by Toby Neal
Abe was ruining her lipstick, mussing her hair, and it felt glorious, an ardent declaration more powerful than any words. Finally he let her go, sliding his big hands down her arms to clasp her hands. C.J. felt tears prickle her eyes.
“We’re going public then,” he said. “Whenever you’re ready, I’m ready.”
“Okay.” C.J. stepped back and tugged down the jacket of her uniform, finger-combing her hair with trembling hands. Oh, my God. I’m in so much trouble.
Chapter Eleven
Kathy
The young man in the doorway sported a head of dreadlocks decorated with beads in red, yellow, green, and black. He wore nothing but a pair of board shorts. “What can I do for you, Officer?”
“Sergeant Kathy Fraser.” Kathy held up her badge wallet. “Hi. Can I come in and talk for a few minutes?”
“Is this about Feast?” Sage Bukowski stepped back, inviting her in with a flourish. His British accent was a surprise. “Enter at your own risk.” The young man preceded her into a living room crowded with kite-boarding equipment and surfboards. He cleared a couple of pizza boxes off the coffee table and a shirt off the couch. “Have a seat.”
“Thanks.” Kathy sat as he took the boxes into the kitchen. “Yes, this is about Feast. Just wanted to ask you a few more questions. Do you mind if I record this?”
“No problem.” Bukowski smelled the shirt he’d picked up off the couch and shrugged into it. “What can I tell you?”
“Why don’t you begin by telling me what your job is?”
“I’m a busboy and food runner.”
“So what does that entail?”
“Clearing and setting tables. I take the food out to the tables from the kitchen when it’s ready.”
“Are you here on Maui on a work visa?”
Bukowski eyed Kathy warily. “I plead the Fifth on that.”
She snorted a laugh. “Okay. I take that as a no. How long have you been at Feast?”
“About six months. There’s a high turnover rate for my position.”
“What do you like about working there?”
“Everything.” The young man gestured animatedly. “The food. The ambience. The staff is great. It’s a fun place to work.”
“So in mentioning the staff, do you also include Chef Noriega in the ‘great’ description?”
“Chef is brilliant.”
“Yes, he is.” Bukowski was clearly wary about saying anything negative about the restaurant while being recorded. “Perhaps we don’t need this after all.” Kathy turned off her phone and put it away. “So where were you between the hours of eight-thirty and midnight?”
“Oh, girl.” Bukowski flapped a hand. “I told the lieutenant who interviewed me—I was off early. Went out with the boys at nine-thirty.”
She made a note of it—still within the window of time of death but less likely than after ten p.m. People would still have been going in and out of the refrigerator then. “Can I get a name or two to verify your whereabouts?”
“Sure.” Bukowski seemed confident, and Kathy noted the names and numbers he rattled off.
“Did you see anyone else go into the walk-in before you left?”
“Hmm. I had to refill the sauces at my workstation before I left. I was doing that from about nine to nine-thirty, and it’s across from the walk-in. I don’t remember anyone in particular. I wasn’t paying attention—I admit, I was texting someone when I wasn’t filling my sauce bottles.” Once again, the cocky grin.
“How about the victim? Did you see Métier go into the unit?”
“Hey, now that you mention it, I did. He went in with his main squeeze, Kitty the porn star. She’s also a waitress at Feast.”
Pay dirt. Kathy’s heart rate accelerated. “And did you see them come out?”
Bukowski shut his eyes in concentration. Opened them again, a remarkable hazel against his caffe-latte skin. “I’m afraid not. I went to the loo to freshen up after they went inside.”
“Did you see anyone else after you got back?”
He shook his head. “I’m sorry. I just couldn’t tell you.” Then he lifted his head with a flare of those eyes. “Yes! Chef went in. He came right back out though, no more than a couple of minutes, tops.”
“Thanks. This has been very helpful. You seem well spoken. Did you go to college?”
“Oxford. English lit. The degree really does a lot for me, as you can see.” He gestured to the homely surroundings.
Kathy smiled. “So you must have some background in writing.”
“Just studying the way it’s done.” Bukowski smiled. “I follow that blog, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“And . . . do you write the blog?”
Bukowski got up. “I prefer to be an observer. That’s more my style.”
“Whoever writes the blog is awfully observant.”
Bukowski went behind the breakfast bar, clearly uncomfortable. “Can I get you an espresso? Don’t have much, but I do have a good machine.”
“No, thanks. Hypothetically then, if I were to be speaking to the author of the blog, what are some of the benefits of writing it?”
“I would imagine, hypothetically speaking, that it would be fun.” Bukowski changed out the grounds and filled the water carafe. “Whoever is writing it clearly enjoys social commentary.”
“I can’t wait to read what the blogger says about the murder,” Kathy said dryly. “I bet that will be a real crowd pleaser.”
“Actually, Métier was better alive than dead for the blogger,” Bukowski said. “He generated a good deal of juicy gossip with his bedroom habits.”
“I’m aware. I’ve been following the blog for some time. I wonder if the blogger had motive to kill Métier.”
Bukowski’s hands stilled on the espresso machine. “I can’t see one. Did you get any hostile vibes off the blog toward Métier?”
“Gossip, cattiness, jealousy perhaps.” Kathy kept her eyes on Bukowski’s expressive face.
Bukowski turned on the hissing milk steamer. Probably didn’t want to comment, and she didn’t much blame him. He poured his coffee drink and came back to sit beside her on the couch.
“Listen.” Kathy set down her notebook and pen. “Off the record. This blog has been a huge source of stress to the Noriegas. Elena, particularly.”
Bukowski grinned and took a sip of the latte. Foam decorated his upper lip. “I’m sorry to hear that. Poor lady deals with a lot. But the blog has been good for Feast’s publicity. There are even rumors of a reality TV show set in the restaurant.”
Kathy hissed out a breath. “That’s not going to fly with the Noriegas.”
“You seem personally invested for a cop investigating the case.”
So much for the sympathy appeal. Kathy picked up her notebook again. “Let’s go over again when you saw the victim, Chef, and Kitty Summers go into the walk-in. Nail down the times.”
She took notes, trying to nail down his observations, but they remained vague. “So. On the topic of Métier, and since we’ve established that you are a very observant guy . . . who do you think the Frenchman might have made a proposal to?”
“Ah. Now, isn’t that an interesting question.” Bukowski wiped his milk mustache with a flick of his finger. “Kitty was angling for more, that’s for sure, and even though they had the porn thing going, I don’t think he was that into her.”
“Porn thing?”
“They made videos. Some professional, some for personal use.” He rubbed a thumb alongside his mouth, suppressing a smile. “Kitty was a pro with those videos, both acting in and marketing them through her production company. Métier seemed to be into it for a while, but lately I’d seen them arguing. Métier was trying to get some distance, and she was on him like gum on a shoe. My impression was that she chased him into the walk-in that night.”
“Thanks.” Kathy noted that. “Any other contenders?”
“He was really into Elena Noriega—always fixing her little things to eat w
hen Chef wasn’t around, meeting her in the office with the blinds down. I’m not sure how much of his attachment to her was because he really cared for her or if banging her was one more way he was sticking it to Chef.”
Kathy raised her brows at his crudity, and Bukowski shook his head a little. “I like Elena. The lady’s in a tough spot. But there’s no doubt there was a little getting back at Chef on both of their parts in that relationship.”
Kathy privately agreed, but pressed on. “You sure there’s no one else serious in his life?”
“I couldn’t swear to it. Like I said, Métier, for all his faults, wasn’t one to kiss and tell.”
“Were you aware he had other secrets from Chef?”
“You mean the other restaurant? Yeah. I overheard Métier on the phone with one of Chef’s farmers, Teo Benitez. From what I gathered, Teo was reluctant to sell to him and risk losing Chef’s business.”
Kathy jotted down the name. “Thanks so much. This has been super helpful.” She stood. “We may need to come back, check on a few details.”
“Of course. Happy to help.” He walked Kathy to the door. “Good luck finding that blogger.”
Kathy snorted—the rascal was charming, and he’d given her good intel. “Right. We’ll be in touch if we need to be.”
Out in her Rogue, engine idling and AC cranked up, she called Stevens.
“Hey, Kath.” He sounded friendly and upbeat. Reminded her of old times, back when they’d been friends. She wanted it to be like that again.
“Hey. I got done with Bukowski. Got a pencil?”
“You know I do.” He always did, that stub tied to his spiral pad. So old school. “What’d he give you?”
“Good stuff. He’s the blogger, all right, though he wouldn’t admit it. He’d seen some comings and goings to the walk-in.” She told him the tips Bukowski had passed on, along with the extras about the victim.
“Good work. Can you take care of verifying his alibi?”
“No problem.”
A brief pause. “Thanks. Appreciate your lending a hand.”
“Of course. I tried to get him to stop doing the blog, for Elena’s sake, but he laughed me off. Said it was good for the restaurant.”
“Cocky little bastard.”
“He is that. But charming.”
“Okay, then. Keep me posted.” Stevens ended the call.
Kathy turned the key and fired up her vehicle. She had time for some phone calls and drive-bys to check on Bukowski’s alibi, and then she’d meet Jared for coffee.
Kathy’s pulse picked up—if she could get past the fact that Jared was Stevens’s brother, she could admit how attractive she found him.
They were so different—Stevens serious, Jared more playful—but they had in common a laser-like focus on their objectives and a selfless dedication to their work in public service, something she shared, and admired.
Kathy smiled as she pushed down on the accelerator. She was really looking forward to that coffee.
Chapter Twelve
Stevens
Roland Chen looked the part of an estate lawyer: small and tubby, he was dressed in tailored slacks paired with an immaculate white shirt and jacket, and a perfectly groomed goatee framed his small, pink mouth. He took off a pair of round spectacles and polished them with a linen kerchief. “I’m horrified to hear of François’s death.”
“Yes, quite a shock. And especially the manner of it.” Stevens, seated beside Mahoe, pushed Métier’s death certificate and a warrant for his records across the finely tooled, burled koa desk toward the attorney. “We need to know the terms of his will and sources of his assets. That information could help us determine who stood to gain by his murder.”
Chen replaced the glasses on his nose and tucked the kerchief back into its pocket, a snowy corner protruding in sartorial splendor. He picked up and examined the documents. “These seem to be in order. I’m just the Métier family representative here in Hawaii, a liaison for their trust.” He retrieved a slim folder. “Mr. Métier did have a will.”
“Trust?” Mahoe leaned forward in his chair. “What kind of trust?”
“The Métier Family Trust. François Métier was the heir. Both his parents are deceased. He was a very wealthy man.”
“So what was he doing busting his butt as a sous-chef?” Mahoe’s eyebrows, and his voice, had risen.
“He never discussed that with me.” Chen opened the folder. “I’ll have my girl make you copies of these documents.”
“Thanks,” Stevens said. “If you could sum up the contents of these documents in layman’s terms, that would be helpful.”
“Yes, indeed.” Chen removed the document and used an old-fashioned fountain pen to point to the relevant clauses. “François didn’t have a spouse or children, so his will was simple: his assets reverted to the trust, which is set up to pay out and benefit several charities in the event of his death without issue. Should he have married or had children, things would have been much different.”
“So how big of a trust is this? And what are its sources of income?” Stevens asked.
“The trust was established in 1990 by Métier’s parents. It contains holdings in French shipping, wine, and land. Métier received a monthly percentage, which I imagine is what he was living on at a bit higher level than the average sous-chef.”
“Who’s in charge of it?” Stevens asked. The lawyer’s secretary had arrived. She took the papers, leaving the room.
“The trust has a board of directors. Now that the last direct member of the family has died, it is set up to become a nonprofit that generates money to support the chosen charities.”
Stevens sat back and frowned. “So there’s no financial benefit to anyone by Métier’s death.”
“Well, he had a life insurance policy, too. All of this was set up by his parents—François showed little interest in anything other than his quarterly payments. I had my girl make a copy of the policy for you. It was smaller. Only a million and a half. Beneficiary was his cousin, André Métier, only surviving relative. He also lives here on Maui.”
Stevens felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck. “Do you have an address?”
“There is one on the document, but I don’t imagine it’s current. I heard the young man is big into kite-boarding and windsurfing, and that can be a transitory lifestyle.”
“Anything else you can tell us that could shed light on who might have wanted to kill Métier?”
“I’m sorry. Other than the cousin, no one benefited from his death but the nonprofit and the charities under the trust.”
“Can you give us a list of what they are?”
“Of course.” Chen turned to his computer, tapping keys. “Most of them are in France. I’m not sure there’s anything at all here on Maui.”
Mahoe got up and paced a little. Stevens frowned at the agitation in his young partner’s movements, the frustration in his body language. Mahoe rolled his shoulders, staring at the expensive artworks on the walls.
“Hmm, I was wrong. There’s a big bequest to benefit the Maui Forest Bird Recovery Project. They’re here on Maui, focusing on saving the Maui parrotbill, or kiwikiu. And there’s another for Keiki Cupboard, an organization that gives school supplies to needy kids.” Chen hit a button and the printer spit out pages. “Those are the only local ones, though.”
Stevens took the pages just as the secretary returned with copies of the will and insurance policy. “Thanks so much for your time.”
“Anything I can do. This was truly a tragic waste.” Chen followed them to the door. After handshakes all around, they walked out of the office and down the hall of the dignified office building in Wailuku.
“So what’s got you so sour, Mahoe?” Stevens asked as they got into the elevator.
“Just isn’t fair.” Mahoe looked sullen, his brows low and mouth tight. “This guy had it all. Looks. Women. Money, too.”
“May I remind you he’s on a slab in Dr. G’s morgue?” Ste
vens hit the Stop button on the elevator. “What’s your beef with Métier and this case? You gotta think about it when a case gets under your skin—it affects the way you do your investigation. Your bias shows, Brandon.” His use of the man’s first name was deliberate.
Mahoe sagged against the wall, crestfallen. “I don’t really care that Métier got killed,” he said. “He deserved it. He had too much and did nothing for anyone with it.”
“Think about what you just said.” Stevens caught the young detective’s eye. “François Métier may well have been a self-serving dog who had everything handed to him, or there may have been more going on with who he was than meets the eye. That’s not for us to judge. His life, which is all anyone has at the end of the day, was taken from him in a brutal, underhanded way that he never saw coming. A way that tells me it was a friend, not an enemy, who did him in. The worst kind of betrayal.” Stevens hit the Stop button again and the elevator proceeded. “Get over it, Mahoe, or I’ll ask you to step off the case and I’ll work with Kathy and Torufu instead.”
“No need, LT. I’m sorry. I’ll get my head in the game. Just don’t ask me to watch those frickin’ porn videos.” Red stained the tops of Mahoe’s ears.
“You’ll notice I farmed that out to Torufu,” Stevens said with a grin. “Didn’t think either of us needed to have to bleach our eyeballs after an afternoon going through all that. One more point I want to make is this: what a man’s like at thirty is seldom what he’s like at forty, fifty, sixty. Métier was just beginning to get traction on his dreams. He might have amounted to someone who had a positive impact. Now we’ll never know.”
Mahoe looked down at his feet. Stevens hoped he was getting through to his partner, but with the young man’s tight-lipped expression, he wasn’t sure. He clapped Mahoe on the shoulder. “And that age thirty thing goes for you, too, Brandon. Not happy with where you are? No time like the present to change it.”