by Toby Neal
“Well, he’s well known for being a perfectionistic prick. That just makes for better dining, and this restaurant is all about the food. What do we have?”
The space felt crowded with three men and a body in the packed area. Mahoe sidled past Dr. Gregory. “I’ll go see what’s happening outside. Gather our interviewees.”
“Leave the camera. I may need to get some more shots when we roll the body,” Stevens told him. He turned back to Gregory. “So we got the call at 0800 hours, when Metier’s body was discovered by one of the staff who’d come in early to clean.” Stevens prodded the corpse with his foot. “I’m guessing this guy, identified by Chef Noriega as Francois Metier, his sous-chef, was offed last night sometime. He’s in full rigor, plus the cold of this fridge, so probably after the night’s rush. Must have been late in the shift or someone would have found him.”
Dr. Gregory gloved up and slid booties on over his shoes as he approached the body, opening his doctor’s bag to make his initial assessment. “Murder weapon appears pretty obvious.”
Stevens nodded. “Gotta say, I wasn’t impressed with the chef’s response to all this. He seems more worried about losing his produce than his employee.”
“That’s consistent with what I’ve heard about Chef Noriega,” Gregory said, squatting by the body. “So how’s Lei? Has she gone out on maternity yet?”
“She’s hanging in there. Got a couple more days on active duty.” Stevens smiled, thinking of his very pregnant wife. She’d finally had to slow down and was often irritable. Being ungainly was tough for such a physical person. “Baby can’t come soon enough for either of us.”
Dr. Gregory smiled. “You think you’ll be prepared, but it’ll happen when you least expect it.” He pointed at the knife protruding from the victim. “This stroke went in very deep—broke the skin on the other side. The murder weapon looks like one of those super sharp ceramic blades, and it went right through his kidney and appears to have penetrated all the way through his abdomen. Dropped him like a stone. Exsanguination will be cause of death, at a guess.”
“No defensive wounds, either. There was a ring in one of his hands.” Stevens withdrew the small plastic evidence bag and showed it to Dr. Gregory. “I’m guessing he knew and trusted his attacker.”
“Maybe it’s a woman,” Dr. Gregory said. “He was going to pop the question in the fridge where they met, and she popped him instead.”
Stevens’s mouth twitched involuntarily at the gallows humor. “Very romantic. But doesn’t the depth of the stab wound look challenging for a woman?”
“Easy with one of those chef knives. They go through meat like butter.”
A flashback swamped Stevens’s mind: his hand, fisted around a combat knife, driving up into a man’s throat from below. Blood poured down his arm, only slightly warmer than the jungle air.
Not real. It never happened. He shook his head abruptly to clear it. “Early days yet for speculation. Surprised I’m telling you that.”
“Of course, but this looks pretty straightforward.” Dr. Gregory moved around the body, gazing at it closely. His glasses fogged slightly from the cold air. “Dr. Tanaka’s been called to another scene, so can you help me? Let’s remove the knife and roll the body.”
“Let me pull any prints first.” Stevens used gel tape to gather impressions from the handle as Dr. Gregory bagged the man’s hands. “Damn. Just looks like a lot of smears, but hopefully we can retrieve something back at the station. You do the honors, removing it.” He took an evidence bag from his open crime kit and snapped it open.
Dr. Gregory grasped the knife handle carefully, holding it with the tips of his fingers so as not to disturb any prints. He lifted it from the body with startling ease. “Whoever did this either knew where to stab or was damned lucky. It went right where it should go for maximum damage, and hit no bones along the way.”
Stevens held the bag open and Dr. Gregory dropped the knife into it. While Stevens sealed and wrote on the bag, Dr. Gregory continued his examination.
Mahoe poked his head in. “I’ve got some interviews lined up, L.T. Want I should start taking statements?”
“Sounds good. I’m helping Dr. G with the body. Need a little more time. Leave the chef for me to talk to, though.”
“You got it.” The young detective withdrew his head.
Stevens arranged the evidence collected so far in the open area of the briefcase-like kit as Dr. Gregory performed the body-temp indignity with a rectal thermometer. He then spread the long, zip-up body bag wide in preparation of receiving its cargo. “The victim’s way cold and in rigor, as you speculated, Lieutenant. Consistent with death last night. I’ll know more after the full post. Let’s roll and then bag him.”
Stevens took the man’s feet and Dr. Gregory the shoulders, and they flipped the corpse onto its back.
Blood had pooled beneath the body where the tip of the knife had penetrated through the abdomen, providing an exit wound. The vivid liquid, darkened with the hours, had spread to cover the white of the man’s side-buttoned chef’s coat and looked black in the fluorescents overhead. Blood trapped in the body had gathered in bruise-like, purplish lividity in visible tissues.
“I’ll deal with this back at the morgue.” Dr. Gregory gestured to the soaked clothing. Stevens picked up the Canon and photographed the front of the body. The man’s rigor held one arm stiffly up at his side, his head turned oddly and eyes closed, just as he’d fallen.
Francois Metier had regular features and a square jaw decorated with a beard swatch. He’d been a handsome man at one time, before dusky lividity stained his face. Stevens moved in close, photographing. “Do you see scratches on the victim’s cheek?” He zoomed in on the area, the flash blinding in the dim.
“I do see some sort of mark. Could be scratches,” Dr. Gregory agreed. “This is looking more and more like a lover’s quarrel gone wrong.”
“Should be some interesting interviews ahead.” Stevens set aside the camera and rifled the man’s pockets. He dropped a wallet and phone into evidence bags. “Don’t see anything else of interest.”
“I’ll do a thorough check for trace back at the morgue.”
When they were both done recording and inspecting, Stevens lifted the man’s heels, encased in rubber-soled work shoes, and Dr. Gregory grasped the rigid shoulders. They slid the body into the black bag.
“I brought the gurney in. It’s just outside,” Gregory said.
“Well, I’m not throwing my back out—getting too old for that shit.” Stevens opened the fridge’s door. “Mahoe! Need help here.”
“What’s up, L.T?” The young detective stepped up into the narrow space.
“You’ve got the young back we need,” Stevens said. With the three of them lifting, they soon had the black-bagged corpse on the gurney and strapped down.
“I’ll let you know anything interesting I find.” Dr. Gregory lifted a hand in farewell. The M.E. pushed his burden out through the kitchen, accompanied by one of the uniforms, as Stevens retrieved his crime kit.
“Mahoe, can you put scene tape across the walk-in? No one goes in or out until we have a chance to have Kevin go over every inch of it.” Kevin Parker, MPD’s pimply-faced University of Hawaii criminology intern, was proving a big asset at crime scenes, with an instinct for finding anything out of place and an eye for detail that had helped on several cases.
Stevens waited for Mahoe to seal the fridge with scene tape, using the time to organize his crime kit and label the evidence bags, but as he did so, a sense of dreamlike distance from his surroundings distracted him.
Stevens stripped off his gloves, flexed his hands and rolled his neck as he looked around the clean, brightly lit kitchen. Eight months after a military contractor stint which had resulted in some serious injuries, Stevens still sometimes felt a sense of unreality about his perceptions, a barrier between himself and what was happening around him that his friend, psychologist Dr. Wilson, called “de-realization.”
/> “A symptom of your head injury,” the psychologist had said when he called her not long ago to complain that the bizarre sensation was still happening. “Just weather it, along with the flashbacks. Be patient and try not to take it too seriously. Use a physical cue to ground yourself in the present moment’s reality. Remind yourself that you’re home, safe, and that your brain just isn’t firing right.”
Looking down, he rubbed the steel watch he’d taken to wearing against his wrist, eliciting a cool pinch of metal against skin as that physical cue. Lei also had a habit of rubbing something or squeezing her leg when she had similar symptoms—his wife still sometimes used the same sorts of techniques, though the source of her trauma was very different.
A loud voice, vibrating through the nearby wall, broke his reverie.
“Hell if I’m going to sit on my ass a minute longer waiting for this cop!”
Stevens heard a light feminine voice trying to calm the man. Chef Noriega was getting restless. The two voices rose and fell in a familiar cadence that sounded like marital argument.
“Let’s go interview the man behind Feast,” Stevens told Mahoe. “Got your recorder handy?”
“Sure do.”
Stevens knocked once on the door marked OFFICE and turned the knob, pushing the door inward.
Chef Noriega had his hands around the woman’s throat, pushing her up against his desk. She was clawing at his wrists, her face congested. Bulging, panicked eyes begged for help from behind the chef’s shoulder.
I had to grab onto the edge of my desk to heave myself out of my office chair. “Be right there, Captain,” I said into the office phone, and hung up. Once standing, I leaned back, digging my fists into the small of my back, arching to stretch. The curve of my belly brushed the edge of the desk. “We got a new case.”
Pono, my long-time partner, looked up from his e-mail. “What the hell. You’re supposed to be on light duty!”
“It is light duty. I hope. Another cold case. We’ve been summoned to hear about it.”
“Yeah, and look how that last one turned out,” Pono grumbled, referring to a cold one eight months before that was supposed to just be a time filler and had turned into one of the biggest cases we’d had in years.
“I don’t know about the timing. I’m going on maternity in a few days.” I waddled to the door of the cubicle, tugging down the dark blue smock I wore over skinny black maternity jeans. I’d had Ellen, Stevens’s mom, sew up a bunch of the same garment for me, a sort of uniform that, I hoped, minimized the obviousness of my pregnancy.
Pregnant cops were awkward for everybody. The guys got all protective and mother hen, like Pono was acting. The women wanted me out of sight so I didn’t embarrass anyone, and the perps didn’t know how to act either. I was glad that I wasn’t the size my friend Marcella had been at approaching nine months—but still, dealing with a basketball-sized belly pressing on my bladder constantly was challenging, and even light duty as a cop wasn’t your typical desk job.
Pono took my elbow in the hall. I tweaked my arm away. “Quit fussing. I can walk on my own two feet. Just because I can’t see them doesn’t mean they aren’t still there.”
“Stubborn, you.” Pono shook his head. “I can’t wait for you to be done and out of here. I’m having a heart attack thinking you’re going to drop it in our office or something.”
“You must have really been a wreck when Tiare was pregnant,” I panted, short of breath already with my lungs so cramped. I tried to speed up, but felt the distinctive sensation of the baby moving. These internal feelings had gone from fishlike fluttering, to kicking that felt like tiny fists, to these late-term, long, slow rolls that inevitably ended up with me feeling like I had to pee.
Which I now did.
“No one was more relieved than me when Tiare declared she was done after we had a boy and a girl.” Pono spun his Oakleys by a stem as the slowed his stride to match mine.
“Quick bathroom stop.” I turned toward the women’s room.
Pono rolled his eyes. “Of course. I’ll see you there.” He went on down the hall.
In the stall, I settled myself and smoothed the sturdy navy cotton over my belly. It pushed back against my hand.
“You better be pointing downward. Not too long now, Baby,” I whispered. “I can’t wait to get this part over with and meet you.” We’d decided not to know the sex, and I was still glad of that choice. So far the pregnancy had been healthy and problem-free, but I knew I was still trying to guard myself from the grief of something going wrong—knowing that there was no way to really do that.
If something went wrong with this baby, I’d never have the heart to try again.
I finished up, washed my hands. My face was fuller, my hair was fuller, and so were my breasts, straining the fabric of a smock sewn two months ago. “Oh well. I’m out of here in two days, and I can wear nothing but sweats from here on out, right, Baby?” There was no comment from below but another jab to the kidneys. “Ow. Maybe you’re planning to play soccer for University of Hawaii.”
A few minutes later I pushed open Captain Omura’s office door.
“Surprise! It’s your baby shower!”
Everyone was yelling. A party squeaker went off, and a popper sprayed confetti down over me as I clapped both hands over my mouth in shock. It looked like the entire department was crowded into Omura’s little office, and they laughed and clapped at my surprise. Pono fired off another popper, and it rained down more confetti. I knew it was going to be a pain to get out of my hair later, but his big grin made me forgive him.
“Any excuse for cake,” said Detective McGregor, a big bluff red-faced man I’d butted heads with on a few cases. Jessup Murioka, our teen tech whiz, came up to hug what he could reach of me and slip a sweet-smelling ginger lei over my head. Abe Torufu and Gerry Bunuelos hugged me as Pono handed out pink-and-blue party hats, along with pink-and-blue wrapped cigars. Guarding the huge cake on Omura’s desk stood Tiare, his wife, wearing bright purple scrubs. She’d clearly come straight from the hospital, and the only thing bigger than the cake was her smile.
I made my way through the hugs and shoulder smacks from the guys to her side. “You’re the monster behind this idea.”
“Of course. Couldn’t just let my little seestah skulk off to that fortress house without a going-away party.” Tiare enfolded me in her arms. She always smelled like coconut and gardenias, and today was no exception.
One arm around my shoulder, she addressed the milling officers and support staff. “I’ll cut the cake as soon as you folks throw a few bucks in for the office gift,” she said, loudly, cutting across the joking and horseplay that had begun. “We’re getting them one of those fancy strollers that does everything but change the baby.”
She handed a gaily wrapped box with a slit in the top to Pono. My co-workers, teasing the while, dug bills out of their wallets and shoved them in.
Captain Omura, smiling and polished, came around her desk and patted my shoulder. “How are you feeling?”
“Really huge, with bruised kidneys. Thanks for asking.” I glanced around. “Where’s my husband? And Dr. Gregory?” The colorful M.E. was one of my favorite people.
“They pulled a fresh homicide. Out at that hipster restaurant, Feast.”
“Oh, that should be interesting.” I felt my heartbeat quicken with interest, and Baby kicked me in response. “Do you think he needs any help at the scene?”
“Definitely not. Part of my present to you is going home after the party—a couple of days early. I checked with human resources, and you have some comp time coming to you along with the maternity leave.”
“So there’s no case?” Absurdly, I was disappointed. What was I going to do for the next month until the baby came? I hadn’t let myself think too much about it, but now full-time motherhood was upon me.
“You’ve got a case all right.” Omura patted my enormous belly. “Right here, my little workaholic. Now let’s have some cake.”
Continue Bitter Feast Now!
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About the Author
Kirkus Reviews calls Neal's writing, "persistently riveting. Masterly."
Award-winning, USA Today bestselling social worker turned author Toby Neal grew up on the island of Kaua`i in Hawaii. Neal is a mental health therapist, a career that has informed the depth and complexity of the characters in her stories. Neal's police procedurals, starring multicultural detective Lei Texeira, explore the crimes and issues of Hawaii from the bottom of the ocean to the top of volcanoes, and are so popular that they've spawned a licensed fan fiction world on Amazon. Fans call her stories, "Immersive, addicting, and the next best thing to being there."
More Titles From Toby Neal
Lei Crime Series
Paradise Crime Series
Romances
Romance Thrillers
Young Adult
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