A Taste of the Nightlife

by Sarah Zettel

  “So . . . he came by.” I tucked the card into my own pocket.

  “And you let him in? After you promised . . .”

  There was no way I was standing still for one of my roommate’s lectures right now. “If this looks stupid, I’m sorry, but I cannot afford to blow off an influential critic right now.” I also was not going to tell her Sevarin wanted my help finding Pam Maddox, or about the other murders. She’d go through the roof, and Georgie would charge us for the repairs.

  “You found a bitten body and now you’re entertaining random vampires. Yes, Charlotte, as a matter of fact it does look stupid.”

  I snatched up the nearest bowl and the empty crostini plate and carried them to the kitchen. The water from last night had gone cold and greasy. Plunging my hand in to open the drain woke me up the rest of the way. “You know, you’ll live longer if you quit trying to take care of everybody else.”

  “Yeah, I might, but they won’t.”

  I started the water up, letting it run over my hands. The place was a total mess, and it was my responsibility. Nobody else was going to clean it up. They had jobs to get to.

  Trish pinched the bridge of her nose. “All right,” she said with a sigh. “But no more, okay? Not until your PR rep’s had a chance to work up a decent disaster response for you.”

  I shut the water off and promised faithfully, but without looking up. Discovering you really are a liar is no fun at all.

  Trish retreated to start the long wait for her turn in the bathroom. I cleaned up the kitchen enough to get the promised frittata in the oven. Trish loved frittata. When she came out dressed in her most sincere black suit, she got the first slice, piping hot and perfect.

  “Sorry,” I said.

  “Thanks,” she said. “Looks good.”

  “If you two were wound any tighter . . .” Jess said, coming up behind us.

  “Shut up, Jess.” I handed across her slice. She shrugged and dug in.

  Equilibrium restored, my roommates finished breakfast, got their stuff together and set out to catch the E train, leaving me once more alone in our apartment with nowhere to go.

  It’s okay. Just like any other Monday. We’re always closed on Monday.

  As self-deception went, it was pretty lame, but it got me moving. I showered, dressed, brushed and rebraided my hair, cleaned up the last of the detritus from my cooking binge and before I forgot, retrieved Sevarin’s business card from the pocket of yesterday’s pants.

  By then, it was time to try another call to PR Elaine. This time she picked up, which told me Chet had in fact managed to pay her bill this month. So, sitting on the couch and turning Sevarin’s card over in my fingers, I let Elaine talk about positive press releases and promised to look for her e-mail with a couple draft statements that could be released to some friendly tastemakers. I thanked her and promised her a dinner when this all cleared up.

  I hung up and looked down, realizing I’d blunted every corner on Sevarin’s business card. This was ridiculous. Dead bodies in the Village were none of my business—as long as it didn’t hit Chet anyharder. Even assuming that what Sevarin said about other deaths was true, the Paranormal Squadron officers were the professionals, and they would do their job. My job was to get Nightlife open again.

  My eyes slid sideways to my phone. The story had probably already gone away. This was New York City. One dead body wasn’t going to take up valuable mediascape for a whole cycle. My personal drama was no more than a footnote to one of the eight million stories in the naked city.

  I knew this to be true. I did not have to look.

  My phone lay there, gleaming black against the worn green upholstery. Waiting for me. It knew the truth and was just waiting for me to ask.

  My fingers were so cold it took me a couple tries to get the screen to light up. I thumbed the FlashNews app.

  And between all the Joshua Blake retrospectives and videos of the latest denials from our latest governor, I saw the new headlines wrapped around Dylan Maddox spread out in my foyer with a fresh vegetable garnish. A dozen discussion boards and op-blogs had sprung up overnight, filled with creative insults for my little brother, and for me because I’d “harbored” him. They came complete with calls for boycotts and wails of “What is this city coming to?” As a bonus, there was plenty of speculation that I’d held poor innocent Dylan down while Chet fed on him.

  I dropped the phone onto the couch like it had gone rotten and buried my head in my hands. How had this happened? How could there be so much hate spewing out at the place I’d worked so hard to build, and about the brother I’d protected all my life?

  Somewhere in the back of my brain reason whispered that it really would go away. This was New York City. Everything went away eventually. It just needed a little more time.

  But the more I thought about Dylan Maddox lying dead in my restaurant, the worse it got. It wasn’t just because it had happened in my place, although that was bad, and it wasn’t just because the whole mess seemed to be landing hard on Chet, which was worse. It went deeper than that.

  These days, chefs talk a lot. They talk about the artistry and passion of food. But in the end, real cooking isn’t about art or passion or that fourth star in the Times that we all secretly want to see beside our names. It’s about the basic, fundamental desire to feed, strengthen and care for other people. Giving the best you have to a guest is a sacred act. If you don’t love food on that level, you aren’t a true chef; you’re just a technician.

  Dylan Maddox was dead—pointlessly, needlessly dead—and that offended me deep down, close to where my love of cooking existed. I found I didn’t have the strength to just stand back and wait the situation out. I had to find out what had happened, and I had to do something about it.

  Sevarin’s card, blunted and bent, lay on the coffee table. There was no way to talk to him until after sunset. Ditto my brother. Little Linus and the Paranormal Squadron, though, would be wide awake and on the case.

  Sevarin had been dismissive about the chance of finding out anything useful from the cops, but when it came to getting information, I had an edge he didn’t.

  Sevarin did not make a killer lasagna.

  6

  Thereont re a couple different stories going around about why the Paranormal Squadron has its own building in the Meat-packing district instead of being housed over at One Police Plaza. The first is that the district was the site of the first publicly identified vampire murder. The second is that the P-Squad likes to keep an eye on who’s buying what from the butchers. That might have been true twenty years ago. Since then, the neighborhood’s been visited by the hot-trend fairy. Now it has way more hip restaurants—and the Food Network studios—than it does meat distributors.

  I emerged from the subway entrance into the pedestrian river, my foil-wrapped lasagna pan balanced on my hip. I eyed the street traffic, thought about jaywalking, decided against it and kept going toward the corner.

  As I passed the alley between the Nu Shu Boutique and Wireless Toys, a flash of movement caught my eye and my gaze darted sideways to see Brendan Maddox standing there. Well, he was sort of standing. Actually, he was doubled over, with the knuckles of his right hand pressed against the wall and his face knotted up with anger and pain.

  I bit my lip and thought for half a second about how I didn’t really know this guy. Then I stepped out of the current to stand next to him.

  “Hi.”

  Brendan glanced up at me and grimaced. “Hi. What are you doing here?”

  “Delivering lasagna unlooked-for. You?”

  He grimaced again. “Needed a place to beat on a wall.”

  “How’s that working out?”

  “Not as well as I hoped.”

  We both considered this for a moment.

  “I’m sorry about your cousin,” I said softly. He nodded. His face was twisted up too tight to read easily just then. My attention wandered across the street to the little cluster of uniformed police officers standing in f
ront of the bland, solid concrete block of P-Squad headquarters.

  “The cops over there are not happy about this,” I remarked.

  His gaze followed mine. “No.”

  We considered this as well. The whole time, Brendan kept his fist pressed against the wall, like he was afraid either the concrete or his knuckles would explode if he moved it. A tiny red smear showed on the beige brick.

  “Can I get a look at that?”

  “You an expert on stupidity injuries?”

  I shrugged. “I’ve bandaged a lot of hands.”

  “I guess you would have.” Brendan straightened up, cradling his abused appendage. I braced the lasagna pan against my hip again, turned his hand over and prodded around the bloody skin with my thumb. He winced but held still. Good sign. A lot of big guys have never actually had to take a real punch and as a result are total babies about pain.

  “You’re going to have a hell of a bruise.” I let go before I could start liking the feeling of holding that strong hand too much. “But all the bones are still in the right places. Get it cleaned up and on ice and it’ll be fine.”

  “Thanks.” Brendan flexed his hand gingerly.

  It was one of those strange moments when you’re aware that there are crowds of people nearby, but you are ignoring them and they are ignoring you, so you might as well be alone. Brendan Maddox was strained red, tall, broad-shouldered and extremely good-looking with his black hair and his too-blue-to-be-true eyes. I don’t claim what came next was a sensible reaction, especially under the circumstances, only that it was mine and it was accompanied by wishes that I’d taken the time to put on makeup, or a sexier blouse. But surely the fact that I brought food and was useful in minor emergencies counted for something.

  “Are you hungry?”

  Brendan tilted his head at my lasagna pan. “And here I thought that might be a bribe for a cop.”

  “It’s comfort food. And you look like you’re having a bad day.”

  This earned me a rueful flicker of a smile. “Yeah. Yeah, I am.” It seemed to me that he was about to say something else complimentary, or at least pleasant, but a voice I didn’t want to recognize cut him off.

  “Chef Caine?”

  We both turned to see Little Linus forge through pedestrian traffic.

  “Detective O’Grady.” A whole string of thoughts dropped into place in my brain, resulting in complete nonsurprise. Of course someone at the police station had noticed a guy punching walls across the street. And pretty much the only reason Brendan Maddox would be punching walls on this block was that he’d just had a bad time with the P-Squad. So, of course, someone would have let the detective who had given him that bad time know what was going on, if he hadn’t seen it for himself.

  “Everything all right here?” inquired the cop.

  Brendan flexed his wounded hand, once, twice. “Fine.”

  O’Grady nodded, as if acknowledging a point, and turned to me instead. “Good to see you, Chef Caine. I was going to have you set up an appointment to do some follow-up with us, but since you’re here, maybe you’ve got a few minutes?”

  “Just a couple things to go over?” I suggested.

  “Paperwork details mostly, so we can get you your place back.”

  Well, he certainly knew how to get a girl to say yes. It did, however, leave me in the strange position of not quite knowing what to do with my lasagna. I’d originally brought it for Officer Randolph, but Randolph didn’t know that, and I’d just offered it to Brendan. Brendan and I, however, weren’t in the kind of relationship where I was comfortable with public displays of pasta.

  And in case you’ve never experienced it for yourself, let me tell you, having a cop staring at you puts a considerable restriction on what you’re ready to say to the cute guy whose cousin turned up dead in your restaurant.

  So, I looked “sorry” at Brendan and he looked “understand” back.

  I hefted my lasagna. “Whatever I can do to help.”

  Once we got past the cop-filled foyer where I had to pin a bright blue visitor’s badge to my shirt, and up the elevator that opened only after the detective swiped a card and laid down a fingerprint, the home of the Paranormal Squad looked a lot like any other office. Well, except for the large number of people walking around with holstered weaponry. The padded blue cubicle walls were a little frayed around the edges. Desk chairs squeaked as the cubicle denizens shuttled between shelves, file cabinets and flat-screen computer monitors. Then I noticed the camera clusters tucked into the ceiling corners and the fact that most of the thresholds had a kind of extra fragrafted onto them that made every doorway look like an airport scanner.

  But whatever it was they were looking for, it apparently did not involve basil and garlic. Nothing beeped, flashed or blared as O’Grady led me and my lasagna into a spartan conference room where a whole set of manila folders lay in neat lines on the scarred tabletop.

  I sat and put both pan and purse on the chair next to mine. O’Grady leaned across the threshold to say something to a woman going past and then locked the door.

  I tried not to be nervous. I did not succeed.

  The detective ran one hand over his scalp and looked at the folders. Without saying a word to me, he began piling them up. I tried not to squirm from impatience. I did not succeed in this either.

  When O’Grady had all the folders but one stacked and squared off, he sat down.

  He opened that last folder. “Now, Ms. Caine, you’ll be glad to know that we do not at this time think it’s likely that your brother killed Dylan Maddox.”

  “You don’t?” The words jumped out. Of course I knew Chet had nothing to do with this. The relief I felt just then was only because I was so glad the police knew it too.

  O’Grady politely pretended not to have heard me. “However, we are left with the question of who thought Nightlife would make a good place to dispose of Mr. Maddox’s remains.” He riffled through the papers and pulled out a stack of photographs, which he laid out in front of me. “Do you know any of these people?”

  Six strangers, four men and two women, stared back at me, each of them thoroughly pissed off at having to face a camera lens. I shook my head.

  “And Dylan Maddox had never been in your restaurant before?”

  “Usually I don’t see the customers. Robert Kemp, our maître d’, would know more, or the dining room captain, Suchai Lui.”

  “We’ve talked to them, and neither one remembers ever seeing him. Now, about your people . . .” My shoulders stiffened and O’Grady sighed. “Nobody here cares about their immigration status, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  What followed was long, but straightforward. How long had I known Suchai? Four years. He came with me from L’Aquataine when we opened Nightlife. Did I know that Nina, our weekend hostess, was being treated for recurrent possession? Yes. She saw her exorcist twice a week and wore her crucifix under her blouse so as not to disturb the customers. Had Pam Maddox ever been in Nightlife before? Sorry. I couldn’t say. What about the vampire she was with? I was really sorry, Detective, but I spend my nights in the kitchen. Did we employ a man named Taylor Watts as a bartender? Not anymore. Fired him a few weeks ago because he couldn’t keep his hands to himself and the high-priced liquor was vanishing with suspicious speed. While he was with us did I ever hear him mention an Ilona St. Claire? No, but he worked the front of the house. For the day-to-day business, that was Suchai’s territory.

  “And your brother’s?” the detective prompted.

  Yes, and my brother’s.

  O’Grady frowned at the papers and photographs as if to let them know they did not meet expectations. Then he swept them all into a pile, put the pile in the folder, put the folder on the stack.

  “Last question, Ms. Caine,” he said. “What did Anat Sevarin want last night?”

  I clenched my teeth just in time to keep completely useless exclamations from leaping out. Why would I think the police weren’t watching me?

&
nbsp; “He wanted to know if I’d heard anything from you about Dylan Maddox.”

  “And you told him . . . ?”

  “That you hadn’t said word one to me.” I tilted my head at him. “I don’t suppose you’d consider telling me now?”

  “Sorry.”

  “I’d settle for finding out when we can get back into Nightlife.”

  “We’re working on that, Ms. Caine,” he said with an attitude that would have made a brick wall seem like Kleenex by comparison. “You’ll be our first call.”

  I don’t like to plead. For one thing, I’m not very good at it. So I used the only weapon I had at hand. I picked up the lasagna pan and slid it across the table. “Detective O’Grady, I’ve got a walk-in with a couple thousand dollars’ worth of fresh food going to rot. I’m not asking you to let us reopen. Just let me get some of my people into the kitchen to find out what we can salvage.”

  O’Grady ran one blunt fingertip across the edge of the lasagna pan, as if he could ascertain the quality of the sauce and cheese underneath by the crinkle of the foil. “I’ll see what I can do.” His voice was studiously neutral, but his spaniel eyes softened for the first time that day.

  Never, ever underestimate the power of the killer lasagna.

  “Detective . . .” I pushed the lasagna just a little closer.

  “Was . . . was Dylan Maddox bitten? I mean, we had a lot of nightblood guests when he stormed in, and that was a really nasty fire he tried to start. . . .” I would probably go to some kind of chef’s purgatory for pointing a finger at my guests, but I did it anyway.

  Lasagna or no, Little Linus took his time deciding to answer me. “No,” he said. “It wasn’t a real bite. Our guys think whoever did it might actually have used a syringe.”

  Can you say creepy? I sure could.

  “Which leaves us with the questions of where’d he die and where’d the blood go?”

  “And why did somebody go through the trouble of trying to make it look like vampires?”