Retreat

by J. F. Gonzalez

  Brian felt his heart lodge in his throat. His breath held, he could only think, no, please don’t search the office, just get out of here, please, just leave!

  “Yeah, we probably should,” Paul responded. “In fact, we should probably search every cubical and office in the admin area. Let’s get him to the kitchen first.”

  Shit! Brian waited as the three security guys carried Rick out of his office, their footfalls fading as they headed down the hall toward the end of the wing.

  CHAPTER 28

  Eight Months Ago

  He was at an exclusive private party in a very large house nestled in the foothills of the Saddleback Mountain Region in Aliso Viejo, California. The home was owned by Earl Sanders and it was impressive. Ten thousand square feet, with crown moldings, a high ceilinged great room, and a large deck off the back that overlooked a sparkling swimming pool—it would set Joe back about seventeen million if he were to buy it. Earl had already mentioned to Joe that he was thinking of selling. Joe had feigned interest. Seventeen million was easily within his price range, but he wasn’t too wild about the location. It was too close to the foothills. Brush fire territory. If he was going to have another home in Orange County, he’d prefer a place at the beach, preferably perched on a cliff overlooking the ocean. He’d seen such a place yesterday while flipping through a real estate paper and the asking price was thirty-five million. If he was going to pay that kind of money for a California house, it better goddamn well have a spectacular ocean view. The only thing Earl Sanders’s home had going for it was a pretty spectacular view of the entire South Orange County area and Saddleback valley.

  There were two dozen people at the house, most of them Earl’s colleagues. Joe got a chance to talk a bit more with Earl this time, and found him to be a gregarious family man. His wife had taken their kids away for the weekend to Magic Mountain and weren’t due back until the following day. Joe learned that Earl Saunders was involved in the overseas investing market. He was also involved in several shell corporations that served as holding companies for other interests, most of them in the construction industry. “I do a lot of business with the Tyler Corporation,” Earl had told Joe as they stood at the bar. “I know all their top brass—Steve Bloch, Harry Goldstein, Wayne Sanders. I also sit on the board of a few companies John and George are involved in.”

  Joe had nodded, sipping his drink. He didn’t react, but when Earl mentioned Wayne Sanders’s name, his antennae had gone up.

  Finally! A lead on the elusive Bill Richards!

  Chef Munchel, the chef he’d met last month in Newport Beach, was catering the dinner. John Lansdale and George Spector had wandered over and John had raised his glass at them and smiled. “Come join the party!”

  The four of them had talked business for a little bit, then Earl had begged off. “I need to tend to some things for the party,” he’d said. “You guys make yourself at home. Enjoy!”

  Chef Jim Munchel was ensconced in the huge kitchen preparing the main courses and directing the activities of his garnish and sous chef. Talk about the impending merger from their meeting at the restaurant last month had concluded with an agreement—come tomorrow, the lawyers were going to get together via Skype and agree to the basics per their clients’ wishes; then, the paperwork would get drawn up. Things could be legal within another month or so. Wiggling into Earl’s radar hadn’t come easy, but it was a step closer to Wayne Sanders, whose name was on the articles of incorporation papers Dean had uncovered at the Casper County Deeds office for Apex, Limited, the company that had placed the advertisement for the job Carla had applied for. Apex, Limited had pulled out of the small office space they had rented during the time Carla had supposedly visited them, and a search through industry sources didn’t turn up anything on them. If Bill Richards worked for Apex, Mr. Sanders could lead John and Dean to him. That was the theory, and that was the loose plan Joe and Dean had come up with; start digging, worm your way into the lives of these people and make your way to Mr. Sanders and, from there, the elusive Mr. Richards. The last person to apparently see Carla alive.

  Joe thought about this as he drained the rest of his martini. He glanced toward the kitchen. “I’ll be right back,” he said.

  George nodded. “You getting another drink?”

  “That and some munchies,” Joe said.

  “I’ll go with you.” George joined him and together they entered the house and made their way to the huge center island that bordered the kitchen and the living room.

  A very large array of Hors D’oeuvres had been placed on various serving trays that rested on one half of the island—various finger sandwiches (capicola, salami, muenster cheese), caviar and crackers, ladyfingers, peeled carrots with various dips, and the requisite potato chips with sour cream and onion dip. Even the wealthy loved chips and dip. Joe picked up a carrot and popped it in his mouth as a young woman dressed in a backless white outfit floated by and asked if he wanted a refill on his drink. She took their glasses and departed to refill them at the bar (which was positioned in the corner near the kitchen).

  “Earl knows Chef Munchel pretty well, I see,” Joe said.

  “Oh yeah,” George said. “We all do. Jim caters to some pretty important, influential people.”

  “Well, I can see why. The food at the restaurant was spectacular.”

  Chef Munchel noticed them and called out. “Gentlemen! Mr. Spector and Mr. Garrison! Come to the kitchen for a moment!”

  Joe and George walked around the center island to the kitchen, trying to stay out of the way of the other kitchen staff. Chef Munchel was standing over the eight burner stove. He held a spoon up in a here, try this, gesture to Joe. “What is it?” Joe asked, curious.

  “Don’t ask, just taste,” Jim said. He held his left hand below the spoon to catch any dripping sauce.

  The aroma was intoxicating, and the look and texture of the food was wonderful. Joe detected a hint of oregano and spice in the tomato-based sauce. The meat was finely cut, but Joe couldn’t tell what it was. Curious, he nodded and let Chef Munchel spoon a bite into his mouth. An explosion of flavor rocked his senses. He chewed, savoring the myriad of tastes. The meat was so tender that it melted in his mouth. “What is this?” he marveled. “It’s wonderful!”

  “One moment,” Chef Munchel said. He spooned a sample for George, who stood beside Joe. George nodded, smacking his lips. “Oh yeah, this is great! Wonderful!”

  Jim smiled. He glanced at Joe, a twinkle in his eye as he turned back to the dish that was simmering in a very large skillet on the stove. He moved the skillet away to a nearby counter for final preparation. Beside him, another chef was preparing another batch of the same dish. Must be the main course, Joe thought.

  “So what is it?” Joe asked.

  “Take a guess,” Jim invited.

  The taste and sensation of the dish was still fresh on his mind. “The meat has the consistency and texture of a fine cut of chicken, but the taste was vaguely pork-like to me.”

  “Mr. Garrison wins the Rolls Royce!” Jim cried. He turned his attention back to the stove. “That was pork loin simmered in a garlic tomato-based sauce that is a secret recipe of mine. The pork loin itself is marinated in a lime-based marinade. This dish is being served with rice pilaf and spinach salad with raisins.”

  Joe’s mouth watered at the mention of what was on the menu. “Once again, I have come to the right place.”

  George laughed beside him. “Jim has a way with food, all right. I don’t think there’s a dish Chef Munchel hasn’t tried making.”

  “You name it, I’ve cooked it,” Jim said, standing nonchalantly at the kitchen as he worked his magic. “I’ve prepared everything from peanut-butter and jelly sandwiches for kids’ birthday parties to five course meals with exotic and rare ingredients for kings and princes in far away lands. I’ve cooked things most people wouldn’t eat if you told them what the ingredients were. I’ve—”

  “You mean like monkey brains and birds ne
st soup?” Joe piped in, his tone joking. The cocktail waitress had delivered their drinks and Joe took a sip of his.

  “Yes, I’ve prepared both before. Monkey brains are considered a delicacy in some Asian cultures.”

  George raised his eyebrows. “You’ve prepared that, Jim? I didn’t know that.”

  “Aren’t the monkeys still alive when you...you know...eat their brains?” Joe tried not to look repulsed by the idea.

  Jim sighed. “I’m afraid that is an urban legend, Mr. Garrison. The dish is usually prepared as part of an ingredient in a variety of Asian meals, and is served with coconut palms and banana leaves. It can be fried, boiled, or cooked in a wok with a variety of herbs and spices. But it is never consumed raw while the monkey is alive. You’ve watched too many movies.”

  Joe nodded. “I remember in one of the Indiana Jones films, the main character was served chilled monkey brains as part of the meal.”

  “There are dozens of rare and exotic dishes,” Chef Munchel said. He was working on preparing another batch of the wonderful pork loin he’d just given Joe and George a taste of. One of the sous chefs had removed the skillet and was dishing portions out over a bed of steamed vegetables and rice. “There is a dish I’ve prepared that uses the thorax and the legs of the South American Goliath bird-eating spider. That’s quite good. I’ve also prepared dishes with tiger meat, giraffe, and sea turtles.”

  “I’ve had sea turtle before,” Joe said, recounting a trip he’d taken to New Orleans on business where he’d tried sea turtle and alligator. “I really liked it.”

  “Would you try some of the other dishes Chef Munchel mentioned?” George asked. He was grinning.

  Joe shrugged. “You know, if it was any other chef, I’d say no. But I’ve seen this man work, and I’ve tasted his food twice, and I would have to say yes. I’ll try anything he prepares.”

  “Anything? Those are some bold words, Mr. Garrison.” Watching Chef Munchel work effortlessly at the stove, his fingers deftly pinching the right amount of seasoning into the simmering dish was like watching a skilled magician. “I’ve prepared dishes utilizing animal parts that are usually disposed of in Western cooking. Lungs, livers, hearts, intestines, and the brains of chickens and cows—you’d be surprised at what you can create out of what most people would find unappetizing.”

  “I’ve had menudo,” Joe said. “And when I was in Pennsylvania on business, I had pig stomach and scrapple once. I liked it.”

  “So you aren’t immune to the leftovers?”

  “Not at all.”

  “That’s good to know.” Chef Munchel gave Joe a grin. “Dinner will be served shortly. Why don’t the two of you find yourselves a place at the table?”

  Joe and George left the kitchen and threaded their way through the living room to the large and expansive dining room. “Chef Munchel is an interesting guy,” Joe said. “I bet he’ll pretty much prepare whatever you want when you hire him for something like this, won’t he?”

  “Absolutely,” George said. The two of them found a place at the end of the table and sat down. “Jim will track down any ingredient within the budget he is allowed, and he is not adverse to cooking dishes that are considered taboo in Western culture.”

  “Really?”

  “Oh yeah.” George took a sip of his drink. “I attended one event where the menu consisted of bull penis and the beating heart of a cobra.”

  Joe raised his eyebrows. “Beating heart of a cobra?”

  “Yeah.” George chuckled and shook his head. “I wouldn’t touch that. The bull penis, on the other hand, was pretty tasty.”

  “What did it taste like?”

  “A good filet mignon!” George laughed. Joe laughed too.

  As other guests arrived and Earl appeared at the head of the table, Joe unrolled the heavy cloth napkin that was part of his place-setting and set it on his lap. George was halfway finished with his drink. “I think I might have to get Chef Munchel’s number,” Joe said. “The guys I work with frequently host private parties like this. Munchel would be a big hit.”

  “I bet he would,” George said.

  “I might have to talk him into catering an event for me,” Joe said, continuing with his train of thought. “Think Chef Munchel would cook for me if I hire him?”

  George smiled and looked at Joe. “Mr. Garrison, for the right money, Chef Munchel will prepare anything you want.”

  CHAPTER 29

  Five more days. That’s all she had to put up with. Five more days.

  Anna King was the only waitress who’d been tapped for dinner service for the private event. Under normal circumstances, it would be a piece of cake. There were only a dozen high rollers at Bent Creek for the private event, most of them consisting of the Board of Directors, which Anna thought was strange. Equally strange was the fact that she’d heard all of them had arrived within the past day or so, with the exception of Wayne, the head-honcho. Unlike Wayne, who Anna had never met, much less caught a glimpse of, they’d all made brief appearances around the grounds in the final days of the season. Currently, all of them except for Drake Johnson and Ben Eastman were still in their suites. Drake and Ben were seated at Table Four having their morning coffee and breakfast, which Anna had just served them.

  Anna thought about this as she prepared drink orders—coffee and various juices—and delivered them to the few tables seating patrons. The way she’d heard it, the grounds were being rented by a private party for the next five days. No problem there, but why were all Board members present? The way Anna saw it, there were perhaps half a dozen other people who had remained after the facility closed for the season. Carl White was one of them. Theresa and Mitch Johnson, the couple she’d become friendly with a few nights ago, was another. All three of them were seated at two different tables. The Johnson couple were talking quietly over their morning coffee. Mr. White was reading the Wall Street Journal, a bagel with cream cheese and a carafe of coffee at his table. Five guests made for a slow breakfast service.

  Chef Munchel was currently performing kitchen duties and it was a piece of cake for him, too. Anna wondered why Chef Munchel had dismissed all of the kitchen staff—including the bartenders—and had only kept her. The way it was explained to her, she was only required to work breakfast and dinner service for the next five days. She wouldn’t be required to do clean-up. After her service, she was free to lounge around in her room all day, use the spa and pool, and do whatever she felt like so long as she didn’t venture into the private banquet areas (which she wouldn’t have access to anyway, being a secured area). She had talked with Barry Young, one of Chef Munchel’s assistant chefs, one morning a week or two back, about the private event. Barry had been on staff at Bent Creek for five years, and he thought Chef Munchel was strange. “But hey, they’re rich pricks and they pay good.” They’d been sitting with a group of fellow employees at the employee bar-and-grill. He was a big guy, his forearms heavily tattooed. He reminded Anna of an English bulldog. “If these rich fucks wanna pay me ten G’s for twenty hours of work for the next five days, I’d be down with that.”

  Chef Munchel broke her train of thought, pushing two plates out at her from the pass. “Johnson’s order is up,” he said. He nodded at her, giving her a smile. Comrades in arms. Anna smiled back and transferred the orders to a serving tray. Scrambled eggs and bacon on one plate with a slice of orange, and a breakfast crepe with linked sausage framed with fresh cut strawberries on another. Both dishes looked and smelled wonderful. Anna balanced the tray on her left hand and headed toward the Johnson’s table.

  She had to walk past Carl White’s table and the table where the two Bent Creek board members were seated to reach the Johnson’s. She’d had the feeling throughout the morning that she was being observed. It was subtle, and most people wouldn’t have noticed, but Anna wasn’t most people. She picked up on things like this, and it was especially strong this morning; Carl White sneaking quick glances at her as she took orders from other tables; brief
lapses in conversation from the two board members as she passed them on her way to take the Johnson’s initial order; and most revealing of all, the Johnsons and their continued appraising glances at her that were becoming more blatant as the morning progressed. And to think they’d been so subtle about what had went down between the three of them earlier. Considering how things had played out last night and this morning, she was surprised to see the Johnson’s.

  That look on Theresa and Mitch Johnson was clear-cut as she approached their table with their breakfast. Ignoring them, she set their plates in front of them and said, “Enjoy your meal.”

  “Oh, we will,” Theresa said.

  Mitch chuckled. “We’ll especially enjoy it, Ms. King. I can’t wait.” Mitch smiled at her. For the first time since meeting him, and spending such quality time with him, that smile sent a shiver up her spine.

  She wasn’t aware that somebody had approached her from behind until his hand was over her face, covering her mouth and nose. Anna went into immediate fight mode, thrashing wildly. The serving tray dropped to the floor with a loud clang. She drove her right elbow into somebody’s abdomen. The man behind her grunted in pain. “You ain’t doin’ that shit to me, bitch,” he said in her ear. She felt his fingers press against her carotid artery.

  And in the final seconds before she lost consciousness, Anna saw that the other patrons—the two board members and Carl White—were watching this exchange with amusement, not with rising alarm or horror.

  And then she blacked out.

  CHAPTER 30

  Eight Months Ago, A Few Days After The Event In Aliso Viejo, California

  Joe Taylor had tried every search phrase in every available search engine: Google, Bing, Yahoo. He’d clicked on every link the results spit back at him.