Hot Stuff (27 page)

“And?”

“In my locker. Two hoodies.”

“As I said, and?”

“After work, we go back to the changing room, put on the sweatshirts, pull up the hoods, and come back to the office.”

“Are you out of your mind?”

“Skip.” He shot a quick look at the prep table. “I've got to go, but here's the scenario. Nobody is expecting a break-in. Am I right?”

“I guess.”

“We have to cover all bases so we disguise ourselves.”

“If you can call that a disguise.”

“Once we get in—”

“Assuming you're successful.”

He squinted at me. “Once we get in, we simply remove the CD from the recorder. There's no record we were ever there.”

“And they won't miss that CD?”

“Sure. But they won't have any proof of who took it. And, hey, maybe Marty or whoever is in charge forgot to put it in. Could happen. They'll just think it was an oversight.”

“And if you can't get in? If your locksmith talents fail you and me?”

“It won't matter. They're only going to review the CDs if something happens. Like someone walks out with a dozen steaks or lobsters.”

“Or if someone breaks off a paperclip in the lock.”

“Mmmm,” he nodded. “You know, the guy in the video did say that could happen.”

“I hope you know what you're doing.”

James dropped the clips back into his pocket.

“So do I, amigo. So do I.”

“Where did you get the idea of hooded sweatshirts?”

“YouTube. One of the best ways to hide from surveillance cameras. You can learn so much shit on there, man.”

We walked the hallway, tossing stained aprons into the laundry hamper.

“So now we live our lives by what happens on YouTube?”

“Let's give it a try, Skip.”

“YouTube. Mostly made up of stupid people doing stupid stuff!”

“Brian Gurney's movie,
Phase One
. Paul Rudd says it to Cecil Jackson. Don't try to fool me with movie quotes, amigo.”

I knew he'd recognize it.

“One, two,” he was gazing up, “and three.” Red lights on the cameras were blinking. “And unless someone does something really bad tonight—”

“Like killing a sous chef in the alley?”

“Something like that. Unless that happens, no one is going to go looking through those CDs. And they recycle them after four weeks. So pray that no one steals food, tries to have sex in
the walk-in, or, as you pointed out, Skip, kills someone. With just a little luck, we should be home free. No one is going to see us on any video surveillance. Okay?”

Reaching his locker, James unlocked the padlock and slowly pulled open the thin metal door. He seemed to steel himself for the possible shock of another macabre surprise.

There was nothing. Just his civilian clothes and two rolled up hoodies on the upper shelf.

“All right, Tonto, most of the crew is gone.”

The waitstaff, dining room manager, and Marty never visited the locker room. They exited as soon as their shift ended, hurrying out the back door.

“Who locks up?”

“The manager. Tara. She's in her own little office across from the pastry station, tallying the night's receipts.”

“How much does a place like this make in a night?”

“Not as much as you think. This place probably grosses eight grand.”

“That sounds pretty damned good.”

“Skip, they're lucky if they net eight percent.”

All of a sudden it didn't sound so good.

“It's enough to say that this guy, Bouvier, doesn't worry about the gross or the net on this establishment. He's making his killing on TV, on pots and pans, on spices, and all the other stuff. Give it to him, Skip. The guy is a marketing genius.”

“Or, he's the chief cook and bottle washer, but his wife is the brains behind the organization.”

“Could be.”

We pulled on the sweatshirts and started back down the hall.

“Put up your hood.”

Feeling extremely silly, I did just that. “They're going to know it's us, James. This is crazy.”

“We're going to take the CD, Skip. This is strictly precautionary.”

“Talked to Kelly Fields tonight. Or rather, she talked to me.”

James stopped and looked at me through the opening in his shroud.

“About what?”

“She asked me not to mention the conversation we'd had. The night we went out for a beer. Didn't want me to tell anyone.”

“After you've shared it with everyone you know?”

“Sort of.”

“And?”

“She's getting back with her husband. Didn't want our meeting to appear as anything it wasn't.”

James laughed. “Dude, you are the least likely candidate to be the ‘other' man in a married woman's life.”

I didn't know whether to be offended or complimented.

“Anyway, Mikey Pollerno comes out of nowhere, and tells me the reason for the breakup was that Amanda Wright might have been making a play for Kelly's husband. And maybe this husband didn't discourage the advances.”

“Dude.”

“I know.”

“When did this chick ever have time to work?”

“Just out of curiosity—” and I was curious, “did you ever—”

“No. Never. We've been over this before.”

“It wouldn't be beyond you to—”

“Skip, let's get to the matter at hand. I've got two pieces of metal in my pocket. I've had some success with opening at least one lock, and I'm hoping I can do it again. I need you to keep an open eye, be a lookout.”

If James was caught, I was caught. As usual, my best friend was putting me in a very vulnerable situation.

Pulling the paper clips from his pocket, he looked back at the kitchen. No one was in view.

“This is the tension wrench,” he said as he gently inserted it into the lock. “And this is the rake.”

Slowly, carefully, he pushed the bent metal into the upper portion of the slot. Then he started wiggling it.

“You have to apply the tension, then get the tumblers to fall. You jiggle, put some tension on the wrench, jiggle some more—”

He was reveling in the method, when all of a sudden he stopped.

“Tara's office door.” He was whispering. “I think it just opened.”

“Shit.”

We both pressed up against the wall, holding our breath.

Ten seconds went by and there was no more sound from the kitchen office.

We stood perfectly still. If someone walked down that hall, we would have some explaining to do.

I could hear fans in the kitchen and a faucet being opened. Water splashed in a stainless sink. Someone started whistling off key, and the water stopped.

“How the hell are we going to explain what we're doing?” I barely mouthed the words.

James motioned toward the locker room.

“We go back there. We were just getting cleaned up and lost track of time.”

A door slammed shut, and I froze.

“She's back in the office. We've got time. She's doing the books and that's a long process.”

I wasn't so sure.

“Skip,” he whispered again, “this means that Kelly Fields is a primary suspect.”

I was quiet. I really liked her. However, her relationship with Amanda Wright didn't seem to be symbiotic.

“Think about it, man. Amanda was hitting on her husband. She had the perfect motivation. And, she was on the boat that night.”

“I know, James. But she's getting back with him. Nothing happened. So it makes no sense that—”

“Dude,” he was slow and deliberate, “Amanda was hitting on Kelly's husband. In a brief, unguarded moment, in a moment of passion, of unbridled violence, she stabs the girl. Repeatedly. Picture it, Skip, she wants to save the marriage. She's got kids, she's got—”

“Pick the damned lock. If you're that good, prove it to me.”

He wiggled the rake. This wire of a paper clip, bent out of shape, he moved it rapidly inside the lock, all the while holding the tension wrench, another paper clip jammed into the bottom portion of the slot, to the left, putting pressure on the mechanism. Back and forth he jiggled the rake as I continually checked down the hall, keeping my hood pulled tight around my face.

If we got caught or if Tara came back out, holy hell would break loose. Pretending to be kitchen personnel wouldn't sit well with the staff, but breaking and entering, stealing CDs, there had to be a penalty of several years in prison for that. My guess. I hadn't had time to research the sentence.

“Hurry up.”

“It's going to take a minute or so.”

“Longest damned minute I've ever experienced.”

“Minutes are minutes, Skip.”

The temperature in the building must have gone up ten degrees or those hoodies were warm, because I was sweating and I saw perspiration on James's forehead. Jiggling that piece he called the rake seemed fruitless. It was only a matter of minutes
before Tara or some other employee would wander down the hallway and see us breaking the law.

“James, let's go. Screw the CDs. We cannot get caught doing—”

“It's open, amigo. Quick. Inside.”

Opening the door, he stepped inside and I followed.

James gently closed the door, and we stood in the dark office, lit only by the lights in the hallway shining through the small window in the office door.

“Where are the CDs?”

“Right there, beside the monitor and the recorder.”

“Five of them. These must have video from the night in question.”

I grabbed the plastic discs and stuffed them under the sweatshirt. James opened the door, glanced in both directions, and we exited.

“Take off your hood. Hell, we look like thieves,” James said.

“Take off the shirt,” I replied. “It's eighty degrees in here and probably eighty outside.”

“Good point.”

I wrapped the CDs in the cloth as we headed out through the kitchen. Tara walked out of her office, startling us both.

With a questioning look she said, “Getting out a little late, aren't you?”

“Just talking back there.” James pointed toward the locker room. “Taking our time, you know?”

She studied us for a moment.

“Anything in the shirts?”

We both shook our heads. Maybe she thought we had food.

“Nothing, just heading home.”

She nodded to us and walked back toward Bouvier's office.

“Thank God we got out of that one.” James watched her walk away, obviously admiring her butt.

“Let's just hope these are the right CDs.”

“We'll know in about fifteen minutes. Em is waiting up for us.”

Stepping out into the humid Miami night, I took a deep breath. The pungent odor of saltwater and seaweed permeated the air, fresher than the mixed smell of grease and food inside.

“Skip, it looked like Tara was going down to Bouvier's office.”

We walked to the truck.

“Yeah?”

“The door to the office is open. I forgot that it only locks with a key.”

“James, she'll think someone forgot to lock it.”

“Maybe. But we also forgot something else.”

“What?”

“The CD in the recorder.” He stopped, staring back at the building. “The one showing us breaking into the office.”