Killer gourmet, p.8
Killer Gourmet, page 8
“You’ve been here a zillion times. You know how it works. It’s a two-man operation. One guy—as it turns out, Carlos—works like crazy in the back, cooking and throwing everything together. The other guy shoves it out the window and collects the money. It would have been dangerous to drag that cook away from his grill at a time like that.”
“Harrumph. I ain’t afraid of that guy. I’ve handled dudes way bigger and meaner than him.”
“I wasn’t talking about him. I meant the crowds. Can you imagine the riot that would have erupted if you’d called a halt to all that cooking and eating?”
He thought it over for a minute, then nodded. “You’re right.”
She chuckled. “Oh my goodness, a husband admits he’s wrong and his wife is right. What’s this world coming to?”
“Don’t be a smart aleck. Us guys admit that we’re wrong way more than you gals do. Men apologize all the time. Women, when they are wrong, won’t actually say the words.”
Savannah opened her mouth to retort but swallowed the denial. What he’d said was true; she had to admit it. At least in her marriage, the male of the species uttered those bitter words far more than she did. Not that it bothered her all that much. She had few twinges of conscience in that regard. After all, she only made an apology-worthy mistake about once a month. Usually in the throes of PMS. Where he, on the other hand, usually committed some transgression or the other about every ten minutes.
“No,” he continued, “they won’t give you an actual apology. They’ll just be a little bit extra nice for a while. You know, make sure you have your favorite food to eat for dinner, and then you get laid that night.”
Savannah gave him an affectionate grin and a nudge in the ribs with her elbow. “And you guys just hate that, huh? You’d much rather have a heartfelt verbal apology than good food and hot sex any day. Right?”
He laughed and slid his arm around her waist. “Now, now. I wasn’t complaining. Just observing. It’s not such a bad system, all in all.”
As they neared the taco stand, the tantalizing aroma grew stronger and Savannah’s appetite soared. Their full country breakfast was becoming a distant memory, and she was beginning to doubt whether her plan to arrive postservice had been such a wise one after all.
“Damn, that smells good,” Dirk said. “You know, they probably have some leftovers.”
“Don’t you dare.”
“Dare what?”
“Ask for a bribe.”
“One little taco. A burrito maybe. . . .”
“No. I swear, I’ll report you. You’ll do five to ten in the slammer.”
He took a deep breath, filling his lungs. “Hell, it might be worth it. Wonder if they have carnitas.”
“We could ask.”
They walked to the front of the stand, where the previously open serving window was now covered by a highly complex and decorative barrier—a piece of unfinished, exterior-grade plywood with the word CLOSED scrawled across it in red paint.
Dirk rapped on it. And when there was no response, he rapped again even harder.
Savannah could hear movement inside. Water running. Metal clanging. It briefly reminded her of the kitchen scene the night before, and she cringed. Most certainly she’d never be able to look into a restaurant kitchen without seeing that gruesome, traumatizing sight in her mind’s eye.
“Police,” Dirk shouted. “I can hear you in there, and I ain’t goin’ away. Open up.”
After a longer than expected time, the plywood lifted a few inches, then was lowered. A young woman with an uneasy look in her dark eyes swept her black curls away from her face and twisted them into a haphazard bun at her nape.
As she fiddled with fastening the “do” with a couple of bobby pins, Dirk called out, “Carlos? You in there?”
“He’s busy,” the woman said, wiping the sweat from her face with a damp towel. “We’re closed now.”
“Yeah, yeah. We know that,” Dirk snapped.
“We decided to wait until after you’d closed to drop by,” Savannah said, stepping closer to her and giving her a sweet smile, “so as not to inconvenience you.”
Someday, she was going to sit down and count every time she’d had to be extra nice to someone to make up for Dirk’s grouchiness. Then she was going to charge him a dollar for each of those occasions and move to the Bahamas.
She might or might not bring him along with her, depending on how much he was aggravating her on moving day.
Dirk leaned his head through the window and shouted, “Carlos, I can see you, dude. What? You think you can hide in this cracker box? Get out here and talk to me.”
The reply came in the form of much clanging and banging of metal. Savannah could hear the creaking of a water faucet being turned off.
A moment later, Carlos appeared beside the young woman. He was drying his hands and forearms with the much-stained apron he wore.
He gave Dirk a wary look. “I thought we were done talking last night,” he said. “I told you everything I saw. I’ve got nothing else to say.”
Dirk took a step to the right and opened a small, rickety door that led inside the stand. “Come along, and let’s you and me take us a stroll through that park across the street. I’ll betcha we can think of something to chat about. Like, say . . . global warming, the next presidential election, those Lakers.”
“I don’t have time to watch sports,” Carlos returned, tearing off his apron and pitching it into a bin of dirty cloths.
“Then we’ll come up with another topic of conversation,” Dirk said as he motioned for Carlos to come through the open door. “You know, like, murder.”
Dirk placed a companionable hand on Carlos’s shoulder—one that Savannah was sure the younger man did not appreciate. Dirk was taller and heavier than most men, and he knew all too well how to use that to his advantage. “Intimidation” was a well-sharpened, oft-used instrument in any cop’s toolbox.
Savannah knew why he was leading Carlos away to question him. It was so that Savannah could talk to the young woman. If she worked with him, she might have some useful information herself. They operated on the assumption that it was best, whenever possible, to get two interviews for the price of one.
But her possible interviewee was reaching down for the plywood again. Savannah quickly thrust her hand through the still-open window before the opportunity had passed.
“I should introduce myself,” she said. “My name is Savannah Reid. And you are . . . ?”
Looking more than a little uncomfortable, the woman set down the plywood and shook Savannah’s proffered hand.
“I’m Maria,” she replied. “Nice to meet you.”
The cautious, uneasy look in her dark eyes suggested the contrary. But she forced a smile, and it brightened her pretty face.
“You get really busy here at lunchtime,” Savannah said. “I’ve dropped by many times and seen you guys working your butts off. It must be a tough job.”
Maria shrugged. “You do what you have to. It can’t be easy, you being a policewoman.”
“I’m not a policewoman. Not anymore, anyway.”
Maria looked confused. “But you’re . . .” She pointed toward the park where Dirk and Carlos were walking. “. . . you’re with him.”
“I used to be a cop. His partner, in fact. Now I’m a private investigator. And I’m also Detective Coulter’s wife.”
Raising one delicate eyebrow, Maria gave her a little smile and said, “That must be interesting, being married to a policeman.”
Savannah chuckled and shrugged. “Well, you know what they say. ‘Sleep with a cop, you’ll always feel safe.’ ”
“So you both feel safe—you sleeping with him, him sleeping with you?”
Savannah thought it over and nodded. “Pretty much, I reckon.”
The two women shared a moment of companionable silence. Then Savannah said, “What’s it like, working here in this busy little taco stand with Carlos?”
“Oh, I do more than work with him. I’m married to him. And we own this busy little taco stand.”
Savannah took a moment to digest this new information. Carlos Ortez wasn’t just working here for a cousin or uncle. He was the owner—the guy who, according to her earlier estimations, could probably afford to live in a mansion on the hillside.
She could understand why he and his wife would choose to operate this stand by themselves. There was hardly room inside for more than two workers anyway. But why would Carlos be working as someone else’s prep cook? Why subject yourself to a nasty boss like Norwood when you owned a successful eatery?
A taco stand might not be the pinnacle of the restaurant business, but it certainly seemed like a profitable establishment. Every day a lot of delicious food crossed that service counter and fed a lot of hungry, grateful people.
That sounded like success to Savannah.
“If you don’t mind me asking,” Savannah said, “how long have you two owned this place?”
“It belonged to Carlos’s father and mother. When his father died seven years ago, his mother retired and turned it over to Carlos. I’ve been working here with him for two years.”
“And how long had Carlos been part of Chef Norwood’s team?”
A dark look crossed Maria’s face. Savannah was fairly sure that she detected a look of strong dislike when she heard the chef’s name mentioned.
“Almost a year,” she answered. “A long year.”
Savannah nodded. “I saw Norwood in action, screaming at his staff, throwing things, pitching a major hissy fit. It must’ve been really hard working for a guy like that.”
Maria nodded and wiped her face again with the damp towel. Her eyes were no longer friendly, and Savannah got the idea that she was growing progressively uneasy with this topic of conversation.
“It was difficult. Very difficult,” she replied softly.
“Then why did he continue to work for someone as abusive as Norwood? Holding down two jobs would have been exhausting even with a decent boss, let alone a guy like that.”
“My husband is a hard worker. He always has been. It’s one of the things I love and respect about him most.” She waved a hand, indicating the shabby stand. “Do you think he wants to work here forever? To make tacos and burritos until he dies? No. My Carlos has dreams of being a chef, a real chef, a fine chef.”
“And that was why he was working for Norwood?”
“Yes. Why else? He knew he had to start at the bottom and work up. He began by washing dishes. Then he moved up to kitchen steward and now prep chef. He has to learn how to run a restaurant. A fine restaurant, worthy of his talents. Not just a fast-food stand.”
Savannah was surprised to see the young woman’s eyes fill with tears.
“But as soon as he started working for the chef, Carlos realized that he wouldn’t be learning anything from that man. Baldwin Norwood had nothing to teach anyone about cooking or anything else in life.”
“What are you saying?” Savannah asked, trying to get her mind around this new accusation. No one had made any bones about the fact that Chef Norwood was a jerk, but this was the first time she had heard that he couldn’t cook.
“I’m saying that the famous celebrity chef, Baldwin Norwood, couldn’t prepare a decent meal if his life depended on it. He’s a fraud.”
Maria paused and swallowed hard. Savannah noticed that her hands were shaking as she twisted the towel. “Or should I say he was a fraud. I guess now he’s a dead fraud.”
“Well, I don’t know about the ‘fraud’ part, but he certainly is dead. I don’t know how much Carlos told you, but it was a terribly violent murder.”
Maria nodded and began to tremble all over. “Yes, he told me it was awful. I’m sorry it happened.”
Savannah’s right eyebrow lifted a notch. “You’re sorry? Why would you be sorry?”
Maria stared down at the towel in her hands, then across the street toward the park where her husband was walking with Dirk. “I just mean—even someone as bad as Norwood doesn’t deserve to die like that.”
“Who do you think might have done it?” Savannah asked. “If you had to guess, who would you say it was?”
Maria dropped the towel, reached for the edge of the counter, and grasped it tightly, as though to keep herself from falling. “I don’t want to say,” she replied. “I don’t want to accuse anyone of something so terrible.”
Savannah felt a surge of excitement welling up inside her. She had to remind herself not to press too hard, too fast.
As gently as possible, she said, “It’s okay, Maria. Don’t worry. This is just between you and me. I’m just going to ask you a simple question, and if you can answer it, it might help me a lot. Okay?”
Maria gave her a tentative nod.
“All right. Here goes. . . .” Savannah drew a deep breath. “Of all the people that Chef Norwood treated badly, whom would you say he treated the worst?”
Maria looked slightly relieved and offered a quick reply. “Oh, that’s easy,” she said. “He was awful to everybody around him. But the person he hated most was Francia Fortun.”
“Francia? Why would he hate his sous-chef?”
“Because she was much more than his sous-chef. She was the chef. The food he served and called his own was made by her. Every bite of it.”
“Really? But how? How could that be?”
Maria gave a dry, bitter chuckle. “Why do you think he went crazy any time someone other than his staff came into his kitchen? It was because he was afraid they would find out his secret. And his secret was: He couldn’t cook. He screamed and shouted and strutted around, acting the part of the celebrity chef. He hated Francia because she was everything he claimed to be.”
“And he couldn’t fire her, because if he did—”
“—the world would find out that he was a fraud.”
Savannah recalled everything that Ryan and John had said about Francia and how they had nearly hired her as their head chef. She considered how Francia must have felt when that golden opportunity was snatched away by her unscrupulous, abusive boss.
But there was the matter of the alibi.
“I see what you’re saying,” Savannah told her. “But your husband claims that Francia and Manuel were with him in the alley around to the side of the building, having a cigarette, when the chef was killed.”
Maria glanced over toward the park, where Carlos and Dirk were finishing their walk and heading back toward the stand.
Savannah saw the young woman’s love for her husband in her eyes as she watched him. But there was a sadness there, too.
“My husband is a good man,” she said. “Sometimes he’s too good.”
“What do you mean?” Savannah asked.
“He’s too loyal. He’s a better friend to others than they are to him. And sometimes he gets hurt.” Her eyes searched Savannah’s, pleading, looking for reassurances. “Will you try to help him?” she asked. “I’ve tried to help you all I could. I answered your question. Please don’t let my husband get hurt.”
“I’ll try, Maria,” Savannah told her. “I’ll do my best.”
But even as she spoke the words, Savannah wondered if it was a promise she would be able to keep.
Chapter 7
Savannah supposed that there were more depressing places on God’s green earth than the county morgue.
But she couldn’t think of one.
In all the years she had been coming to this awful place—probably at least one hundred visits or more—she couldn’t remember one time when her mission had been “festive” in nature.
The only times she had ever felt even a smidgen of something akin to joy inside that grim, somber, gray building were when she was walking out of it.
Dr. Liu didn’t seem to mind living with the specter of death on a daily basis. But Savannah couldn’t help feeling uneasy about being inside a building the very existence of which was to deal with one of life’s most inevitable and least pleasant realities.
Then, to make things even worse, there was good old Kenny Bates.
Like the biggest green fly atop a dog pile, Officer Bates manned the reception desk, doing his utmost to offend everyone who walked through the front door.
And he succeeded famously.
He flirted with every female who passed through, and his method of seduction was so crude and overt that Savannah wondered how he could have escaped a sexual harassment charge for so long.
Several years before, he had made the mistake of showing her the centerfold of a porn magazine and commenting at length about how much the model, who was displaying everything but her ovaries, resembled Savannah.
Savannah had cheerfully taken the magazine away from him, rolled it up, and beaten him half to death with it.
Since then his ardor toward her had, thankfully, cooled a bit.
He was even less charming with the males who passed through his front door, as he snapped, snarled, and seized every opportunity to establish his dominance over them. He protected the desk, the sign-in sheet, and its accompanying pen like an ill-tempered guard dog defending a junkyard from midnight marauders.
Savannah had seen homicide detectives more relaxed at a multiple murder scene than Kenny Bates was with his stinkin’ clipboard and ballpoint.
That afternoon, as Savannah parked the Mustang in the morgue lot, Dirk reached back to the rear seat and grabbed the container of chocolate chip cookies.
“Don’t want to forget these,” he said. “We’re at least an hour and a half earlier than she said to come.”
Savannah reached over and snatched the container from his hands. “I baked them,” she said, hugging it to her chest. “I get to be the one who gives them to her.”
“Yeah, yeah, what you mean is, ‘I wanna snag one of those for myself while we’re walking up to the door.’ ”
He knows me way too well, she thought as she got out of the car, closed the door, and started across the parking lot toward the front of the building.
Of course, that was exactly what she had in mind. If he hadn’t been so snippy about it, she would have offered him one, too.
