by Don Bruns
There was no way we were going to make that mistake again.
He tried the door to the office, but Tara had apparently locked it on her way out. She had probably assumed Bouvier had forgotten to lock it. Once again, James pulled the misshapen paper clips from his pocket and worked them into the mechanism. He seemed more confident this time and within three minutes he pushed it open.
Stepping into the tiny office, James flipped on the lights.
“If this detective thing doesn’t work out,” I said, “we can always go into B and E.”
Walking to the recorder, James popped open the plastic door and removed the CD. He put it in the back pocket of his jeans and turned to me with a smile.
“We didn’t do it, pard. No proof that it was us.”
He still had to open the tool chest. A different type of lock, smaller and more fragile.
“How are you going to do this one?”
“YouTube, Skip.”
He walked back into the kitchen and came back with a sheet of thin metal.
“A pan from Mrs. Fields’s station. This sheet of steel will open the chest.”
“You knew this before we got here?”
“Be prepared, Skip. The Boy Scout motto.”
“You were never a Boy Scout.”
James wedged the thin pan into the slot between the top of the chest and the first drawer, then slowly, he shoved it farther into the tool chest. When he’d finished, there was barely any of the pan showing, the metal hitting the back of the box.
“Now, if this works according to plan—” he pushed down on the metal pan and pulled on the first drawer as it effortlessly came forward.
“And that’s how it’s done, amigo.”
I had to hand it to him. He’d pulled everything off perfectly. I should have been frightened, but then I’d beaten the security system. No easy task. We were getting good at skills we shouldn’t even have.
“So now we count knives?”
“Look.”
I glanced into the drawer. There were seven knives lined up evenly on green felt with one space next to them. The empty space had the perfect imprint of a nine-inch kitchen knife.
He shut the drawer and opened the second one. Eight knives lined up evenly.
And the third, and fourth. The bottom drawer had five knives.
“Room for thirty-seven, Skip.”
“Yeah. And one removed to give to you.”
We stood there staring at the red chest with the metal baking pan shoved into the top.
“Damn. I was sure the murder knife came from here. I could feel it.”
“It would have been convenient for the killer.”
“I’ve got a gut feeling, Skip. We’re missing it. Right in front of us.”
I heard the bump out in the kitchen and we both froze.
“Maybe a rat,” James whispered.
“Vanderfield?”
He smiled.
“None of the staff is going to come in here at this hour of the morning.”
We stood still, straining to hear another sound. There was nothing.
James stuck his head out the door, glancing toward the kitchen.
“I don’t see anything.”
We were both talking in hushed voices.
“We know that the Wüsthof was used as the murder weapon, and in the top drawer,” he counted down the knives, “four of these are nine-inch Wüsthofs. Number five would be the one he gave to me.”
“Pretty risky venture to find nothing.” I was speaking in my lowest voice.
“I’m sorry man, I put us both in a spot. I just thought that—”
“Oh, my God. Oh, my God.” I felt my heart jump in my chest.
“What?”
I wanted to scream, but ground my teeth instead.
“The knife on the end, just before the blank spot.”
“Skip,” his raspy whisper, “it’s just another nine-inch knife.”
“No, it’s not.”
“What is it?”
“Look. Carefully.”
Leaning over, he studied the German steel knife.
“Holy shit, Skip. It’s got the nick in the blade. That’s my knife, amigo. My damned knife.”
That’s when we heard the bump again, coming from the kitchen.
“Somebody is out there.”
“Shit, we are going to have so much explaining to do.”
The office door was open, and James reached over to close it.
“You need a key to lock it.”
I turned the lights off and we were left in almost total darkness. I could barely make out my surroundings from the faint light that came through the small window in the door.
We could hear footsteps coming down the hallway, the sound of someone’s canvas sneakers slapping the concrete. Then silence.
Closing my eyes, I took a deep breath and held it. It was supposed to be a relaxation technique, but it wasn’t working very well.
We were startled when the doorknob turned, James and I both pressing our backs to the wall. We could leap out and attack the person, we could immediately start making excuses, although I had no idea what those excuses would be, or we could just be quiet and let the scene unfold. I don’t ever remember being in a situation like this, and James and I had been in some pretty stressful situations.
Even in dim light I could see the fear in my roommate’s eyes.
Whoever was in the hall let the doorknob go and it flipped back to its original position. There was another moment of silence, then a click, and footsteps retreating toward the locker room.
“Oh, shit, Skip.”
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
“That jammed handle.”
“Whoever it is just locked us in.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
It’s hard to tell how much time passes when you’re in the dark and in panic mode. I’d have guessed fifteen minutes while we stood in silence, once in a while whispering an idea to each other.
“Worst case scenario, we break the door down.”
“If we’re able.”
More silence. Then James spoke.
“Who was it? Did they know we were in here?”
“James,” I’d pretty much gone over the whole thing in my head, “there was a magnet wedged between the door and the frame. The kitchen door was unlocked and whoever came in figured out the alarm didn’t go off. I think they pretty much knew that somebody had broken in.”
“Maybe they don’t know we’re in the office. I mean, whoever it is may have just checked the door, found it wasn’t locked, and locked it.”
More silence.
“Where did they go?”
“You know, whoever this is has a key. Who’s got a key?”
“Bouvier.”
“One.”
“Chef Marty.”
“Two.”
“Tara.”
“Three.”
“Oh, and probably Vanderfield.”
I was surprised. “Why?”
“He’s a sous chef.”
“So are you.”
“He’s the real sous chef.” James spoke in a coarse whisper. “When Marty isn’t here, he takes over. I’m certain he’s got a key to the building, the office, and the walk-in. And I’m positive that Amanda Wright had the same access.”
It could have been any one of them. Obviously not Amanda, but we had no idea what we were up against.
“Skip,” he was looking out through the small window, “what if he called the cops?”
“I’ve already thought of that. We just try to get Conway to stand up for us.”
“Skip—”
“Yeah?”
“You’ve got your cell phone.”
“Yeah.”
“Call Em.”
“And tell her what?”
“See if she’s got any ideas.”
I couldn’t believe that James was making a plea to solicit Em for a way to get us out of this jam.
�
��She told you she thought you were an idiot. Now you want me to call her and admit it. That we both got caught with our pants down?”
Silence.
Then I heard it. The faraway sound of those rubber-soled shoes marching back down the hall.
“Maybe he’s leaving.”
“Maybe.”
A pause right in front of the door. We heard the click, then nothing. Now it was unlocked and someone appeared to be outside waiting for us to make the first move.
We waited, maybe two minutes, it might have been three. Neither of us moved an inch. Just as I was about to open the door, just pull it open and step into the hallway, someone pushed on it hard. He stood there, a sneer on his face, a knife in his hand.
“It’s too bad I had to come in when I did. You broke in here to steal something out of the office.” He glanced at the chest with its open drawers. “What? Knives? And I catch you in the act. Boys, I’m pleased to say I don’t think you’re going to be working here anymore.” He gave James a cheesy smile. “Much less heading up the South Beach operation.”
Vanderfield the pirate, a three-day stubble on his face, stood there, tapping the silvery blade in the palm of his hand.
“You didn’t even know we were here.”
“I did not. I was going to do some research on a new menu item, but let me say it’s a pleasant surprise.”
He ran his tongue over his lips, as if in anticipation of what was to come next.
“So are you going to kill us? Like you did Amanda Wright?”
“Oh, you think I killed the lovely, talentless Amanda. She wasn’t bad in the sack, but couldn’t cook her way out of a soup pot.”
“You couldn’t take the fact that she was getting the promotion and you weren’t.”
The sous chef gave us a grim smile.
“You’ve got this whole thing figured out, don’t you?”
I was staring out into the hall, wondering if James kept him occupied, I could go around Vanderfield and head for the open door. But that left James with the knife-wielding cook.
“We were just leaving,” James’s voice was a little higher than normal. Higher with a slight quiver.
“Oh, I don’t think so.” He took two steps toward us, and that’s when I saw the flash as a cast-iron skillet came crashing down on his head.
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
“Maybe I killed him.” Em stood there shaking, the iron weapon balanced in her hand.
James was pale and I’m not sure I was any darker.
“God, James, you almost kill a cop with a truck door, and now I’m facing possible manslaughter charges for killing a sous chef. I’m not sure we’re cut out for this stuff, guys.”
“What the hell brought you here? How did you get in?”
“The door was propped open. And I thought about your situation and was feeling pretty bad that I’d kind of talked the two of you into taking this job. Then I refused to back you up. I got worried, having you here by yourselves.”
I took some offense at the statement. “You didn’t think we could handle it by ourselves?”
“Was I correct?”
“What do we do now?”
She pulled out her cell phone.
“Call Ted.”
“It’s three in the morning.”
“He said twenty-four-seven.”
“Maybe he had something else on his mind.”
“Grow up, Skip.” But she knew it wasn’t going to happen.
Em called and he answered on the third ring.
“Ted, we’ve got the sous chef Vanderfield here at L’Elfe. He was attacking Skip and James with a knife, and I hit him pretty hard with a skillet.”
I could hear his voice through her receiver.
“Jesus.”
“Do you want to come over here?”
She switched the phone to speaker.
“Let me think. How many laws have you guys broken?”
She studied James and me. “Probably several.”
“I think the guy is alive.” James was on his knees, listening to Joaquin Vanderfield breathe.
“He’s alive, Ted. But he’ll have one hell of a headache tomorrow morning.”
“Did he confront you?”
“No. He didn’t know I was here.”
“So, he’s coming at Lessor and Moore with a knife and you think that proves he’s Amanda’s killer? Is that your jumping-off point?”
Again she looked at us, and James nodded.
“He had a knife in his hand, Ted. I assumed, as did the boys, that he was going to use it. That’s all I know.”
Once again, “Jesus.”
“Do you want to come over?”
“No. Should I? Yes.”
“We’ll wait.”
It took him twenty minutes and he arrived alone. I expected the cavalry.
“Where do you get off breaking into someone’s business?”
James looked at the floor.
“My God, do you know that the police have to get search warrants? And even then we’ve got to have a lot more to go on than a hunch.”
“In our defense—”
“You have no defense.” Conway looked me straight in the eye.
“We needed to get confirmation on the knives.”
He just shook his head and walked over to the chest.
“So, hot shit, what did you learn from your break-in?”
I shrugged my shoulders. “We may have learned nothing.” I had yet to absorb the impact of James’s knife in Chef Jean’s drawer.
“So my entire jaunt out here at whatever god-awful hour this is, is for nothing?”
He leaned against the door frame of the office, leaving us to stand and take his criticism. “I’ve never had use for private investigators, they’re more trouble than they’re worth. And you two? Rank amateurs.”
He pulled on Kelly Fields’s shiny pan, still wedged in the top of the open chest.
“Where the hell did you get this idea?”
“YouTube,” James said sheepishly.
“Not bad.”
“Thanks.”
“Does this guy,” he motioned to Vanderfield who was still out cold, “have a key?”
James nodded. “Probably.”
Conway studied the fallen sous chef, kneeling down and checking his pulse.
“So, even if he’s the killer, he has every right to be here.”
None of us said a word.
“I’m in a real mess here, kids.” He squinted his eyes, looking at James, then me, finally coming to rest on Em. “If I cover this up, and I get found out, it’s my job. It’s a criminal act.”
“And if this guy is the killer?”
“Based on what? He’s got a key to the place?”
We did have a very lame premise.
“He came at us with a knife,” I ventured.
“You just broke into his employer’s business.”
James studied the chest. “Did you fingerprint the guy?”
“They fingerprinted everyone in the—”
“He skips nights, shows up late on other nights. Maybe your guys missed him.”
“So you’re suggesting that if we didn’t print him, then those prints we can’t identify on the knife handle might be his.”
My roommate nodded, a smug look on his face. He’d bet on Vanderfield from the beginning.
Taking a deep breath and gritting his teeth, Conway looked out into the hallway at the comatose body. “You three, take a hike. I’m going to talk to the sous chef and get another handle on what happened here tonight.”
“Detective, there’s one more thing.”
His lips pursed, he frowned. “There’s always one more thing.”
I pointed to James’s knife.
James was shaking his head, as if to say “Don’t give that to him. No.”
“The knife, with the slight nick in the blade, I’m pretty sure it’s the one that was stolen from James’s locker.”
He looked confused.
“You’re talking about the knife that was stolen from the locker the same night someone took the murder weapon and—Oh. What you’re insinuating is—”
“I think the murder weapon came from this chest. And whoever killed Amanda Wright replaced that murder weapon with James’s knife thinking no one would notice.”
Em smiled, looking impressed with my deductive reasoning.
“Bouvier.” James and Conway said it together.
“I don’t think we have his prints on file.” The detective studied the knife lying on its bed of green felt.
“What if they compare the unknown prints on the murder weapon with those on James’s knife and they both match Jean Bouvier or Joaquin Vanderfield?”
“Could be a logical explanation.”
“Maybe. But would you look a little harder at that person?”
He thought about it for a second. “It’s not conclusive by any means, but it would warrant a harder look at one of them, I suppose.”
“So you’re going to print Bouvier.”
“And Vanderfield, if he isn’t already on record. Get me a kitchen towel. I’m wrapping up the evidence.”
“No search warrant?” James had to push it.
“I now know how to break into this tool chest, Lessor. If I get a positive on the prints I will replace this knife and get the warrant. Don’t lose too much sleep over it, okay?”
I got the impression that Ted Conway could do just about anything he wanted to do and get away with it. Sort of like James.
“Ted,” Em put her hand on his arm, “thank you for—”
“No. You’re not out of the woods on this one. Not yet. I’m covering all bases, and I’m covering my ass. You tried to kill the guy out there. Your two friends,” he waved his hand in our direction, “they did exactly what I was afraid they’d do. They went over the line, they interfered with this investigation, and they were about to withhold information that may very well have led us to the killer.”
It was even worse than I thought. There seemed to be nothing good coming out of this scenario.
“We’ll be in touch.” James was already headed toward the kitchen and freedom.
“Yes, we will. You can count on it.”
Out in the parking lot, I said it for all of us. “We’re in some deep shit, my friends.”