I shot him a pained look—I didn’t even try to hide my fear. What if it was Jean-Charles in the oven? And Christophe? My heart broke for the little boy. Losing two parents would be so . . . I hadn’t the right word . . . if there even was one. My hand shook as I swiped at a lock of hair that fell into my eyes. And his sister? I cradled my head in my arms for a moment. And what about me?
A wave of heat washed over us when Romeo eased opened the oven door, allowing it to rest on its hinges. His eyes traversed the kitchen, then settled on Teddie and me once again—they were old eyes, lacking his original youthful idealism, and I felt a pang of guilt, I didn’t really know why.
“Looks like there was a bit of a fight in here,” he said, understated as always.
I looked at the mess of pots and pans and broken plates. Jean-Charles putting up the fight of his life?
Romeo locked his eyes on Teddie, who had pushed himself to his feet and now seemed overly interested in brushing down his jeans, ridding them of invisible dust. “Anything you can add here?” Romeo asked.
“This is how I found it.” Teddie stuffed his hands in his pockets and hunched his shoulders around his ears. “ Nobody was here . . . well, except for the guy in the oven.”
Romeo stared at him for a moment, a visual litmus test.
A numbness washed over me—a self-protective disbelief cooling the burning residue of panic. I hugged myself. “What if that’s Jean-Charles?”
Romeo’s eyes snapped to mine. “Call him. See if he answers.”
“I tried earlier.” I struggled for air. “He didn’t.”
With a sense of impending doom, I pulled my phone from its hip holster and flicked my thumb across the screen—I had to repeat it three times before I got it right. I tapped my chef’s number in the list of favorites. “He shouldn’t be too hard to find.” When you were responsible for a twenty-four-hour restaurant, your tether was tight. I knew—I was responsible for a twenty-four-hour hotel. My call rang once, then rolled to voice mail. I tried again. Same result. I looked at Romeo. I opened my mouth, but words wouldn’t come. I shook my head.
“He doesn’t answer?” Teddie asked, his voice flat, devoid of emotion.
Why was he here? The question kept echoing in my head.
I found my voice. “No.” I dialed the Burger Palais. The hostess picked up on the first ring. “Chef Bouclet, please. This is Lucky O’Toole.”
“Oh, Ms. O’Toole, I’m sorry, but he left a little while ago. I thought he was going to meet you.”
“When did he tell you that?” My voice was hard. Fear tempered it thin, and my tone sharp.
“As he was walking out.”
“When was that? Tell me exactly.”
“A couple of hours, I think. I don’t know exactly. He said he was going to meet you at Cielo.” The girl had that breathy way of speaking that young women the world over seemed to think sounded grown-up in a Marilyn Monroe sort of way. To me, it just sounded like they were auditioning for a porn movie. “To be honest, we’re getting a bit worried. He left Christophe here. Rinaldo was sure he’d be back by now.”
Dread won out in my heart. I hung up, as if doing so would sever the channel to bad news. Enough “me” remained to think I would have to apologize later.
As I ended the call and replaced the phone at my hip, I locked eyes with Romeo. “According to his staff, Jean-Charles said he was coming here to meet me.”
Teddie looked a little twitchy. “It’s going to be okay, you know. I’m sure the guy in the oven isn’t him.” Despite his effort to placate me, he could no longer calm my fears or make me feel better. In fact, as living proof that things didn’t always turn out okay, he made me feel worse.
“Right. And, if I’m a good girl, Santa will give me everything I want for Christmas.” I pushed myself to my feet, then staggered over to Romeo. “I need to know.”
As if sensing my hurt and fear, the detective circled an arm around my shoulders and pulled me against him. “Lucky, this isn’t a good idea.”
Teddie stepped in next to me, his hand gripping my arm. “I agree.”
Jerking my arm from his grasp, I shut them both down with a glare. Romeo finally nodded, but held on to me, not letting go.
The three of us peered into the oven. The body curled away from us, the skin bright pink, all the hair burned away. Charred bits of clothing hung from the body—a collar, it had been white. I stepped on my rising panic. The broad expanse of his back faced outward, the top of his shoulder a crispy, burned dark crust. Bile rose in my throat. I pressed my hand over my mouth, fighting the urge.
Romeo must’ve felt the tremor of revulsion. He tightened his arm around my shoulders and tried to steer me away. “The crime scene folks are on their way. Let’s give them some room.”
I shrugged out of his embrace and focused anew on the body. My eyes traversed down his spine, looking for something I’d recognize, something . . . identifying. The skin next to the bone actually looked . . . uncooked, but not unique. Under the man’s haunches, the soles of his feet peeked through some sort of green goo. “What is that?”
Romeo leaned in, waving away the heat. He pulled a pencil out of his coat pocket and poked at the green slime. When he removed the pencil, he pulled thin threads of the stuff with it, sticky and gooey like a spider’s web. “Looks like plastic.”
“Plastic,” I whispered. I dropped my head and let loose a reedy, nervous laugh. My legs weakened with relief, but my knees held. I squeezed Romeo’s arm.
“What?” The young detective looked at me as if I’d finally gone ’round the bend, as I been threatening to do for so long.
“Crocs.” I pointed to the green goo. “Jean-Charles wouldn’t be caught dead wearing a pair of Crocs.”
* * *
Teddie and I reconvened in the corner of the kitchen as the macabre work continued silently in front of the oven. Side-by-side we now sat on stools, leaning against the wall, watching the techs work the rest of the crime scene, dusting and photographing, plucking and bagging trace—mind-numbing work, but part of the thrill of the chase. No tiny speck of lint remained untouched, unexamined.
The cops had separated us and had taken their time. I didn’t know about Teddie, but I was bone-weary, angry, and scared. The smell of seared flesh lingered.
“It’ll be a long time before I can face roast pork.” Teddie pulled one knee up, lacing his fingers together to hold it.
“Your jocularity is a bit overdone, Mr. Kowalski.” I gritted my teeth. Panic. It did it to me every time. I never missed an opportunity to say something inappropriate—like a joke at a dead guy’s expense. At the moment, food in general held no appeal, but I didn’t feel the need to share that tidbit. So to speak. I squirmed on my stool, angling for the best view of the body, which the techs had laid out inside a body-bag. “Do they have an ID yet?”
Teddie didn’t answer—he was good that way, letting me sort of babble my way back to logical thinking. The sizzle of fear still arced through me, jolting me at the touch of the memory. “Thank God it wasn’t Jean-Charles. But I wonder who, and why, and why here?”
“All good questions.”
“And where is Jean-Charles?” I’d tried his cell repeatedly, each with the same result. “What if the killer has him?” Crossing my arms, I hugged myself—suddenly, I felt very cold.
“What if he is the killer?” Teddie sounded almost as if he’d like that outcome.
“Why would he leave Christophe at the restaurant, then?”
“A trip to the scene of an impending murder doesn’t sound like a family outing to me,” Romeo added as he joined us, taking the third stool.
“But I know him, he wouldn’t . . .” I trailed off. They had a point. Not one I would accept, but without more facts, I couldn’t argue . . . yet.
Romeo pulled a square of cloth out of his front pocket and blotted his forehead. He didn’t refold the bit of linen, preferring to stuff it back where he’d found it. “We’re looking for him, if that makes you feel better.”
Two officers muscled their way through the single swinging door, forcing me to bite off my reply. The larger of the two, who looked like he was a NFL lineman moonlighting to make ends meet, glanced around the room, his eyes finally finding who he was looking for. “Detective Romeo, sir, we found this guy hanging around outside.”
Reaching behind him, the officer grabbed the man lurking there and pushed him to the front.
Adone Giovanni.
Romeo raised an eyebrow. “Thank you officer. I’ll take it from here.”
“Sir.” The two cops touched the brims of their hats, then left as quickly as they’d come.
“That’s not Jean-Charles, is it?” Adone’s dark eyes danced wildly, his gaze darting between each of us and the body on the floor half-hidden by the surrounding techs.
“Why are you here?” Romeo asked, his voice serious, even a bit hard.
“I was looking for Jean.” Adone’s voice wavered, then steadied, as he took a deep breath. “The hostess at the burger place told me he would be here.” Still in all-black chef attire, tattoos, kohled eyes, his hair spiked, he looked out of place in Jean-Charles’s kitchen.
“And what did you want with Chef Bouclet?” Romeo pressed.
Adone grabbed one elbow, holding his arm to his side and looking like a kid who needed a hug but was afraid to ask for one, or a kid stilling himself because he had something to hide.
I narrowed my eyes. Pulling my phone out, I once again dialed the Burger Palais. The same voice answered. “Yes, this is Lucky O’Toole again. Sorry to bother you, but are you the only hostess on duty?” I locked eyes with Adone. He swallowed hard. “You are. And how long have you been on duty? All day. Did you tell anyone besides me where Chef Bouclet had gone?” I chewed on my lip and waited a second or two before repeating her answer. “No. Yes, you’re right, Chef Bouclet would not like you telling anyone his business. Thank you.” I rang off and reholstered the phone without a word.
Romeo looked at Adone. “So?”
The rebel chef deflated. “Look, I was supposed to meet Jean-Charles here. They’re releasing the food truck, so I’m back in business. He had some new recipes we needed to work on.” He looked at me, his arms open, pleading.
I shot a questioning look at Romeo. He nodded. “Coroner’s done with the truck.”
“When did you and Jean-Charles arrange this meeting?” I asked Adone.
“Earlier. I called him.”
I thought back. Something Jean-Charles had said the last time I saw him—in the kitchen at Burger Palais. He was to meet a friend here. I looked around and the carnage. Some friend.
“Why did you lie?” Teddie asked the obvious next question.
Romeo frowned at his intrusion—as a detective, he treated questioning as his sole province.
“I walked right into the middle of a police investigation.” Adone’s eyes skittered to the body, then back to Romeo’s. “I’m assuming this is the second dead body. The last thing I wanted was for you to think I had something to do with it.”
I rolled my eyes. “Well,
that
strategy backfired.”
One of the techs called to Romeo. He gave me a look that was easy to interpret, then excused himself.
I motioned to the stool Romeo vacated. “Join us?” I said to Adone in a tone that made it clear there was only one answer.
The chef did as he was ordered, straddling the stool. Keeping his legs wide, he gripped the slice of seat between them with both hands. His wide-eyed gaze lingered on the body before turning to me. “Is that Jean?”
“No.”
He straightened as the answer hit him like a slap.
“Aren’t you relieved?”
Teddie thrust a beer at Adone and one at me, then took a deep pull of his own as he retook his stool. I never saw him leave.
Adone drank deeply, then rested the bottle atop one thigh while he bounced his foot.
I waited for the jiggled beer to overflow, but that would be his problem . . . probably the least of his problems, so I didn’t mention it.
“Of course I am happy . . . for Desiree. There is not so much love lost between us, to be honest, but I wouldn’t wish that”—he jerked his head toward the body—“on anybody. Why would someone put a body to broil like that?”
“To make a point.”
“What’s the bad blood between you and Jean-Charles? Besides the way you’re treating his sister.”
I saw an excuse in his eyes, but he thought better than fighting that fight. “Jean, he is very classical in his culinary approach. Very French. I like to shake things up a bit. There’s a group of us, younger chefs, we are trying different fusions, different techniques.”
“The anti-Ducasse and his ‘quality restaurant’ label,” Teddie said. I guess he’d picked up a thing or two on his whirlwind world tour.
Adone’s eyes lit with zeal. “Exactly. Collège Culinaire de France took a dislike to us.”
“You were blackballed.” Not wanting any more of my beer, I handed it to Teddie, who had drained his.
“What is this? My balls are sometimes blue . . . women!” Adone shook his head. “But they are not black.”
I did not smile. I didn’t know, but I had a strong feeling he was patronizing me and I was the butt of a subtle joke. “You couldn’t get a job in a legitimate kitchen in France.”