by G. K. Parks
Since Easton recently moved, most internet searches of public records still displayed his old address. Cross Security pulled the address from the DMV, but normal people didn’t have access or wouldn’t think to do that. So how did the brick-thrower find Easton?
Another thought crossed my mind. Perhaps one of Easton’s old coworkers knew where he lived. I scanned the list of suspects again. The easiest way to mark off names was to check alibis. Since I couldn’t come up with a better idea, I went to Bouillon.
By the time I arrived, the restaurant had locked their doors for the night. I tried knocking, but no one came to the door. Instead, I went around the back. The cars parked behind the restaurant belonged to the staff. I checked each vehicle, but I didn’t find any stray bricks or classic muscle cars.
“Hey, what are you doing?” a scrawny guy with a deep voice asked from the open doorway that led into the restaurant. He kicked the doorstop beneath the heavy metal door and stepped outside, hauling a bag of garbage twice his size out to the dumpster. I recognized him from his social media posts as Bryan the two-timing dishwasher.
“Just the man I wanted to see.” Confusing him with my enchanting smile, I added, “Oh come on, Bryan, we met at that club. Don’t you remember me?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Are you serious? We had a wild night.” I approached him, holding the smile. “You were amazing. And that thing you did,” I let my eyes momentarily roll back, “exquisite.”
Bryan grinned. “Oh yeah?” Just as I suspected, he was a horndog.
“Yeah.” By now, I was close enough to peer into the kitchen. A few exhausted and disheveled cooks sat at the stainless steel counter, eating whatever dinner they made for themselves now that the kitchen was closed. They passed a bottle of wine around. “It looks like you guys had a rough night.”
“It’s like this every night.”
“Do they do that every night?” I pointed to Max, one of the prep cooks, who was now glugging the remainder of the wine directly from the bottle.
Bryan grabbed my wrist and pulled me away from the door before anyone could see me. “You shouldn’t have come here.”
“But you told me where you worked. I thought you wanted me to surprise you.”
Bryan grinned, dropped the trash bag, and pushed me up against the wall. “I have a surprise for you. Why don’t you meet me back at my place?”
“I don’t know. Watching them is making me hungry.” I placed my palm against his chest and shoved. “Do you guys eat like that every night? I guess I picked the wrong profession.”
“It depends. Usually, we eat before the restaurant opens. Chef Strader prepares the family meal before shift starts to test out the day’s specials, but we eat whatever’s left from the day’s prep after hours. Sometimes, the kitchen runs out of food, so we just clean up. It depends how busy we are. Chef Strader’s stingy with the ingredients. He doesn’t believe in wasting food.”
“Smart man,” I said, doing my best to peer around the corner and see inside.
“He’s a cheap bastard.”
“I take it you don’t care for your new boss.”
Bryan’s brows knit together. “Didn’t I tell you that the other night?”
I bumped playfully against his arm. “You told me a lot of things and showed me even more.”
His lids lowered, and his eyes traveled up and down my body. “Stephanie, right? Sorry, it took me a minute. I’m terrible with names, but I’d never forget a face like yours,” he said, even though he wasn’t looking at my face.
I didn’t want to know how many people this guy slept with in a given month, but knowing what I did, I definitely didn’t want him near my food. Perhaps that’s why he washed dishes.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t get you a reservation. I begged the maître d’, but Bouillon’s booked for the rest of the month. Maybe I can swing something for the following month. Just remind me later. After I clock out, I’m free the rest of the night. Let’s go somewhere.”
“I can’t tonight.” At least I figured out how he was scoring so much tail. “So there’s no way you can sneak me onto the guest list?” I pushed out my bottom lip in a pout.
“Sorry. It was easier to score last minute reservations when Easton was here. He always kept a few tables empty for unexpected guests.” Bryan’s expression soured. “But Easton’s gone now. And from the looks of it, he won’t be back.” He stepped away from the door, dragging the bag of garbage behind him.
That comment piqued my interest, and I followed him to the dumpster. “Why not?”
“Didn’t I tell you? Chef Strader runs this place. He even bought a share of the business. It’s his now. And everyone has to do what he says. He’s changed a lot of the rules. He checks everything. Cyndi can’t pencil in names without the chef noticing.”
“He sounds like a tyrant.” I had a million more questions, and since Bryan thought I was someone else, he might answer them, thinking this was some kind of foodie foreplay. “What does he think about you taking a break?” I turned up the flirtation.
“He’d kill me.”
“Isn’t that a violation of labor laws?”
“Sure, tell that to the union. Oh wait, we don’t have one.”
It was no secret restaurant workers were among the least unionized in the country, which probably explained the poor wages and terrible work conditions some of them faced. But that wasn’t my battle. Although, it did encourage me to tip well. “Is Chef Strader here? I’d love to have a word with him.”
Bryan blanched. “You can’t. In fact, you need to get out of here. I’ll call you, okay?”
I fought to hold back my laugh. “Is the chef here?”
“Well, no…”
“No? Then why can’t you take a break? You could sneak me into the kitchen and dazzle me with whatever your friends are eating. It looks delicious.”
“C’mon, you gotta go.” He grabbed my arm and tried to pull me away from the building.
“I won’t say anything. You could tell them I’m your sister or your cousin.” I batted my eyelashes. “Your kissing cousin.”
For a moment, he actually considered it before shaking off the thought, probably remembering Kasey’s threat to disembowel him and feed him his own intestines. “We’ll do it another night when things aren’t quite so hectic. Chef has some days off scheduled in a few weeks. I’ll call you, and you can drop by then. But tonight, he had an emergency and left in such a hurry we’ve been scrambling.” He rubbed my arm. “You understand, right?”
“What kind of emergency?”
“Dunno. He didn’t say.”
“Who’s in charge now?”
“He left Kasey to run the kitchen. Now, please go. I have to get back to work.”
“Kasey, your ex? Is that why you’re rushing me to leave?”
“No.” He rubbed his face. “I don’t know. I have work to do, and I can’t leave until it’s finished. Do you want to meet up later?”
“I told you I can’t. Why don’t you get someone to cover for you?”
“No.”
“Why not? Is anyone else missing tonight?” I hated asking questions in such a circuitous fashion, but I didn’t want any of the kitchen staff to get suspicious and tip off Strader that we were on to him.
“Seriously, babe, what’s with all the questions?”
“I’m just curious.” I turned my attention to the cars in the parking lot. “Hey, do you know who has the neon green undercarriage lights?”
His brow furrowed. “Lights?”
“I’m just curious.”
“I have a cure for that.” He leaned in for a kiss, and I put my hand over his face and pushed him away. “Don’t be like that.”
“You have no idea who I am.”
“Of course, I do, Stephanie. We met at the club. You were into the kinky stuff.”
I rolled my eyes. “Just answer the question, and I’ll go.”
“I don’t know anything about green light
s.”
“And no one else took off early tonight?”
“No, everyone’s here. And they’re gonna wonder where I am if I don’t get my ass back inside.”
I nodded and took a step back, wiping my hand on my pants. “The next time you see me, I suggest you pretend you don’t know who I am.”
He gave me a funny look. “All right, we can play it that way if you want.” He glanced back inside, probably to make sure Isla and Kasey weren’t close by. “Thanks for being cool about the situation.” The sarcasm wasn’t lost on me.
“I’m the coolest.” I stepped away.
After copying down every plate in the parking lot, I returned to the office. Based on vehicle registrations, it appeared Easton’s former kitchen staff was present and accounted for. This was getting me nowhere. I dialed Voletek. My call went to voicemail, and I hung up.
Strader’s early departure from the restaurant was suspicious as hell, but to be thorough, I checked into Asher York and Dante Bisset, the sous chef York wooed away from Easton after the fire at Sizzle. Bisset drove a cheap compact, and York owned an electric car. Neither of those would have the horsepower necessary to make the rumblings Easton heard, but in case he was mistaken due to the booming stereo, I left messages with their auto insurance companies. If Bisset or York tricked out their cars, they should have reported the modifications. But in case they didn’t, I’d have to track down their vehicles and check them out or convince Renner to do it.
As of this moment, my money was on Chef Strader. Every piece of circumstantial evidence pointed to him, and he had motive. In a last ditch effort to find solid proof, I researched his car club. Given the number of speeding tickets, I knew he must use the service often.
Fast Lanes leased the sportiest and flashiest cars in the city, from new exotic imports to mint classics. If a sixty-something Mustang had been outside Easton’s house, it might have come from Strader’s car club. I tried phoning, but they kept normal business hours, unlike the rest of us. I perused their website, checking out photos and details. I found several classic Mustangs, but I didn’t find any mention of more modern street racing modifications. I’d ask in the morning, but to save time, I e-mailed a request for additional information about any of their vehicles that fit the description of the one Easton claimed was outside his house. The sooner we identified the source of the threat, the sooner we’d close the case.
Then I opened the intraoffice communication window and sent a request upstairs for additional information on Galen Strader. Upstairs would do the workup and get it to me in the morning. It was one of the benefits of working for Cross Security.
Whoever broke into Easton Lango’s house wanted to ruin him and possibly sabotage his latest endeavor – Easton’s Eats. My gut said it was a rival chef or possibly even a critic. I scanned some of the scathing reviews Easton had received over the years. Several critics had accused him of being a fraud. Maybe the surveillance camera was meant to expose him. If they caught Easton unwrapping a breakfast pastry or preparing a frozen dinner, they could post it online and destroy whatever was left of his career and reputation. Or they could have placed the camera there to steal whatever new recipes he concocted. Easton said he used his personal kitchen to test new techniques and create new dishes. I hated to think what would have happened if Renner hadn’t swept for bugs. The footage might have been worth its weight in gold to one of Easton’s competitors or detractors.
I made a few final notes, updated my to-do list for tomorrow, which at this point would more accurately be described as my things-to-do-later-today list, and turned off my computer. In the last twenty-four hours, I had dealt with enough surprises to last me a month. Hopefully, things would remain quiet from here on out. I was no longer accustomed to the craziness, and on very little sleep, I had no desire to deal with any more crises.
At least the drive home was uneventful. When I stepped into the lobby of our apartment building, the night manager greeted me. “Good evening, Ms. Parker.”
“Quiet night?” I asked.
“Let’s hope so.”
A new notice on the wall caught my eye, and I took a step closer. Behind the desk was an updated fire safety inspection certificate. “Any code violations I should know about?”
“No, we follow all health and safety standards. The building is up to date on fire codes. But since the fire department had to inspect the building last night, they went ahead and checked the fire alarms, extinguishers, and reviewed our evacuation plans.”
“How often do they do that?”
“Once every three years.”
Realizing they must have done the same for Chef Easton’s restaurant, I understood why the chef was convinced the fire had been arson. After tonight, it was obvious someone had it out for him. Still, the fire might have just been bad luck or bad wiring, but I didn’t believe that.
“You ever bribe a building inspector?” I asked.
The night manager stared at me, unsure if I was joking or serious. Eventually, he said, “No, ma’am.”
“Me neither, but it happens.” I studied the certificate hanging above the previous one. The forms were nearly identical with just a few minor administrative changes. By law, they had to be displayed for the public, but Easton might have had copies elsewhere. Honestly, I didn’t know what I was thinking or even if I was thinking. This probably had nothing to do with the break-in or the camera hidden in his kitchen, but a string of unrelated incidents was rarely unrelated. That’s why the cops were convinced Easton sabotaged himself. “A fire is just a fire unless it’s arson.”
The night manager appeared bewildered. “Ms. Parker, is there something I can help you with? I can call Mr. Martin. He’s upstairs.”
Shaking away the tangle of thoughts, I stepped away from the desk. “No, I’m okay. I’m sorry to have bothered you. Lack of sleep and all.”
“It’s okay. Good night.”
“Night.”
After getting out of the elevator, I glanced up at the smoke detectors and sprinklers. The red, glass encased box halfway down the corridor looked freshly dusted and shined. The firefighters were no slouches when it came to checking the building. Stop it, I tried to silence the voice in my head. Now that I was home, I couldn’t get thoughts of the case out of my mind. How badly did someone want to hurt Chef Easton? Did they want to scare him, or did they want to kill him? Was Galen Strader a murderer in the making?
Pondering this, I entered the apartment and found Martin in the living room, working on his presentation. He looked up when I came in.
“Is everything okay?” he asked.
“Yep.”
His brow furrowed. “You have that look. The one that says you’re on to something.”
“I don’t know. I have a lot to do tomorrow. Someone broke into Easton’s house. The police are investigating, but Renner’s staying with the chef to keep an eye out.”
“Did anyone get hurt?”
“No, but Easton will have to replace a couple of windows. Renner’s banged up, but that had nothing to do with the chef’s case.” Actually, I had no idea what happened, but it was none of my business.
“Is this your case?”
“Mine and Renner’s.”
He nodded, holding back the words on the tip of his tongue. “And our vacation? Is that on the back burner?”
“No, unless you need to reschedule.”
He visibly relaxed. “Nope. We’re all good here.”
“Okay.” I looked at the clock. It was already after one. “I have an early morning. From the looks of it, so do you. Do you think we’ll actually get some sleep tonight?”
Martin cocked his head to the side and went back to reviewing his presentation.
“I can stay up with you,” I offered, unsure of Martin’s emotional barometer.
“No, you need to sleep. You have to be sharp for work. I’ll come to bed in a few minutes. I just need to nail this down tonight, so I can go over it with Luc in the morning.” He nodded
to the boxes piled in the corner. “I brought your stuff back here. Marcal will take it to our house tomorrow. Hopefully, the apartment building won’t catch fire between now and then.”
“Bite your tongue.”
I fell asleep before Martin came to bed, but the sound of him groaning woke me. I blinked and squinted at the clock. 4:43. Well, some sleep was better than none.
“Martin.” I ran my hand gently over his ribs and across his stomach, tracing the indentions outlining his abdominals. A thin layer of sweat coated his skin. “It’s okay, handsome. I’m here.” His nightmares tore at my heart, and I hated to think what mine must do to him. I’d been plagued by nightmares since before we met, but these sleep disturbances were a recent occurrence for him. And I knew I was the cause of them.
He quieted, and I hoped he didn’t fully awaken. He hadn’t gotten a peaceful night’s rest in weeks, and it was starting to show. I retracted my hand, but he shifted, grabbing hold and lacing his fingers with mine. He took a few unsteady breaths, lengthening and slowing each inhale and exhale in an attempt to force his body to relax and his mind to calm.
“You’re okay. Everything’s okay,” I whispered.
“I know.” He squeezed my hand. “It’s not your fault.”
“How do you always know what I’m thinking?”
“I must be a mind reader.” He opened his eyes and stared up at the ceiling. Any minute, he’d get out of bed either to work out or shower, depending on if the recent burst of adrenaline was enough to overpower the exhaustion.
“Is that why you’re going to Vegas? You’re hoping to headline your own show? What’s your stage name? The Marvelous Martin? The Mystifying Martin?”
“Martin the Magnificent.”
“That was my next guess.”
He chuckled. “I know. I read your mind.”
I let out a displeased growl and made a face. It was too early for the banter.
“That’s not nice, unless you meant it literally. I’m okay with literally. Actually, I’m in favor of literally.” He smirked and tapped my temple. “Remember, I can hear your thoughts.” He looked at me and winked. “Fine. You can be on top. After all, I can’t think of a better way to chase away the bad dreams.”