Killer Gourmet (6 page)

And she had gotten off cheap. Usually, the arduous chore of lifting Dirk from the doldrums required food. And if he was in a particularly foul mood, the food had to be free. Now that they were married, and he contributed to her weekly grocery budget, it was much harder to use that as a ploy.
Her
food was now
his
food, and therefore no longer free.

But then, as a wife, she now possessed an even more potent weapon in her arsenal.

Sex.

And since he was quite good at it, she didn't exactly mind having to resort to such underhanded tactics. “Manipulation” had its advantages.

All in all, with this new marriage contract in place, things had taken a definite turn for the better. While attempting to cheer him up, she frequently found herself feeling pretty chipper, when all was said and done.

As she guided the red pony around the curving road that skirted San Carmelita's gently rolling foothills, Savannah briefly found herself distracted once again by the view. To her right rose the brown, dusty, rain-starved cliffs, where only the most drought-resistant, native plants survived. Sagebrush, prickly pear cactus, and a few varieties of stalwart daisies and poppies clung to life there on those rocky slopes.

But to her left was the town—her town—her home for many years now. White stucco houses gleamed in the late-morning sun, picturesque with their clay, Spanish tile roofs and graceful drapings of crimson bougainvillea. Statuesque palm trees bent gracefully to the onshore flow of ocean breezes, their glimmering fronds rustling like a Polynesian dancer's grass skirt in the gentle wind.

In the distance lay the Pacific Ocean in all its splendor and grandeur, its diamond-dusted waves breaking against the city's pier, sailboats gliding in and out of the harbor, pristine beaches where children splashed with their families and chased their dogs.

All these things had lured a little girl from rural Georgia years ago. And the little girl, all grown up, had never gotten over the beauty of her new home. She would never take its charms for granted.

This sort of distraction she could take.

But once she turned the Mustang left and began to descend into town—more specifically, a not-so-great part of town—and head toward the police station, her moment of soulish rejuvenation was over.

Time to get down to business.

“Tell me again,” she said, “why you want to question Carlos and Manuel again today.”

“I already told you.”

“I know, but I'd only had two cups of coffee and I was half asleep.”

“Because they were acting suspicious last night. Extra nervous for a couple of innocent guys with an alibi.”

“I noticed that, too. But I chalked it up to an immigration issue. I know, I shouldn't profile and all that. But it's the first thing that crossed my mind.”

“Mine too. But Tammy texted me first thing this morning. She checked them out, and they're both here perfectly legal. Carlos Ortez was born and raised right here in San Carmelita. His parents, too. And Manuel Cervantes married himself an American gal five years ago. He even took the citizenship test last year and passed it. He's as legal as you can get.”

“I hear that test is really tough. That most of us couldn't pass that if we had to.”

“Tell me about it. Took me two years to get through U.S. history in high school, and even then I just squeaked through with a D.”

“Then you want to know why they were acting hinky last night if it wasn't an immigration problem.”

“Exactly.”

“They're in trouble for being legal. Because they're bona fide citizens, they're murder suspects.”

“Ironic, ain't it?”

“Okay. Are they both going to be at the station house?”

“Just Manuel. I couldn't get ahold of Carlos. We can go looking for him later.”

“Once we're done with them, what's next?”

“The morgue.”

“When did Dr. Liu say she'd be finished with the autopsy?”

“Between three and four this afternoon.”

“Then you'll be clamoring to go over there about, what, one? Two at the latest?”

“Only if you think noon would be pushing it.”

“I think if you go in there, three or four hours before she's finished, to do your usual nudging crap. It might be you that she'd be pushing.”

He looked moderately alarmed. “What? You didn't bring any kind of bribe?”

“Of course. On the backseat.”

He turned and saw the large, square, plastic container sitting in the middle of the rear seat.

Breathing a sigh of relief, he said, “Oh, wow, thanks. For a minute there I thought I'd have to pull in somewhere and try to score a box of Godiva chocolates.”

“Heaven forbid.”

He sat for a moment in silent contentment. Then suddenly he sat up straight, fully at attention.

“Wait a minute,” he said. “How much does it cost for the ingredients to make a big container full of cookies like that?”

Savannah sighed inwardly, steeling herself for the next dip on the Dirk Roller Coaster Express. “Um-m-m. I don't know. About twenty-five bucks I'd say, give or take.”

“Twenty-five bucks! Holy cow! Really?”

“Unless I use macadamia nuts, like these. Then closer to thirty-five.”

His eyes narrowed. His forehead crinkled. His lower lip shot out.

Watching him, she nearly blew through a stop sign.

Her mental cogs whirred, but only for a moment. She was getting pretty good at this.

“We've got some of that Chantilly cream left over,” she told him with a little elbow nudge and a sideways wink. “Whatcha say we put it to good use tonight?”

The clouds parted, and sunlight shone on his face. “You betcha, babe! Wow! Great idea!”

I
n order to avoid the brass, who had fired her—thereby also avoiding the temptation to murder any of them for doing so—Savannah always snuck through the back door of the police station.

Although she was held in only the highest esteem by the rank and file of the SCPD, she was pretty sure that the suits were about as eager to run into her as she was them.

All parties involved would prefer to tippy-toe, naked and barefoot, through a field of poison ivy and cockleburs.

Plus, the back entrance was the shortest way to get to the interrogation rooms. Just through the door, down a dark and depressing hallway, and to the left was an equally dark and depressing room that was little more than a cubicle.

Dirk fondly referred to it as the “sweat box.”

“You wanna watch through a one-way mirror?” he asked her.

She shot him a look of disdain.

“Or would you rather climb in the ring with us?”

“Does Victoria's Secret have fancy bloomers?”

“Gotcha.”

She took a seat inside Interrogation Room B and waited while Dirk went to the reception area to collect his interviewee.

At least
she
called them “interviewees.” Dirk had other, more colorful names for them. Terms best not used in front of news cameras or defense attorneys.

As she sat on the hard, cold, gray metal chair and wished for a couple of warm, comfy cushions, she took a moment to contemplate the wisdom that had been employed when decorating this room.

The walls were covered with dingy and stained, white-in-a-past-life, acoustic tiles. They were the sort that one would normally only have the opportunity to enjoy on an old and badly neglected schoolroom's ceiling. Savannah supposed they had been installed—rather than, say, paintings of the bucolic, rural roads of Vermont—for soundproofing. But their primary purpose was probably to convey the message, “Go ahead and scream all you want, nobody's going to hear you.”

In all of Savannah's law enforcement years, she could honestly say she had never witnessed an act of cop violence toward a suspect, beyond what was absolutely necessary to apprehend and control them.

But this room, with its gray walls, gray chairs, and gray table, had no doubt been designed to suggest to bad guys that they were very much in the hands of the law and therefore in danger of some serious unpleasantness.

So when Dirk marched his interviewee into the room, pulled out one of the metal chairs from the metal table, and gave him a moderately gentle nudge in that direction, Savannah wasn't surprised. Nor did she consider it strange to see that the gentle, affectionate teddy bear of a guy, who petted and cooed to her cats for hours on end at home, was wearing a scowl that would have intimidated a male rhinoceros during mating season.

It was all an act. And within these walls, Dirk had won far more than his share of Academy Awards.

For that matter, so had she.

“Have a seat over there, Manuel, my man,” Dirk told him. “It's time you and I had a serious talk. Mano a mano.”

Manuel sank onto the chair, leaned back, and folded his arms across his chest. His denim shirt and jeans—threadbare, stained, and ragged—were simple testaments to years of hard labor. From the high decree of sun damage on his handsome, young face, Savannah suspected that he had spent more of his life working outdoors than inside a restaurant kitchen.

Everything about his appearance bespoke poverty, except for the simple but shiny gold wedding ring on his finger. Pristine and without a scratch, it seemed out of place with the rest of his clothing.

“I don't know why we have to talk,” he said to Dirk. “We already talked last night. I told you all I know. I know nothing.”

“So you said before.” Dirk pulled out the chair between Savannah and Manuel and sat down. He leaned back a bit and clasped his hands behind his head. Immediately, Savannah recognized the gesture. It was his pseudocasual pose, the one he used when he was the most stressed.

Detective Sergeant Coulter took his interrogations very seriously. Almost as seriously as food and sex—but not quite.

Dirk made no effort to conceal the fact that he was studying every aspect of Manuel Cervantes's appearance and demeanor. His eyes raked his possible suspect from head to toe, leaving nothing unscrutinized.

Fully aware of the attention he was being paid, Manuel squirmed on his chair and tightened his arms across his chest.

“Here's the thing,” Dirk continued. “Something told me in my gut that you had a few more things to say to me. I think we have some unfinished business, you and me.”

“Like what?” the young man asked.

“That's what we're here to find out.” Dirk took his notebook from his pocket along with a ballpoint pen. He flipped it open and with great deliberation made quite a show of reading his previous notes.

Many times Savannah had watched him do this with a blank piece of paper. The thoughtful frown, the occasional nod, and more disturbing, the deeply troubled scowl while slowly shaking his head at something mysterious that seemed to bother him on a deep, soulful level.

“You told me last night that the three of you—you, Carlos, and that Francia gal—were in the alley together. You said that none of you left the others' sight. Not even for a minute.”

Manuel uncrossed his arms and grabbed the sides of the seat he was sitting upon with both hands. Savannah looked closely and saw that he was, indeed, quite literally “white-knuckling” it.

She could certainly understand why Dirk was suspicious. An interrogator might not always know the exact truth, but there were some pretty clear, telltale signs that indicated you're being lied to.

Three of the most common indications are excessive fidgeting, avoiding eye contact, and more sweat on one's brow than could be blamed on the stuffy, overheated little room.

Manuel was exhibiting all three and more. His hands were shaking, and his deeply tanned face had taken on a pale, gray pallor.

“You might as well tell me the truth,” Dirk said. “Because I know for a fact that you weren't all three out there together the whole time the chef was getting murdered. And you acting like you were—that just makes me all the more suspicious. Understand?”

Savannah never fail to be amazed by the ease with which Dirk could tell bold-faced lies to potential perpetrators. For a guy who stammered and stuttered when questioned about a broken water glass at home, for a fellow who turned red in the face when trying to hide any secret—even those completely innocent ones concerning birthday and Christmas gifts—Dirk could lie his bo-hunkus off on the job without the slightest twitch to give him away.

“I don't know what you mean,” Manuel told him with less than convincing sincerity. “The chef, he was alive when we left the kitchen. He was eating the leftover food, like he always does. We went into the alley, around toward the side of the building. We smoked our cigarettes. When we came back inside, he was dead.”

“Except that you weren't all three out there the whole time,” Dirk said. “Either you're covering for someone else, or they're covering for you. Which is it?”

Frantically, Manuel glanced around the room, then stared down at the floor, as though he wished it would open up and swallow him. “I know nothing. That is all I can say to you. I know nothing.”

Dirk stood up so abruptly that Manuel jumped, startled by the sudden movement. “Then tell me about that earlier fight. The one we walked in on, where the pots and pans were flying around the room. What caused that?”

A brief look crossed the young man's face—fleeting, but potent. It was a look of pure rage that set off alarm bells in Savannah's head. She also noticed that he gave a quick glance down at the shining band on his finger.

A second later he had recovered himself, and he gave a casual shrug. “It wasn't a fight,” he said. “It was just the chef getting mad. If he doesn't get what he wants, when he wants it, the way he wants it, he throws a fit.”

Savannah couldn't help noticing that he was referring to his former boss in the present tense. That was a mark in his favor, as far as she was concerned. She had noticed that innocent parties had a harder time adjusting to the idea that someone they knew was dead.

Murderers seemed to have no problem in that regard.

They'd know all too well, because they'd been there when it happened.

“And what was the chef throwing a fit about that time?” she asked.

“Who knows? Who remembers?”

Again he refused to meet her gaze and gave an exaggerated shrug that suggested to Savannah that he did, indeed, know and remember all too well.

“You do,” she said. “It would be better for you if you told us now. We're going to find out sooner or later. When somebody gets murdered we find out everything . . . sooner or later.”

For the first time since he had entered the room, Manuel Cervantes turned to Savannah and looked deep into her eyes. The pain, fear, and sadness she saw in his went straight to her heart. Obviously, this young man was harboring secrets. But she had a hard time believing he was evil.

Evil enough to stab another human being over and over, then take a meat cleaver to his head? No, she couldn't believe it.

“You know, Manuel,” she said as gently as she could, “we don't care about people's secrets, unless they have to do with this murder. The killing—that's all we care about, not people's personal lives. We know you have secrets. Everyone does. If we find out what they are from someone else, it's going to look bad for you. It would be much better if you tell us yourself.”

“I cannot, senora,” he said. “My secrets are not my own to tell.”

Again he glanced down at his wedding band.

“What is your wife's name?” she asked him.

He looked startled, upset by the question. “Why? Why do you ask about my wife?”

She gave him her warmest, kindest smile. “Because you have a very pretty wedding band. I was wondering what nice lady gave it to you.”

She cast a quick, sideways look at Dirk and saw the confused expression on his face. No doubt he wondered where she was going with this.

As Savannah had hoped, Manuel's manner softened in response to her kindness. A gentle sweetness filled his eyes when he said, “Celia.
Mi esposa
, her name is Celia.”

“What a lovely name. How long have you and Celia been married?”

“Only two . . . oh . . . I mean . . . five years.”

Savannah shot Dirk another look. This time she could practically see the antennae sprouting out of his head.

“Which is it?” Dirk snapped. “Two or five years?”

“Five years,” Manuel repeated a bit too emphatically. “We've been married five years. She is a citizen. I'm a citizen now, too.”

“So we've heard.” Dirk walked over to the door and opened it. “Congratulations. Now you can vote and pay taxes like the rest of us. And if I arrest you for murder, you can serve your sentence here in a decent jail, where we feed you and everything. Not like where you come from.”

Manuel wasted no time as he hurried toward the door. But just before he exited, Dirk stopped him, a firm hand on his shoulder.

“Don't you go anywhere, Manuel, my man. Now ain't the time for you to be takin' no vacations to Puerto Vallarta. You stick close to home until we've got this case wrapped up. You hear me?”

Manuel gave him a curt nod. “I hear you. I will stay.”

“Good. See that you do.”

Once Manuel had disappeared down the hallway, Savannah reached under her chair, retrieved her purse, and stood. As always she was happy to escape from the tiny room and the claustrophobia it induced. Tonight it had seemed especially hot, and she was eager to leave it and its stale air behind.

Joining Dirk in the hall, she said to him, “You were pretty rough on that kid, considering that you don't have a doggone thing on him.”

“I do, too, have something on him. He's lying to me. I can feel it. And you know how much I like being lied to.”

“About as much as you like finding a big ol' juicy worm in the middle of your kosher dill pickle?”

He took her hand and led her through the back door of the station house. “No. About as much as I like finding
half
of a big ol' juicy worm in my kosher dill pickle.”

 

Savannah parked the Mustang a block away from the Castillo de Ortez. Since she was feeling the ill effects of having taken a nap, rather than sleeping an entire night, she would've been happy to have parked closer. But the corner of Lester Street and Milton Lane was the busiest and most crowded in San Carmelita.

The so-called “Castillo” was the reason why.

The name, which translated to “Castle of Ortez,” was a joke, as the “castle” was no more than a rickety, unsightly shack about 16 feet by 12 feet. But out of that tiny establishment came a cornucopia-like flood of some of the best tacos, burritos, and tostados to be had north of the Mexican border.

From eleven o'clock in the morning until two o'clock in the afternoon, a long line of hungry patrons stretched down the block, eagerly awaiting an inexpensive, nutritious, outrageously tasty lunch.

Often, when passing the Castillo, Savannah had chuckled to herself, thinking that the proprietors of this humble establishment must be giggling with glee on their daily trips to the bank. With the money made from this ridiculous little hovel, they were probably paying for a mansion with a breathtaking view of the ocean, perched high on one of San Carmelita's majestic hills.