-it notes don’t slow me down. I can’t let them—if they do, they win.”
“You logic is as solid as Swiss cheese.”
“I’m trying to think, and you’re not helping.” I opened one eye and shot Romeo a frown. When he didn’t seem fazed, I leaned my head back and turned my thoughts loose, letting them freewheel—the strategy had worked before. Cook with care? Baste and broil? Something niggled at the edges of my consciousness, like a balloon lifted on the breeze floating just out of reach.
As I drifted, I was vaguely aware of the noises in the outer office: the door opening then closing softly, the rustling of papers, a drawer sliding open.
Newton, our adopted macaw, shouted, “Bitch, bitch. Filthy whore. Food now.” A filthy bird with a filthy mouth—when he had landed on my balcony at the Presidio, I had been powerless to resist. Every day since, I’d rued that moment of weakness.
“Filthy whore” was Miss P.’s special term of endearment. She poked her head through the doorway, confirming my suspicion. “You guys want anything?”
“A new identity and a life somewhere far away.” I assumed my former position and hoped that the next time I opened my eyes, all around me would be just a figment of my imagination.
“What? And give up all of this?”
Romeo slapped his thighs—at least that’s what it sounded like. I didn’t bother looking to see. “You got some 101 on the top shelf in the kitchen, right?” he asked. “I’m feeling the need.”
“I’ll get it for you.” Miss P. sounded like she meant it.
“No.” Romeo stopped her. “Not your job. Thanks, though.”
I sneaked one eye open. Miss P. caught me and shot me a grin, then hooked her arm through Romeo’s, and the two of them disappeared through the doorway, chattering as they moved out of earshot. Once again, my thoughts turned inward. Broil. Baste. Cook with care.
Suddenly, like leaves caught in an eddy, my thoughts coalesced.
Oh, my God! I bolted upright, my feet slamming to the floor. I tried his cell phone—hitting redial several times. He didn’t answer. In a fluid motion, I pushed myself out of the chair and launched myself through the makeshift doorway into the hallway, and ran.
Jean-Charles had said he was having trouble with the oven.
* * *
What if Jean-Charles was the next course on the murderer’s menu?
The wind buffeted me through the open top of the Ferrari. My hair whipped, stinging my face. Ignoring it all, I stomped on the accelerator and cranked the wheel over, just missing one of the gate supports as I raced onto the construction site at Cielo. The trip here had been a blur—I hoped I hadn’t killed anyone. With two feet on the brake pedal and one hand fisted around the handbrake, I locked the wheels and slid to a stop, spewing a cloud of sand.
Jean-Charles, the next victim—the thought weakened my knees and made the bile rise in my stomach.
Oh, God, let him be all right. I threw open the car door, levered myself out, and ran.
Cielo, our new property, was a hard-hat area. A few men moved to greet me as I raced through the gate in the chain-link fence, grabbed a hard hat, and bolted into the building. I shouted at them. “Jean-Charles? Have you seen Chef Bouclet?”
Blank stares answered me.
Slapping the hard hat on my head, I ran for the stairs. Time waiting for the construction elevator would be wasted. The stairs would be much faster. Of course, Jean-Charles’s restaurant was on the top floor.
* * *
Thirty floors, two stairs at a time, had me on the verge of apoplexy as I burst through the fire door at the top. Breathing hard, with sweat trickling down my sides wilting my shirt, I was cold, despite the exertion. Propelled by fear and running on pure adrenaline, I slammed through the entrance to Jean-Charles’s restaurant—we still hadn’t agreed on a name. He wanted J. C. Prime. I told him that sounded a bit like Jesus Christ had opened a bistro—Jean-Charles didn’t understand why that would be a problem.
As I ran, the smell registered first. Roasting meat. Pork? It smelled good enough to eat. Maybe he was working. Oh, please let him be preparing some incredible feast. I could picture him in his chef whites, his brows creased in concentration, whistling “La Vie En Rose.”
Raking the hard hat from my head with an angry swipe of my forearm, I targeted the kitchens behind the double swinging doors in the back. Past the walls of windows, across the tasteful distressed-wood floors, under the million-dollar chandelier that would be the focal point . . . in addition to the Van Gogh hanging in the entrance, and the food, of course.
But without Chef Bouclet, without its beating heart, the restaurant would just be a hollow shell with fancy window dressing.
“Jean-Charles?” I shouted. “Jean-Charles!” I felt tears well in the corners of my eyes, then one broke and trickled down my cheek. I didn’t bother wiping it away.
Hitting the doors with my shoulder, I barreled through, then stopped in my tracks. The kitchen was a mess: pots and pans and broken plates littered the floor. Smoke pushed its way through the gap where the oven door met the frame and billowed toward the ceiling. The contents of a pot steamed on the stove, water boiling over in an ominous hiss.
A man stood in the center, his back to me.
He turned slowly, as if not alarmed by my sudden presence.
I squinted my eyes, trying to focus understanding. “Teddie?”
“You shouldn’t be here.” His voice sounded dead, his eyes looked haunted.
“I shouldn’t be here? What about you?” Doubled over with my hands on my knees, I sucked in as much air as I could. This was the last place I expected to find Teddie. He’d been showing up unexpectedly lately, so I don’t know why I was so surprised. Actually, I wasn’t surprised as much as I was angry. Finally, I stopped seeing stars as oxygen flooded my brain and adrenaline spurted into my bloodstream. Clarity hit me like an ax to the head. “Oh, my God! What happened here? Where is Jean-Charles? What is that in the oven?” Terror squeezed my heart. I couldn’t breathe.
As I made a staggering step toward the oven, Teddie reached out and grabbed my arm. “Don’t.” He didn’t look quite himself. In his Harvard sweatshirt, the one with the neck cut out that I used to wear, and his faded, threadbare jeans that were just tight enough, he looked good enough to be a featured dish on the menu.
I jerked my arm out of his grasp. Fear kept me rooted to the same spot. “Why not? Jean-Charles must’ve been preparing something.”
Teddie said nothing.
If he didn’t start staying out of my way and my life, I’d roast him on a spit myself.
“For some reason, I keep tripping over you today.” I tried to make sense of him being here, but I was having trouble. “It’s like I’ve really pissed off some minor deity, and she is now having fun at my expense.”
“Your lucky day?” He soft-served the comment with a weak smile, even though he knew I hated that sort of word play.
I narrowed my eyes at him. “Don’t push your luck. What are you doing here? And where is Jean-Charles?”
He ran a hand through his hair, making the spikes stand up. He seemed sort of shell-shocked as he slowly shook his head and looked around the kitchen. “I don’t know.”
“Where is he?” I advanced on him, stopping a stride short.
His eyes flicked to the oven, then back to me. “I told you, I don’t know.”
“How long have you been here?”
“A bit before you. Five minutes? Ten? I don’t really know.”
“Is there anything you do know?”
He looked at me for a beat before answering. “I know there is a man in the oven.”
“What?” My heart stopped. Silence. Then it started beating again. “A man?” I croaked, my throat constricted by emotion. I whirled toward the oven. The smell . . . oh, God.
Teddie grabbed my arm, stopping me. “Lucky, don’t.” He looked green.
“Broiled and basted,” I whispered as I stared at the steam escaping from the oven and rising toward the ceiling. The smell . . . it hadn’t been pork. . . . “Broil and baste . . .” I felt my knees buckle as the world faded.
Teddie caught me as I fell.
* * *
The smell of ammonia. Strong. Stinging my sinuses. I gagged and choked, then gulped air. My eyes fluttered open. I stared up into Teddie’s, dark and deep with concern. I slapped away his hand waving the ammonia capsule under my nose. “Christ. That stuff could bring back the dead.” With the back of my hand, I swiped at my eyes as the fog in my head cleared.
Crumpled on the ground, I was half cradled in Teddie’s lap. As the ammonia odor dissipated, the smell of cooking meat replaced it, jump-starting my memory. “Jean-Charles?” I whispered, fearful of the answer, but driven by a need to know.
Teddie looked up, his eyes traversing the kitchen. “I don’t know. Not yet.”
With a hand on his shoulder, I pushed myself out of his lap until I was seated on the kitchen floor. Before I could ask anything else, the door swung open as Romeo burst through, then skidded to a stop. His eyes raked around the room, then swiveled back to the oven. He closed the distance in two strides. “Did you turn it off?” He threw the question over his shoulder as he reached for the handkerchief in his pocket, then shook it out. He covered his hand with the thin cloth, then grabbed the handle to the oven door.
“Don’t . . . ,” Teddie and I said in unison, but Romeo didn’t listen.
He threw back the latch, pulled the oven door open, then staggered back, letting it bounce once or twice on its hinges before slamming it shut. “Whoa.” He threw his forearm up, covering his face. “Was this thing on broil?”
“Yeah.” Teddie sounded tired. “I turned it off, but the guy . . . well, he was already overdone.” He must’ve seen the stricken look on my face because he followed that comment quickly with, “Sorry. I’m not myself.”
I shot him a pained look—I didn’t even try to hide my fear. What if it was Jean-Charles in the oven? And Christophe? My heart broke for the little boy. Losing two parents would be so . . . I hadn’t the right word . . . if there even was one. My hand shook as I swiped at a lock of hair that fell into my eyes. And his sister? I cradled my head in my arms for a moment. And what about me?
A wave of heat washed over us when Romeo eased opened the oven door, allowing it to rest on its hinges. His eyes traversed the kitchen, then settled on Teddie and me once again—they were old eyes, lacking his original youthful idealism, and I felt a pang of guilt, I didn’t really know why.
“Looks like there was a bit of a fight in here,” he said, understated as always.
I looked at the mess of pots and pans and broken plates. Jean-Charles putting up the fight of his life?
Romeo locked his eyes on Teddie, who had pushed himself to his feet and now seemed overly interested in brushing down his jeans, ridding them of invisible dust. “Anything you can add here?” Romeo asked.
“This is how I found it.” Teddie stuffed his hands in his pockets and hunched his shoulders around his ears. “ Nobody was here . . . well, except for the guy in the oven.”
Romeo stared at him for a moment, a visual litmus test.
A numbness washed over me—a self-protective disbelief cooling the burning residue of panic. I hugged myself. “What if that’s Jean-Charles?”
Romeo’s eyes snapped to mine. “Call him. See if he answers.”
“I tried earlier.” I struggled for air. “He didn’t.”
With a sense of impending doom, I pulled my phone from its hip holster and flicked my thumb across the screen—I had to repeat it three times before I got it right. I tapped my chef’s number in the list of favorites. “He shouldn’t be too hard to find.” When you were responsible for a twenty-four-hour restaurant, your tether was tight. I knew—I was responsible for a twenty-four-hour hotel. My call rang once, then rolled to voice mail. I tried again. Same result. I looked at Romeo. I opened my mouth, but words wouldn’t come. I shook my head.
“He doesn’t answer?” Teddie asked, his voice flat, devoid of emotion.
Why was he here? The question kept echoing in my head.
I found my voice. “No.” I dialed the Burger Palais. The hostess picked up on the first ring. “Chef Bouclet, please. This is Lucky O’Toole.”
“Oh, Ms. O’Toole, I’m sorry, but he left a little while ago. I thought he was going to meet you.”
“When did he tell you that?” My voice was hard. Fear tempered it thin, and my tone sharp.
“As he was walking out.”
“When was that? Tell me exactly.”
“A couple of hours, I think. I don’t know exactly. He said he was going to meet you at Cielo.” The girl had that breathy way of speaking that young women the world over seemed to think sounded grown-up in a Marilyn Monroe sort of way. To me, it just sounded like they were auditioning for a porn movie. “To be honest, we’re getting a bit worried. He left Christophe here. Rinaldo was sure he’d be back by now.”
Dread won out in my heart. I hung up, as if doing so would sever the channel to bad news. Enough “me” remained to think I would have to apologize later.
As I ended the call and replaced the phone at my hip, I locked eyes with Romeo. “According to his staff, Jean-Charles said he was coming here to meet me.”
Teddie looked a little twitchy. “It’s going to be okay, you know. I’m sure the guy in the oven isn’t him.” Despite his effort to placate me, he could no longer calm my fears or make me feel better. In fact, as living proof that things didn’t always turn out okay, he made me feel worse.
“Right. And, if I’m a good girl, Santa will give me everything I want for Christmas.” I pushed myself to my feet, then staggered over to Romeo. “I need to know.”
As if sensing my hurt and fear, the detective circled an arm around my shoulders and pulled me against him. “Lucky, this isn’t a good idea.”
Teddie stepped in next to me, his hand gripping my arm. “I agree.”
Jerking my arm from his grasp, I shut them both down with a glare. Romeo finally nodded, but held on to me, not letting go.
The three of us peered into the oven. The body curled away from us, the skin bright pink, all the hair burned away. Charred bits of clothing hung from the body—a collar, it had been white. I stepped on my rising panic. The broad expanse of his back faced outward, the top of his shoulder a crispy, burned dark crust. Bile rose in my throat. I pressed my hand over my mouth, fighting the urge.
Romeo must’ve felt the tremor of revulsion. He tightened his arm around my shoulders and tried to steer me away. “The crime scene folks are on their way. Let’s give them some room.”
I shrugged out of his embrace and focused anew on the body. My eyes traversed down his spine, looking for something I’d recognize, something . . . identifying. The skin next to the bone actually looked . . . uncooked, but not unique. Under the man’s haunches, the soles of his feet peeked through some sort of green goo. “What is that?”
Romeo leaned in, waving away the heat. He pulled a pencil out of his coat pocket and poked at the green slime. When he removed the pencil, he pulled thin threads of the stuff with it, sticky and gooey like a spider’s web. “Looks like plastic.”
“Plastic,” I whispered. I dropped my head and let loose a reedy, nervous laugh. My legs weakened with relief, but my knees held. I squeezed Romeo’s arm.
“What?” The young detective looked at me as if I’d finally gone ’round the bend, as I been threatening to do for so long.
“Crocs.” I pointed to the green goo. “Jean-Charles wouldn’t be caught dead wearing a pair of Crocs.”
* * *
Teddie and I reconvened in the corner of the kitchen as the macabre work continued silently in front of the oven. Side-by-side we now sat on stools, leaning against the wall, watching the techs work the rest of the crime scene, dusting and photographing, plucking and bagging trace—mind-numbing work, but part of the thrill of the chase. No tiny speck of lint remained untouched, unexamined.
The cops had separated us and had taken their time. I didn’t know about Teddie, but I was bone-weary, angry, and scared. The smell of seared flesh lingered.
“It’ll be a long time before I can face roast pork.” Teddie pulled one knee up, lacing his fingers together to hold it.
“Your jocularity is a bit overdone, Mr. Kowalski.” I gritted my teeth. Panic. It did it to me every time. I never missed an opportunity to say something inappropriate—like a joke at a dead guy’s expense. At the moment, food in general held no appeal, but I didn’t feel the need to share that tidbit. So to speak. I squirmed on my stool, angling for the best view of the body, which the techs had laid out inside a body-bag. “Do they have an ID yet?”
Teddie didn’t answer—he was good that way, letting me sort of babble my way back to logical thinking. The sizzle of fear still arced through me, jolting me at the touch of the memory. “Thank God it wasn’t Jean-Charles. But I wonder who, and why, and why here?”
“All good questions.”
“And where is Jean-Charles?” I’d tried his cell repeatedly, each with the same result. “What if the killer has him?” Crossing my arms, I hugged myself—suddenly, I felt very cold.
“What if he is the killer?” Teddie sounded almost as if he’d like that outcome.
“Why would he leave Christophe at the restaurant, then?”
“A trip to the scene of an impending murder doesn’t sound like a family outing to me,” Romeo added as he joined us, taking the third stool.
“But I know him, he wouldn’t . . .” I trailed off. They had a point. Not one I would accept, but without more facts, I couldn’t argue . . . yet.
Romeo pulled a square of cloth out of his front pocket and blotted his forehead. He didn’t refold the bit of linen, preferring to stuff it back where he’d found it. “We’re looking for him, if that makes you feel better.”
Two officers muscled their way through the single swinging door, forcing me to bite off my reply. The larger of the two, who looked like he was a NFL lineman moonlighting to make ends meet, glanced around the room, his eyes finally finding who he was looking for. “Detective Romeo, sir, we found this guy hanging around outside.”
Reaching behind him, the officer grabbed the man lurking there and pushed him to the front.
Adone Giovanni.
Romeo raised an eyebrow. “Thank you officer. I’ll take it from here.”
“Sir.” The two cops touched the brims of their hats, then left as quickly as they’d come.
“That’s not Jean-Charles, is it?” Adone’s dark eyes danced wildly, his gaze darting between each of us and the body on the floor half-hidden by the surrounding techs.
“Why are you here?” Romeo asked, his voice serious, even a bit hard.
“I was looking for Jean.” Adone’s voice wavered, then steadied, as he took a deep breath. “The hostess at the burger place told me he would be here.” Still in all-black chef attire, tattoos, kohled eyes, his hair spiked, he looked out of place in Jean-Charles’s kitchen.
“And what did you want with Chef Bouclet?” Romeo pressed.
Adone grabbed one elbow, holding his arm to his side and looking like a kid who needed a hug but was afraid to ask for one, or a kid stilling himself because he had something to hide.
I narrowed my eyes. Pulling my phone out, I once again dialed the Burger Palais. The same voice answered. “Yes, this is Lucky O’Toole again. Sorry to bother you, but are you the only hostess on duty?” I locked eyes with Adone. He swallowed hard. “You are. And how long have you been on duty? All day. Did you tell anyone besides me where Chef Bouclet had gone?” I chewed on my lip and waited a second or two before repeating her answer. “No. Yes, you’re right, Chef Bouclet would not like you telling anyone his business. Thank you.” I rang off and reholstered the phone without a word.
Romeo looked at Adone. “So?”
The rebel chef deflated. “Look, I was supposed to meet Jean-Charles here. They’re releasing the food truck, so I’m back in business. He had some new recipes we needed to work on.” He looked at me, his arms open, pleading.
I shot a questioning look at Romeo. He nodded. “Coroner’s done with the truck.”
“When did you and Jean-Charles arrange this meeting?” I asked Adone.
“Earlier. I called him.”
I thought back. Something Jean-Charles had said the last time I saw him—in the kitchen at Burger Palais. He was to meet a friend here. I looked around and the carnage. Some friend.
“Why did you lie?” Teddie asked the obvious next question.
Romeo frowned at his intrusion—as a detective, he treated questioning as his sole province.
“I walked right into the middle of a police investigation.” Adone’s eyes skittered to the body, then back to Romeo’s. “I’m assuming this is the second dead body. The last thing I wanted was for you to think I had something to do with it.”
I rolled my eyes. “Well, that strategy backfired.”
One of the techs called to Romeo. He gave me a look that was easy to interpret, then excused himself.
I motioned to the stool Romeo vacated. “Join us?” I said to Adone in a tone that made it clear there was only one answer.
The chef did as he was ordered, straddling the stool. Keeping his legs wide, he gripped the slice of seat between them with both hands. His wide-eyed gaze lingered on the body before turning to me. “Is that Jean?”
“No.”
He straightened as the answer hit him like a slap.
“Aren’t you relieved?”
Teddie thrust a beer at Adone and one at me, then took a deep pull of his own as he retook his stool. I never saw him leave.
Adone drank deeply, then rested the bottle atop one thigh while he bounced his foot.
I waited for the jiggled beer to overflow, but that would be his problem . . . probably the least of his problems, so I didn’t mention it.
“Of course I am happy . . . for Desiree. There is not so much love lost between us, to be honest, but I wouldn’t wish that”—he jerked his head toward the body—“on anybody. Why would someone put a body to broil like that?”
“To make a point.”
“What’s the bad blood between you and Jean-Charles? Besides the way you’re treating his sister.”
I saw an excuse in his eyes, but he thought better than fighting that fight. “Jean, he is very classical in his culinary approach. Very French. I like to shake things up a bit. There’s a group of us, younger chefs, we are trying different fusions, different techniques.”
“The anti-Ducasse and his ‘quality restaurant’ label,” Teddie said. I guess he’d picked up a thing or two on his whirlwind world tour.
Adone’s eyes lit with zeal. “Exactly. Collège Culinaire de France took a dislike to us.”
“You were blackballed.” Not wanting any more of my beer, I handed it to Teddie, who had drained his.
“What is this? My balls are sometimes blue . . . women!” Adone shook his head. “But they are not black.”
I did not smile. I didn’t know, but I had a strong feeling he was patronizing me and I was the butt of a subtle joke. “You couldn’t get a job in a legitimate kitchen in France.”
He looked chagrined that his joke didn’t elicit the expected response. “This is so.”
“You blame Jean.”
Adone shrugged.
“And then.” I leaned forward, pressing home my point. “When you came crawling, he put you in a food truck.”
Adone pulled himself out of his slouch, pressing his shoulders back. “He told me I would not work in any of the best kitchens.”
“Not ever? Or not yet?”
Adone’s face shut down. “It is a small difference.”
Teddie and I exchanged glances.
The hate ran deep between these two.
Deep enough for murder?