Hot Stuff (16 page)

“I'm talking to Kelly Fields tonight. I'll find a way, and I'll get whatever answers there are. I'm the one who's going to talk to her. Got it?”

James glanced at me, and I guess he saw that I was very serious.

“Got it. I'll leave her alone.”

At our small kitchen table, I pulled up Amanda Wright's Face-book page, staring at the profile photo and the cleavage she displayed. Long brown hair and what almost looked like a pout on her lips.

“Good-looking woman, James.”

“Not my type, Skip.”

“Hey, she went to our college, Samuel and Davidson.” I hadn't known that. “What the hell, dude, she was in culinary arts with you. She was your classmate and you didn't tell me?”

“Yeah.” He walked up and was looking over my shoulder. “It's no big deal. I didn't even remember her. She reminded me about it when we went out the first time. Said she dropped out after the first year.”

James had done the full four years, barely graduating with a bachelor of science degree in culinary arts.

“She did a year? That was it? A year? Wow. What exactly did your four-year degree cover?”

“On top of culinary arts? Baking, pastry, food service management, and other assorted crap.”

“So this girl dropped out of culinary school after a year, and yet she's working a high-end restaurant, given a chance to be the chef in her own kitchen?”

“I know. I know.” He buried his head in his hands. “And I'm stuck as a line cook at some fast-food dump. But, Skip, you know how I feel. I don't see the future in it. There's way too much work involved, and we stand a much better chance to strike it rich if we keep our options open.”

“Really? You really feel that way?”

I had a business degree, James the culinary background. It had been an early dream of ours to open a restaurant on South Beach, and now we were investigating the death of someone who had come damn close to our dream.

“It doesn't bother you that she was about to be at the top of her game, at her young age?”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah.”

“Does that bother me?” James stepped back and looked out the window, staring into the parking lot.

“It does, doesn't it?”

“Yes, it bothers me. Now drop it. What else about her?”

I didn't want to push him any more.

“She's pretty vague about the rest of her background.”

“Photos?”

I clicked on photos, and there were just two. Her profile, with the low-cut top and a group picture of the kitchen staff. Dressed in their white jackets, they were all smiling. Bouvier was in the center, his right arm around Chef Marty and his left arm around Amanda.

“Just Google her name. Put cook after it.”

I ran it up on the screen and there were three Amanda Wrights. One was a cooking instructor, not our girl, and then there was an Amanda Cook Wright. The third reference was a
newspaper article from a suburban journal called the
Dade Gazette
.

I read it out loud.

Nathan Brandt, instructor at Samuel and Davidson University, was arrested last night for sexual battery. A student at the institution, Amanda Wright, filed a complaint, claiming that Brandt had taken advantage of her during a student-teacher conference in his office. He remains in Dade County jail on fifty-thousand-dollars' bond
.

We were both silent for a moment.

“I didn't see that coming,” James said.

“She was only there one year, and then she dropped out.”

“Maybe that's why she dropped out.” He was right with me. “Damn, look up the guy and see what happened to him.”

I keyed in Nathan Brandt, Samuel and Davidson University.

“There're over one hundred references.”

“Check one.”

I moved down twenty and clicked it.

Nathan Brandt, business ethics instructor at Samuel and Davidson University, will be lecturing at the Junior Service League of Brandon—

“When?”

“About one year ago.”

“Okay, they couldn't prove the charges. He's still there.” James straddled one of our two rickety kitchen chairs.

“Or she dropped them.”

“You know, there's this growing list of people we need to interview.” James was tapping his foot. Checking his cell phone, he stood up. “We've got to go, amigo. Almost showtime.”

“
You've
got to go, amigo. I'm not washing dishes for a third night.”

“Six thousand bucks and a missing Juan Castro says that you are, friend. And remember, you're talking to the lovely Kelly Fields tonight.”

He was right. I was. And I did.

It started off slow, and I got a chance to share a moment with Carlos, the runner. He walked back into the kitchen and eyed me for a moment. I was leaning against the stainless counter as he approached.

“Juan's not coming back?”

“I haven't heard.”

Carlos squinted his eyes. “What I tole you, it was not serious.”

“Have you talked to him?”

“No.” He was quick with his comeback. “I realize that when I say to you he was interested in the sous chef, you might think—” Shrugging his shoulders, he turned away from me.

“Carlos,” he looked over his shoulder, “was there a boyfriend? Was Amanda seeing someone here?”

“You a cop?”

James was right. Asking questions was a dead giveaway.

“Definitely not a cop. I just wondered.” Damn, it was hard to ask questions in a nonchalant manner. If you asked a question, it immediately became an inquisition. He turned and addressed me.

“If you're not a cop, Juan was jealous.”

“Of what?”

“Of someone in the kitchen who was seeing her.”

“He knew that?”

“He ask her if she would go for coffee one night. It took a lot of courage, but he wanted to do it. So he ask her. He's separated from his wife, broke up with his girlfrien' and—”

“And?”

“She told him she was seeing someone.”

“It could have been anyone.”

“She then tell him it was someone on the staff, and she was very sorry that she had to say no.”

“Who was it?”

“Maybe no one. There was no real sign that she was involve with anyone, and Juan tole me that he thought she was just makin' an escuse.”

He paused. “There was a rumor. Maybe she got caught outside with someone, but only that. A rumor.”

God, I wanted to pursue this. Carlos was giving me some really solid ideas, but I couldn't give us away.

“You said, ‘if you're not a cop.' What if I was?”

“This conversation never happen.” He walked into the kitchen, and I looked around for the pastry chef.

Five minutes later I heard the commotion. A rise in the volume of voices. James walked back and grinned.

“Staff is stressed. Chef is barking out orders in case you haven't heard.”

“Why?”

“The singer Enrique Iglesias and twenty of his entourage just walked in. Chef Jean is apparently on his way down to personally welcome them and apparently Iglesias and company are expecting some extras that are not, I repeat,
not
on the menu.”

“That's not a good thing?”

“It's not a good thing, amigo. Stuff that's not on the menu is never a good thing. We earn our pay tonight.”

The dishes were slow in coming back, and until the dinner party was finished, I didn't have much to do.

Bright-orange flames erupted like a volcano under pans laden with sauces, vegetables, and meats. I could smell chicken or some fowl roasting in the oven. The staff was scurrying back and forth, barely avoiding each other in the narrow confines. The aroma was that of Thanksgiving, with turkey and stuffing.

Kelly Fields was using a hand torch to brown the tops of a number of crème brûlées and I sauntered over to her.

“Dessert for the star?”

Her gaze never left the fifteen ceramic cups. “He's just another customer.”

“I haven't been here very long—”

“Two nights,” she said with attitude.

“But I can't believe Chef Jean would leave his home and come down here for ‘just another customer.'”

“What do you care?”

“Are you kidding me?” I was getting my courage up. “I'm going to be scraping garbage from a plate used by a very famous person. Pretty exciting stuff.”

Finally she glanced up. I saw the corners of her mouth move upward and I knew I had her.

“You are involved in the creative process, Mrs. Fields, but I get what's left over. It may not be glamorous, but—”

She laughed. “You're really a dishwasher?” She gave me a sidelong glance. Somehow I knew that she didn't believe it. It was as if she knew.

“I am. For two nights, as you pointed out. And now, for number three.”

“I've met a lot of dishwashers, but you take the cake.”

It was my turn to laugh. “Baker's humor?”

“Oh, my God, I didn't even realize—”

I hesitated. I didn't want to push this too fast, but the moment seemed right so I asked.

“Kelly, is there any chance you'd have coffee with me after our shift tonight?”

“Coffee?”

“Just.”

“I'm married.”

“Coffee. Nothing more.”

She stared down at her torch, browning the desserts.

“I'm married. We're separated. Temporarily, but still—”

“Coffee.”

“Kelly,” Marty shot me an angry look, “where the hell is the brûlée?”

“Right here, Chef.” She picked up the tray and walked it to the prep table. Turning back to me, she smiled. “Coffee, right?”

“I couldn't be any more clear.”

“It's not that I'm class conscious, but—”

“I get it. Coffee with the dishwasher? Look, I plan on moving up the ladder very soon. You can always say you knew me when.”

“I can't.” She turned away. “Sorry. If I have coffee that late I can't sleep.”

Damn. I'd struck out on the first try.

“Warm milk?”

She gave me a sidelong glance. “Maybe I could do that. Warm milk. That would help me sleep, right?”

“It's a date.” I'd actually pulled it off. I was going out with Kelly Fields, and I was going to learn a little more about our victim, Amanda Wright.

James walked over and I could see sweat on his brow.

“Try making duck leg confit and sauce from scratch with a
complementary salad for nineteen and a Chicago-style hot dog for one. First of all, you need raw materials, and frankly, we didn't have them.”

“You survived?”

“We did. We had one of the runners, Jimmy Gideon, hitting every restaurant within a five-mile radius. But, he got the stuff, so—” James shrugged his shoulders, obviously elated to have been a part of the excitement. “The sad part is that so far I haven't picked up much information.”

“I think you're enjoying this,” I said.

“Maybe just a little. But I know it's going to end, so I can revel in the moment. Know what I mean?”

What I knew was this. We needed a lot more work to solve this case.

“And you?” James asked.

“Got some very interesting information from Carlos, the runner, and—”

“What information?”

“Amanda told Juan Castro she was seeing someone on staff.”

“Who? For God's sake, who, Skip?”

“The dishwasher told Carlos that he thought she made it up to get rid of him after he asked her out on a date.”

“Shit.”

“But, there's a rumor she got caught out back with someone, so we can pursue that story.”

“Damn. All I got was a slice on my thumb from chopping asparagus.”

“And James, I've got a warm milk date after work.”

“A what?”

“Warm milk date. I'm having coffee, she's having milk.”