Hot Stuff (30 page)

“I do.”

“Then I want this to work.”

He reached out and touched my left hand.

“Skip, if it doesn't work, if the alarm goes off, I've got a solution.”

I'd learned over the years that his solutions are often worse than the problem.

“What's your solution?”

“Run like hell, amigo. Run like hell.”

There's something about James that makes me somewhat okay with risk. Part of it is that my best friend has my back. Part of it is that with his bravado, his brash give-a-damn attitude, it's hard not to buy into what he's doing. And then I was reminded about what Kelly Fields said, how James uses people and I was pretty much riding on his coattails. In this case his coattails could drag us both off to jail.

I turned the handle, taking deep breaths, and letting them out slowly.

“You gonna be okay?”

I didn't answer. Feeling the perspiration on my forehead running down into my eyes, I reached up to wipe my face with my right hand. Wiping with latex gloves just smears the sweat. It doesn't help at all.

I kept pressure on the handle, careful not to move the door. James had, in fact, picked the lock and now all that was left was for me to pull the door open and place the Walgreens magnet on the door-frame contact. In half a second. And make sure that it fit snugly against that contact with the right polarity. What the
hell, there was a fifty percent chance I'd get it right. Probably less than a fifty percent chance that I could do it quickly enough to bypass the alarm.

My roommate was strangely quiet, and when I glanced up at him, I could see his concentration. He was pulling for me; we both wanted everything to work perfectly.

Easing the door open, pulling it toward me a fraction of an inch at a time, I steadied my right hand, ready to position the magnet as soon as the contact in the frame became visible. Slowly, I moved it. James was right. If I screwed it up, we would simply run for the truck. It was going to take the cops at least a couple of minutes to get here.

“Dude, a cop car just drove by.”

“Are you sure it was a—”

“No question. Lights on top, the whole thing. They were moving very slowly.”

And there was the metal contact. With my right hand, my thumb and index finger, I pushed the magnet in place. It almost snapped. The polarity was perfect.

Holding my breath, I waited, expecting to hear the wail of an alarm siren at any second. There was nothing. I gently pulled and the door swung out into the parking lot, the magnet holding firm. The floodlight mounted above the door threw our shadows onto the asphalt, and I quickly stepped into the kitchen. James followed.

Closing the door almost all the way, I let it rest against the magnet, making sure the thin piece of metal stayed in place. If the door closed all the way, the circuit would still be complete, but then I'd have to repeat the process to get out of the restaurant. This way, when we exited, I would just push the door tight, the magnet would slide off the contact and the door and frame contact would once again make a seamless connection.

The atmosphere was eerie. There were three faint security
lights illuminating the kitchen, but the brilliance of work lights on a nightly basis was burned into my brain, and to see the broiler, stove, the bulky dishwasher, and other features in the hazy shadows of these dim bulbs was strange, to say the least.

“Cheap security system, James. We should have been detected by now.”

“Shut up, amigo. Be thankful that you know that, but Bouvier apparently doesn't. Or he doesn't think anyone would ever break in.”

I thought about it. We were seriously in violation of any number of laws. If we were caught, there was probably jail time coming. Unless Detective Ted would stand up for us. And if he didn't, with me away, and Em available, well, I didn't want to think about it.

“The faster we get this done, the faster we can vamoose.”

I followed him, walking over the rubber mats through the kitchen as we took a left down the hall.

“We're going to take that CD this time, pard. No reason for the hoodies. Please, do not let me leave this office without taking the CD out of the recorder.”

There was no way we were going to make that mistake again.

He tried the door to the office, but Tara had apparently locked it on her way out. She had probably assumed Bouvier had forgotten to lock it. Once again, James pulled the misshapen paper clips from his pocket and worked them into the mechanism. He seemed more confident this time and within three minutes he pushed it open.

Stepping into the tiny office, James flipped on the lights.

“If this detective thing doesn't work out,” I said, “we can always go into B and E.”

Walking to the recorder, James popped open the plastic door and removed the CD. He put it in the back pocket of his jeans and turned to me with a smile.

“We didn't do it, pard. No proof that it was us.”

He still had to open the tool chest. A different type of lock, smaller and more fragile.

“How are you going to do this one?”

“YouTube, Skip.”

He walked back into the kitchen and came back with a sheet of thin metal.

“A pan from Mrs. Fields's station. This sheet of steel will open the chest.”

“You knew this before we got here?”

“Be prepared, Skip. The Boy Scout motto.”

“You were never a Boy Scout.”

James wedged the thin pan into the slot between the top of the chest and the first drawer, then slowly, he shoved it farther into the tool chest. When he'd finished, there was barely any of the pan showing, the metal hitting the back of the box.

“Now, if this works according to plan—” he pushed down on the metal pan and pulled on the first drawer as it effortlessly came forward.

“And that's how it's done, amigo.”

I had to hand it to him. He'd pulled everything off perfectly. I should have been frightened, but then I'd beaten the security system. No easy task. We were getting good at skills we shouldn't even have.

“So now we count knives?”

“Look.”

I glanced into the drawer. There were seven knives lined up evenly on green felt with one space next to them. The empty space had the perfect imprint of a nine-inch kitchen knife.

He shut the drawer and opened the second one. Eight knives lined up evenly.

And the third, and fourth. The bottom drawer had five knives.

“Room for thirty-seven, Skip.”

“Yeah. And one removed to give to you.”

We stood there staring at the red chest with the metal baking pan shoved into the top.

“Damn. I was sure the murder knife came from here. I could feel it.”

“It would have been convenient for the killer.”

“I've got a gut feeling, Skip. We're missing it. Right in front of us.”

I heard the bump out in the kitchen and we both froze.

“Maybe a rat,” James whispered.

“Vanderfield?”

He smiled.

“None of the staff is going to come in here at this hour of the morning.”

We stood still, straining to hear another sound. There was nothing.

James stuck his head out the door, glancing toward the kitchen.

“I don't see anything.”

We were both talking in hushed voices.

“We know that the Wüsthof was used as the murder weapon, and in the top drawer,” he counted down the knives, “four of these are nine-inch Wüsthofs. Number five would be the one he gave to me.”

“Pretty risky venture to find nothing.” I was speaking in my lowest voice.

“I'm sorry man, I put us both in a spot. I just thought that—”

“Oh, my God. Oh, my God.” I felt my heart jump in my chest.

“What?”

I wanted to scream, but ground my teeth instead.

“The knife on the end, just before the blank spot.”

“Skip,” his raspy whisper, “it's just another nine-inch knife.”

“No, it's not.”

“What is it?”

“Look. Carefully.”

Leaning over, he studied the German steel knife.

“Holy shit, Skip. It's got the nick in the blade. That's my knife, amigo. My damned knife.”

That's when we heard the bump again, coming from the kitchen.

“Somebody is out there.”

“Shit, we are going to have so much explaining to do.”

The office door was open, and James reached over to close it.

“You need a key to lock it.”

I turned the lights off and we were left in almost total darkness. I could barely make out my surroundings from the faint light that came through the small window in the door.

We could hear footsteps coming down the hallway, the sound of someone's canvas sneakers slapping the concrete. Then silence.

Closing my eyes, I took a deep breath and held it. It was supposed to be a relaxation technique, but it wasn't working very well.

We were startled when the doorknob turned, James and I both pressing our backs to the wall. We could leap out and attack the person, we could immediately start making excuses, although I had no idea what those excuses would be, or we could just be quiet and let the scene unfold. I don't ever remember being in a situation like this, and James and I had been in some pretty stressful situations.

Even in dim light I could see the fear in my roommate's eyes.

Whoever was in the hall let the doorknob go and it flipped back to its original position. There was another moment of silence, then a click, and footsteps retreating toward the locker room.

“Oh, shit, Skip.”

“Are you thinking what I'm thinking?”

“That jammed handle.”

“Whoever it is just locked us in.”

It's hard to tell how much time passes when you're in the dark and in panic mode. I'd have guessed fifteen minutes while we stood in silence, once in a while whispering an idea to each other.

“Worst case scenario, we break the door down.”

“If we're able.”

More silence. Then James spoke.

“Who was it? Did they know we were in here?”

“James,” I'd pretty much gone over the whole thing in my head, “there was a magnet wedged between the door and the frame. The kitchen door was unlocked and whoever came in figured out the alarm didn't go off. I think they pretty much knew that somebody had broken in.”

“Maybe they don't know we're in the office. I mean, whoever it is may have just checked the door, found it wasn't locked, and locked it.”

More silence.

“Where did they go?”

“You know, whoever this is has a key. Who's got a key?”

“Bouvier.”

“One.”

“Chef Marty.”

“Two.”

“Tara.”

“Three.”

“Oh, and probably Vanderfield.”

I was surprised. “Why?”

“He's a sous chef.”

“So are you.”

“He's the
real
sous chef.” James spoke in a coarse whisper. “When Marty isn't here, he takes over. I'm certain he's got a key to the building, the office, and the walk-in. And I'm positive that Amanda Wright had the same access.”

It could have been any one of them. Obviously not Amanda, but we had no idea what we were up against.

“Skip,” he was looking out through the small window, “what if he called the cops?”

“I've already thought of that. We just try to get Conway to stand up for us.”

“Skip—”

“Yeah?”

“You've got your cell phone.”

“Yeah.”

“Call Em.”

“And tell her what?”

“See if she's got any ideas.”

I couldn't believe that James was making a plea to solicit Em for a way to get us out of this jam.

“She told you she thought you were an idiot. Now you want me to call her and admit it. That we both got caught with our pants down?”