Beat Until Stiff Read online

  “I came in the front door. The lock was okay.”

  “Sounds like an inside job. What about the kitchen, the restaurant? Anything look like it had been stolen or disturbed?”

  I let my mind run over the layout of the restaurant. If you come in from the front door the bar is along the left wall, and a black baby grand piano squats in the far left corner of the room. The kitchen is to the right, with all the sauté stations fully exposed. The pastry section extends back into the kitchen in the ell created by the stairs that go up to the office. Behind the pastry section and down the hall are the walk-in refrigerator and the freezers. Opposite the freezers is the laundry closet.

  I pictured my movements before I found the body. “No, the kitchen and the dining room looked fine, nothing out of the ordinary. I didn’t go upstairs.”

  “What’s upstairs?”

  “The office, the safe, computer equipment.”

  “Who locks up?” he demanded.

  I started to take another sip of coffee, and then stopped myself. I needed to eat something before I had any more coffee.

  “Well, normally Juan, the maître d’, locks up. I think I left about ten last night, maybe nine-thirty?” I guessed and, against my better judgment, finished off my coffee.

  “You don’t know when you got off work?” He sounded annoyed.

  “It was an eighteen-hour day,” I snapped back.

  “What about everyone else?”

  “I don’t know. When I left, Brent, the chef, was still here. Ron Chung, the sous chef, plus the kitchen staff. We were prepping for this party tonight. Davyd, the party organizer, and a few of his staff were putting the finishing touches on the dining room. Oh, Thom, too.”

  “Thom?” O’Connor, his wife Moira, Jim, and I had been customers at the restaurant often and he and Brent were on a first-name basis, but O’Connor had never had the good fortune to run into Thom.

  “The controller. Fussy, pushy guy with a Napoleon complex. He and I don’t get along.” The clicking of the computer keys was starting to put me to sleep. I yawned.

  The clicking stopped.

  “Stay awake, Ryan,” he warned. “Any way we can track which employees were here?”

  “Everybody except for Juan, Brent, Thom, and Davyd’s crew should have punched a time card. The time clock is just outside the laundry closet, but that’s worthless if you’re looking for a head count. People wait for their friends to get off. I saw at least three guys who weren’t scheduled to work hanging outside the back door last night.”

  O’Connor grimaced. This type of homicide makes forensics almost worthless. A public place where a ton of suspects have a perfect right to be.

  “And what about this Davyd guy? What’s his last name?”

  “Doesn’t have a last name. Like Cher.” The coffee wasn’t working. I crossed my arms out in front of me and put my head down.

  “Stay awake, Ryan,” he ordered and was about to ask another question when a panicky voice screeched across the empty restaurant.

  “What’s going on here? Who’s in charge? I demand to see the officer in charge!”

  Chapter 3

  Chef Brent Brown had arrived.

  I stood up and waved my arm to catch Brent’s attention. He saw me and plowed his way through the two officers guarding the door.

  Brent’s always on someone’s top-ten chef list in the United States. He had realized early on that a restaurant must be “sold” if it’s going to survive year after year. In the old days you relied on food to sell a place. Now a restaurant must have good food, a superb florist, and great press. Brent courts the media shamelessly, and, as a result, he’s not only a San Francisco personality, but nationally known as well. I thought the four-page spread on his home in House Beautiful was over the top, but right after that he had the money to open American Fare. Shows what I know about marketing and finance.

  As usual, Brent wore the latest Italian couture. It didn’t suit him. Italian looks best on dark, slim, young men with no waists and nice butts. Brent is blond and heavyset, and has an ass that would best be described as bovine. He’s put on weight in the last couple of years and his features border on the porcine.

  He ran up to our booth, his arms chopping the air with every syllable he uttered. The Italian leather jacket creaked in protest against each big arm movement.

  “What’s going on here? The benefit, the benefit! I have to start dinner right now,” he screamed.

  “It’s okay, guys,” O’Connor reassured the cops chasing after Brent. Both of them were gripping their nightsticks with such fervor that O’Connor warned them again. “Fellas, it’s cool. I know this guy.” They glared at an oblivious Brent and reluctantly walked back to the front door.

  “Chef Brown,” O’Connor said in a grave voice. “Someone’s been murdered in the restaurant. I’ll have to ask you some questions.”

  Brent’s lips opened in the surprised pout of dead fish. He seemed incapable of moving or saying anything.

  O’Connor slid out from the table and motioned Brent to sit down.

  “Mary, move over. Give Chef Brown some room. I’ll go get more coffee. Morales,” O’Connor yelled to one of the officers guarding the door and beckoned him with his hand. “Please stay here and see if Ms. Ryan or Mr. Brown need anything while I’m gone. Back in a minute.” He walked off with the empty coffee pot.

  While Morales stood guard, Brent woodenly removed his jacket, hung it carefully on the back of a dining chair, and sidled his way into the booth. He must have come from the hairdresser; his hair was highlighted to mask the gray and styled to hide the bald spot at the back of his head. I guess he wanted to look his best for the socialites this evening. He turned to me, his face pinched now with worry.

  “Mary, do you know who it was? Was it a robbery?” His voice barely reached me even though we were only eight inches apart.

  I put my hand on his shoulder. Even through his shirt I could feel his muscles twitching.

  “It was Carlos Perez, Brent. And I’m afraid—” I stopped.

  At the sound of Carlos’ name, Brent’s face blanched as white as the tablecloth. Giant perspiration stains immediately soaked the armpits of his shirt.

  Oh, my God, I thought. He’s having a heart attack.

  “Are you okay?” I yelled and seized his wrist to see if he had any pulse.

  Brent shuddered and pulled his wrist away from me with a snap. He grabbed the edge of the tablecloth to wipe his face. The meticulously constructed sculpture of books, pens, and quills crashed into a distinctly lumpy pile.

  “I’m fine.” He straightened his shoulders and ran a hand through his hair. “What’s the matter with you?” Refusing to look me in the eye, he grabbed my coffee and began slurping it.

  Brent and I have worked together a long time. He isn’t a friend—his tendency to sleep with every woman under the age of twenty-five precludes friendship as far as I am concerned—but there’s a deep bond and mutual respect between us forged over a lot of fourteen-hour days.

  We met seven years ago. Fresh from Denver, he was hired to take a mediocre prime rib restaurant whose heyday was circa 1958 and “modernize” it. He fired the whole staff except for me. I didn’t have high hopes—the man walked in wearing a cowboy hat. I gave him two months before he was canned. Within two years he’d received the James Beard Award, the Oscar equivalent in the cooking world, for Most Outstanding New Chef.

  Having proved himself in the kitchen, Brent has been swept up in the latest craze to consume the cooking world: the celebrity chef. He hired the same agent who represents Barbara Walters and before you could say pommes frites, numerous articles featuring him appeared in the cooking mags. Then he went mainstream with the spread in House Beautiful, and last time I spoke with him, he was negotiating for his own television show. The upside of all this is that it gives the restaurant continued national recognition and keeps our tables filled every night. The downside is that
he bends over backward to accommodate star-fuckers like Mrs. Gerson, who cares little about the food and more about her press clippings.

  I find this frantic grab for fame bizarre. Every now and then he drags me into these promotional forays. If I don’t medicate myself beforehand with massive amounts of Benadryl, I break out in hives from nerves. I’ve gotten a reputation for being ultra cool in these situations when in reality I’m drugged to the eyeballs.

  I’ve tried to ignore this rapacious self-aggrandizement because I’m eternally grateful to Brent. He’s one of the few chefs I’ve met who doesn’t think pastry is the shit can of the kitchen. The prevailing opinion among chefs is that those that can do, and those that can’t do pastry. I chose pastry after butchering seven sides of beef in one day. The smell of blood was etched into my nasal cavities for days. Three hundred pounds of chocolate lying on a table doesn’t make you want to throw up. It also doesn’t have eyes.

  Before he and I hooked up, I’d done time in too many kitchens to count where I’d had to adopt this bitchy, balls-the-size-of-grapefruits attitude to get any respect. I was called Señora Cojones behind my back. I didn’t care. It saved my eggs from getting smashed when someone threw a side of beef into the walk-in or having my butter smell like fish because a pantry cook placed cooling fish stock next it. Too bad it hadn’t saved my chocolate boxes. I must be losing my touch.

  In the last year, however, Brent’s sorely tested my allegiance. The restaurant has struggled to maintain the quality and innovation we’re famous for because he just doesn’t have the time to both manage a kitchen and pose for publicity shots. And after the week I’d had indulging Mrs. Gerson’s quest for fame, I was not feeling too kindly toward him.

  I grabbed my coffee cup back.

  “Brent, I’m not some twenty-year-old you can bullshit. What in the hell is going—” Before I could finish my sentence, O’Connor reappeared with the coffee. By this time Brent had regained his composure and now only looked pale, a reasonable response under the circumstances.

  O’Connor poured Brent a cup. “Chef Brown, I’d appreciate it if you’d have a cup of coffee, calm down, and wait for me here. I’ve a few more questions to ask Ms. Ryan, then I’ll be back and explain what’s happened.”

  Brent looked up at O’Connor and nodded, his solid midwestern frame slack with fatigue. The only thing holding him upright was the back of the red leather booth.

  “Ryan,” O’Connor barked and jerked his head in the direction of the kitchen. Before I got up I turned my head so that O’Connor couldn’t see my face and tried to make eye contact with Brent. He ignored me and began restacking the pieces of the centerpiece.

  I grabbed my knife roll and followed O’Connor into the one area of the kitchen that wasn’t teeming with police technicians. What a mess. Camera and video equipment, saucers overflowing with smoldering cigarettes despite department orders not to smoke at crime scenes, and half-filled coffee cups littered the stainless steel tables. The janitors would have to scrub for hours to clean this up.

  I leaned against a five-foot-high stack of sheet pans and hugged my knife roll to my chest. I’d never felt so exhausted in all my life.

  “O’Connor, can I go home now? I’ve told you everything I know about the murder. I’m so tired even the tiny hairs in my ears hurt. If I think of anything else, I’ll call you. I promise.”

  O’Connor scowled and loosened his tie. “Most likely this is a simple case of some guy finding out that a co-worker was screwing his wife. Brown has a reputation with the ladies, doesn’t he?”

  I had often entertained O’Connor with gossip about the restaurant. Right now my amusing little tidbits about Brent’s love life seemed unwise. From my vantage point in the kitchen, I could see Brent clutching his coffee cup like a lifesaver. Morales stood next to him, stiff with authority.

  “Mmm,” I mumbled.

  “Did he ever hit on you?”

  “No,” I said wearily. “He’d never jeopardize our professional relationship by having an affair with me. Besides, he likes them young and blond, neither of which applies to me. Carlos’ wife doesn’t fit the bill either if that’s where you’re headed. She’s seven months pregnant. Can I go now?”

  “For the second time, no. You’ll still need to come down to the station in the morning to make a statement, but I might want to ask you more questions while everything’s fresh in your mind. Stay put.” He turned his back on me and went back out to the dining room to talk with Brent.

  The liquor and lack of food were working a number on my body. Sweat ran down my back in tiny rivulets. The snot streaks on my arm had dried to the consistency of cement. I needed a shower and a nap. Time to start cashing in some of those chips I hoped I’d earned as the wife of a cop, albeit ex-wife. Summoning every bit of energy I had left, I followed him out of the kitchen. I caught him halfway across the dining room and thumped him on the shoulder.

  “I’m going now.”

  He spun around and pointed his finger in my face.

  I hate that.

  “Ryan, don’t move your ass one inch. You’re the premiere witness in this case. Don’t make me get official with you.”

  “Get official. You know where I live.” I walked out of the restaurant.

  Chapter 4

  The entrance to the alley had been cordoned off with yellow crime-scene tape. Ignoring the obnoxious questions of the crowd, I walked over to the far end of the alley where the cops had rounded up the kitchen crew.

  The majority of the employees in any kitchen in America are Latino. I’m talking at least ninety percent. We always have a few recent graduates from my old alma mater, École d’Epicure, but they stay only long enough to pick the brains of senior staff and then they move on to the next high-profile chef. The staff turnover in any restaurant is phenomenal. Without Latinos the restaurant industry would collapse. They work their asses off, get their paychecks, and aren’t interested in moving on. Most of the Latinos working in American Fare had been there from the day we opened.

  Huddled up against a wall, their brown faces terrified, I knew this would be a tremendous ordeal for every one of them. They were largely from Guatemala or El Salvador, countries where the police hauled people away, no questions asked. Even though all of them were legal, the kind of brute force that officials wielded in their countries made them fear any kind of authority.

  Juan, the maître d’, was among the crowd. As soon as he saw me he beckoned me over. “What happened? A robbery? They won’t tell us anything.”

  Everyone stopped talking.

  “Didn’t they tell you what happened?”

  Fifteen people shook their heads.

  I swallowed hard. “Someone’s been murdered in the restaurant.”

  “Who is it, who is it?” several voices shouted at me. I searched for Carlos’ brother, Gilberto, in the crowd. He worked under me, too, and was on the schedule for that day. I couldn’t see him. I didn’t feel I should say anything until his family was told.

  I shrugged my shoulders to indicate I didn’t know. “They’ll have to question everyone. Juan, I told them to talk with you, that you usually lock up. You’ll be here for hours. Ask the officers if you guys can at least have a cup of coffee.” The panic in the Latinos’ faces multiplied.

  As exhausted as I was, I knew I had to say something.

  “Hey, it’s all right,” I said to the crowd. “The police are just going to ask a few questions. No big deal.” It didn’t make a bit of difference; their backs were stiff with fear.

  I turned back to Juan. “They’re so scared, could you please talk to them and let them know that it’s just routine. Assure them nothing’s going to happen to them.”

  He sighed. “It won’t make any difference. To them, any police officer is the enemy. When I saw the police tape I knew it was serious. I tried to phone Thom but he’s not home. I will call Mrs. Gerson and explain that due to unfortunate circumstances beyond our control, we
will have to cancel her party. No doubt she will be most distraught, but I will tell her that we will only be postponing the event and that perhaps in light of the situation, we might be able to renegotiate the price of the meal. I am sure we will come to some sort of satisfactory arrangement.”

  In spite of my fatigue, I smiled. How clever of him. The one thing I’ve learned about rich people is that they are, without exception, incredibly cheap.

  “Thank you, Juan. I’m going home now. Please let Brent know that you called Mrs. Gerson with the bad news. He’ll be ecstatic he didn’t have to talk to her. If you remember, call me this evening with an update on when we can reopen.”

  “Of course, Mary. I shall call about seven. Also, I shall call the wait staff and tell them not to come in.”

  Juan’s affected formal courtesy normally irritates the shit out of me. He has cultivated this stagey, Ricardo Montalban-like persona over the years to establish credibility. To my ears he usually sounds like he’s hawking used Lincoln town cars. After today’s events, however, it was a comforting refrain.

  I hoisted my knife roll over my shoulder, lied to the officer at the crime scene tape saying that O’Connor had given me his blessing to leave, and muscled my way through the crowd. I had to get out of the restaurant before they took away the beaten body that had been Carlos Perez.

  Driving home, I broke every speed limit between San Francisco and Albany. When Jim and I were married we lived in the Avenues. The minute I got divorced, I moved back across the bay as far away from the fog and my failed marriage as possible. From the divided proceeds of our house I’d bought a minuscule two-bedroom cottage in Albany, two minutes away from my mother. I didn’t exactly move back home, but I came pretty close without exactly putting my sheets on her bed.

  My inertia after the divorce was total. My kitchen still sported the faded pink-and-green rooster wallpaper, with pink appliances to match, no less, that the previous owner had put up in 1955. The tone of the house matched my state of mind these days—faded and old.