Hot Stuff by Don Bruns Read Free Book Online Page B

case.
    We kissed and she opened the door to the black Jag XJ as I crawled into the leather passenger seat. James sat in the rear, still a little shaken up, his knees cramped in the small space.
    â€œAmanda was about to have the dream of a lifetime come true, guys. Can you imagine? Her own restaurant. Her own damned restaurant.” Em had her daddy’s company. There was no doubt she was going to be running it in the future. I think she was set for life. But her friend was about to realize a lofty goal that she’d apparently worked very hard for.
    â€œShe’d dreamed about it for years, guys. We’ve got to find out who killed her. I mean, really, can you imagine? Getting your own restaurant? And then—”
    I knew James could imagine. He’d shared that dream for a long time. And now some girl he’d dated had almost done it. In a perverse way, I knew his ego was somewhat bruised.
    Em reached into her purse. “Someone didn’t want that to happen.” She turned the key and the throaty roar of the engine reverberated down the alley.
    â€œAnd we found a couple people who may have had a problem with that dream.” I turned to her. “There’s a dishwasher who may have found her very attractive, and there’s a sous chef who was a little jealous of her promotion. He thought he was better than she was.”
    â€œSo if she was gone, this chef might be in line to get the job?”
    James spoke. “This guy, Joaquin something, he wasn’t there tonight. But for five hours he was pretty much the topic of conversation. About every half hour someone would say something about him being upset regarding the appointment of Amanda Wright. And, the cooks agreed, she wasn’t nearly the caliber that Joaquin was.”
    â€œShe was a good chef. I’m sure of it.”
    â€œWell,” James paused, drawing it out, “according to the kitchen crew, she wasn’t that good. They used the word ‘adequate.’ Maybe she was good at something else? Business skills, personnel.”
    â€œShe was a good friend, James. Don’t push it.”
    â€œIf we’re going to get to the bottom of this, we’ve got to discuss Amanda Wright on every level, Emily. We may hear a lot of things about her, good and bad, but you can’t put a roadblock up when we uncover a negative. You know what I mean?” He hesitated, waiting for a response. When there was none, he said, “I think all cards need to be on the table.” She was quiet the rest of the ride.
    Em pulled to the curb in front of Wet Willie’s at Ocean and 8th in South Beach and an attendant in a black jacket opened her door.
    As we walked through the throngs of locals and tourists upto the second level deck I asked her, “Do you ever worry that the guy who’s supposed to park your car may not even work here? He’s just going to drive off in that new Jag?”
    Em gave me a dazzling smile, her perfect teeth gleaming. “Skip, Skip. That’s why I buy nice, expensive cars. They stick out. They’re hard to hide. It’s not hard to hide a Honda Civic or a Chevy Nova. Even a beat-up Chevy box truck or your twelve-year-old Taurus, but the black Jag? Nobody would dare steal it.”
    Every once in a while, she likes to rub it in.
    We sat and ordered ice-cold margaritas, watching the steady flow of evening traffic down below, a solid stream of headlights. The humidity was thick enough we could cut it with James’s knife and we could smell the salty ocean air.
    â€œOkay, tell me about the dishwasher,” Em said.
    â€œAh, the dishwasher. You know, for his first day on the job, Skip did okay.” He grinned, his passion to bug my girlfriend having been fed. “Never got in the weeds, did you, amigo?” James said with a smug look on his damned face.
    â€œOf course I’m talking about the old dishwasher, smartass. The one who didn’t show up