Fan Mail Page 5

  “Kendra, do we have a name?” Nick asked.

  “Tony Vittorio, the owner. I’m going back outside. I’ll handle the press.”

  Nick crossed the narrow room and joined two of his people, Detective Felipe “Phil” Hernandez, a fit Latino in his early thirties with thick black hair and prominent eyebrows, and Detective De Silva, a fresh-faced female, new to the team, who was jotting notes on a steno pad. They discussed various possibilities of how the crime went down, pointing toward the swinging doors leading to the dining room and back to the body.

  A technician with rust-red hair was crouched near the doors, working her magic with tweezers. I watched with fascination as she lifted and deposited each piece of evidence she found into separate bags: hair and fibers into paper bags; leaves and food particles into plastic bags. What a tedious chore. She initialed everything.

  “Hey, Nick,” she said. “Welcome.”

  “Red,” he said. “Bring me up to speed.”

  “In a sec.”

  Hernandez said, “Tahoe used to be considered a safe place to vacation.”

  “This guy isn’t killing tourists,” Nick replied.

  “Do you think it’s the same perp?” De Silva asked. “It’s sure not the same MO. The scene at Fisher’s office was chaotic. This one is fairly neat.”

  If this was neat, I’d hate to see messy.

  “I suppose the killer could be a transient,” Hernandez said.

  “Let’s not theorize,” Nick snapped.

  “Wait until this story hits the news,” De Silva said. “Lake Tahoe will turn into a ghost town.”

  I disagreed. Gore seekers would show up in droves.

  Nick glowered at her. She flinched. His glare could wither the bravest soul. He eyed Hernandez. “Any witnesses?” he asked.

  Hernandez shook his head. “Enzo Vittorio, the executive chef and brother of the victim, found him.”

  “Where is he?”

  “In the dining room. Detective King told him not to move. All reservations for tomorrow have been canceled. The waiters and busboys have been alerted to stay home. We’ll interview each of them.”

  I shifted closer to the door.

  Nick must have sensed movement. He spotted me. So much for my low-profile routine. I splayed my hands, begging for mercy. He knew my nature. A therapist didn’t get to the root of a client’s problem without being curious. A PI didn’t either. He frowned and refocused on Hernandez. I could tell by the way Nick’s shoulders rose and fell that I’d be taking heat later.

  “Go on, Phil,” Nick said.

  “We think a lefty did it.” Hernandez pointed at the victim. “Upward thrust from left to right.”

  De Silva agreed and flipped to a previous page on her notepad. Reading from it, she recited the length of the knife’s handle and approximate length of its blade, given its use in the kitchen.

  I wondered whether Dr. Fisher’s killer had been left-handed. Would that connect the two crimes?

  “How many on the kitchen staff?” Nick asked. “Sous chefs, et cetera?”

  De Silva rattled off a list. “We have each of their addresses.”

  “Why are you hanging around here then? Go. Get answers.”

  “Sir.” The woman nearly curtsied as she made her exit.

  Nick rotated his neck to free the tension and shifted his gaze to the crime scene. “I’m assuming the weapon is from this kitchen?”

  “Straight out of the block to your right,” Hernandez said.

  “Red, can you talk to me now? Do we have trace evidence?”

  “Hundreds of prints on the door.” She aimed a finger. “No prints on the weapon, wiped clean. We also have a couple dozen hairs or so. Human and animal.” She returned to her work.

  Detective King stepped through the door. “Nick, reporters want answers.” She hooked a thumb toward the outside.

  Nick squared his shoulders. As he passed me, he said, “Stubbornness runs in your blood, doesn’t it?”

  I offered a supportive smile. “Remember I’m on your side.”

  He mumbled something, his sarcastic undertone unmistakable, and continued marching toward a reporter from KINC.

  Seeing as he didn’t remind me to leave, I took his silence as approval to stick around. Yes, I was pushing the envelope, but even when I’d worked at BARC, I’d bucked the system. To help my patients.

  Quietly, I skirted to the front of the building. The main dining room wasn’t designated part of the crime scene. It wasn’t roped off. I slipped inside and tried to become one with the stained oak walls and fake ficus tree as Detective Hernandez approached a square-jawed, middle-aged man who was sitting in one of the brown leather booths.

  The man’s white jacket was unbuttoned. He held a toque in his hands. The executive chef, I assumed. Why had he suited up on a day when the restaurant was closed?

  Behind the man on a ledge to his right sat a celadon vase filled with sunflowers and ferns. There were a dozen more like it in the bistro. A variety of mirrors on the walls reflected the light of the chandeliers and cast a surreal glow around the room.

  “Mr. Vittorio, I’m Detective Hernandez.”

  “Call me Enzo.”

  “Let’s go through your story, sir.”

  “I told the other detective—the woman—everything.”

  “Humor me. Take me through it, too.” Hernandez poised a foot on the seat of the booth and crossed his arms on his thigh, giving the impression that he was relaxed and easy to talk to. “You told Detective King that you came in around five and found your brother.”

  “I told her quarter to five.” The man had an Italian accent. “I phoned 911 right away. No time delay.”

  “Thank you, sir. And you said there was no one else around?”

  “Nobody.”

  “You told my associate that you came in earlier, around ten in the morning.”

  “To cook a turkey. Slow roast. I always make broth on Mondays. It takes a long time. You smell it?”

  Now I did. In the kitchen, the odor of death had prevailed.

  “I went home. I ate lunch. I returned at a quarter to five.”

  “And the rest of the staff?”

  “We are closed on Mondays.”

  Hernandez nodded. He already knew that.

  “Who did this to my brother?” Enzo Vittorio asked. His voice crackled with emotion.

  “That’s what we hope to find out. Tell me about your staff.”

  Vittorio ticked off the names on his fingertips as if he were reciting a recipe—a teaspoon of this, half cup of that. The saucier, better known as the person who made the sauces. The poisonnier, aka the woman who prepared the fish. The chef de partie, or line chef. The pantry chef. The pastry chef. The sous chef.

  Hernandez continued to ask questions, often repeating one or two to see if Enzo Vittorio’s story changed. About a half hour later, Nick strolled in. He didn’t glance in my direction, which meant my ploy of blending in like a potted plant was working. He, too, pressed the chef. As he got to the part where Enzo Vittorio was naming the kitchen staff, De Silva raced in, out of breath.

  “Detective Sergeant Shaper, sir, I met up with the sous chef. He’s dead in the water.” She covered her mouth then dropped her arm. “Not dead dead but he’s sicker than a dog. It smelled like a hospital at his house. He’s got some kind of bacterial infection. I didn’t ask for doctor reports, but he looked paler than a—” She stopped short of saying corpse.

  I felt sorry for her. She was so green she hadn’t learned crime scene etiquette.

  “Meet with all the others before reporting back, De Silva,” Nick ordered.

  “Sir. Yes, sir.” She lingered for a moment until she realized Nick wanted her to go stat. Turning crimson, she shot out of the room.

  At nine p.m., when I was certain a few more hours might elapse before Nick was ready to call it a night, I stepped outside and rang Candace. True to character, she chastised me for being overly protective.

  “Sue me,�
�� was my adult comeback.

  “I’ll get an attorney tomorrow,” she teased. “C’mon, don’t worry about me. Opal and I are watching C.S.I. reruns. By the way, make sure you tell Nick to ask whether the victim had a will or something, because you know—”

  “Whoever inherits has something to gain. Got it, you crime show nut.”

  After a long pause, Candace said, “Is it really gross?”

  “Grosser than gross.”

  When I returned to the dining room, Enzo Vittorio was slumped in the booth, an unlit cigarette shoved between his lips, gray bags beneath his bloodshot eyes. Nick didn’t look much better. His skin was slack.

  “Mr. Vittorio, one more time,” Nick said. “How long have you worked for your brother?”

  “Seven years. I already told you this. I come from Italy to help out. Please, I need a break.”

  “Sure. Go ahead.”

  Vittorio thanked him and weaved through the tables toward the restroom.

  As he slipped by me, a prickly sensation ran up my neck. I watched him pad along the narrow hallway. Before he entered the restroom, he glanced over his shoulder at the detectives, neither of whom was looking in his direction, and a slow, evil grin spread across his face.

  Chapter 7

  Nick released Enzo Vittorio around ten p.m. and ordered his team to start cleaning up. It never ceased to amaze me how much work was involved in securing a murder scene: taking photographs, collecting evidence, and removing the body. Nick supervised the activity with the command of a general. Throughout it all, he didn’t make eye contact with me, which made me wary.

  An hour later, as I drove him home, his anger surfaced. “How could you take advantage like that?”

  My fingers clenched the steering wheel. I’d never been a good combatant. Not with my parents. Not with my ex-husband. I didn’t want to fight with Nick. I had defied his orders. But I’d learned a lot. I was ready to admit that two different people had carried out the Fisher and Vittorio murders, and Enzo Vittorio was high on my list for the second.

  “Why didn’t you go home when I told you to?” he asked.

  “I thought you could use moral support. A fresh set of eyes. I observed.”

  “Uh-uh. I’m not buying it.” He swiveled in his seat. “Be honest. You thought you could learn something that might help you solve Dr. Fisher’s murder. You. Let me remind you that my people are handling that case. Not you.”

  “I have every right—”

  “No, you don’t. You have no rights at a crime scene.”

  I stopped at a red light. “Why are you attacking me? All I did—”

  “I’m not attacking you. I’m setting things straight.” His eyes blazed with fury.

  I focused on the road, trying to form a justifiable argument. I couldn’t. I’d been in the wrong. I hadn’t tampered with evidence, but I should have left. As a therapist, I’d been just as dogged, which was why I’d become mired in my patients’ lives—at a risk to my own health.

  “Tony Vittorio’s brother is hiding something,” I said. “I saw him on the way to the restroom. He—”

  “Aspen, c’mon. Just say it. By sticking around, you could’ve mucked things up.”

  “I was careful to stay out of the way. I never once entered the crime scene.”

  “All it takes is one of your hairs to float inside. Now I have to rule you out as a suspect”—he slapped his thigh—“again.”

  “Again?” I inhaled sharply. “I was never on your radar regarding Vikki and you know it. I—”

  His cheek twitched. Then his mouth. He was messing with me.

  I let out the breath I’d been holding. “I’m sorry.”

  “I worry about you,” he said. “I don’t want this dark reality to enter your world.”

  “But it has, don’t you see?” I sighed. “With my parents’ murders, my sister’s drug abuse, my ugly divorce, Vikki’s death, and now the murder of my doctor, I’m numb beyond belief when it comes to dark reality.”

  “Life hasn’t been easy for you.”

  “Or for you. You’ve got to stop trying to protect me.”

  “It’s my nature.” He brushed his knuckles along my jawbone. “I love you more than you know.”

  “I love you, too.”

  “Seeing as you did stick around to observe—”

  “Was Dr. Fisher’s killer left-handed?”

  “Most likely.”

  “So the killer could have done both crimes.”

  He pursed his lips, weighing the theory. “Tell me about Enzo Vittorio. What do you think he’s hiding?”

  I replayed the executive chef’s jaunt to the restroom and how he’d turned and smirked at Nick and Hernandez. I asked why his chef’s uniform was pristine. Wouldn’t cooking the turkey have soiled it? Had he changed? And why was he an employee instead of a full-fledged partner with his brother? Perhaps professional jealousy was a motive for murder. In addition, I mentioned what Candace had suggested, that possibly Tony Vittorio had written his brother into or out of his will and, therefore, money was the motive, adding that maybe, to keep his hands clean, he’d hired a hit man to off his brother.

  Nick listened and didn’t discount anything. He said he’d have his staff hunt for a second uniform. In addition, he would look into Enzo’s communiqués and see if he had an associate. And he would question Tony Vittorio’s widow to see whether there might be some other reason for bad blood between the brothers.

  “On the other hand,” Nick said as I veered onto his street, “this could have been a random attack.”

  “Why, because the killer used a knife instead of a gun?”

  “Because the weapon wasn’t brought to the scene.”

  “What if this began when a fight turned nasty, like a fight over the direction the restaurant was headed?”

  “Good point.”

  “Do you think the same killer murdered Dr. Fisher?”

  “It seems unlikely. Speaking of Dr. Fisher, tell me what else you wanted to say earlier about her daughter, Heather?”

  Quickly, I recapped what Heather had told me about Edward Bogart not wanting her and about the doctor including him in her will. “Have you met him?”

  “I did. He’s an upstanding guy.”

  “He donates to a lot of charities.”

  Nick raised an eyebrow. I explained that I hadn’t been able to sleep so I’d researched the man.

  “He has a solid alibi,” Nick said. “He was doing a heart replacement in Reno. The surgery began at seven that morning. He was in prep at six. The kid lived.”

  “Glad to hear it.” I mentally checked Edward Bogart off my suspect list. “Then you only have three hundred patients to interrogate.”

  “Plus vendors and personal friends, though the doctor was quite solitary, it turns out.”

  “No lovers?”

  “She hadn’t dated in years.” Nick rubbed his neck and yawned. “I’ll put Hernandez on scalpel detail.”

  He laced his fingers in my hair and kissed me. Delicious warmth coursed through me, but the thought of Candace waiting for me at home doused my passion like a cold shower.

  I pulled away and whispered, “I promise I’ll find a night soon when we can, you know . . .”

  “Make love for hours?”

  “Mm-hm.”

  Nick kissed me one last time and slipped out the passenger door.

  As I drove, I made a mental note to set up a sleepover for Candace at Waverly’s.

  • • •

  When I arrived at the cabin, every light was on, which made my heart skip a beat. What was wrong? Had Opal left? Had Candace experienced a scare? Flashbacks of her being held hostage careened through my mind. I dashed inside and found Opal slouched in one of the leather chairs in the living room, reading a book.

  “Hi, Opal.”

  Cinder was nestled on the horsehair rug that my father’s older brother had handed down, his eyes closed. He stirred but didn’t rise to greet me.

  Opal, a studio
us girl with narrow features and lank hair, gave me the same indifferent response. “Hey, Miss Adams.”

  “Where’s Candace?” I moved to the wall behind Opal’s chair and righted one of the snowshoes used by my great-grandmother Blue Sky to hike into the Tahoe Basin area. Sometimes I wondered if her spirit entered the house and toyed with the snowshoe to let me know she was watching over me.

  “I’m here.” Candace shuffled into the foyer clad in pajamas and looking as innocent as a six-year-old. She was holding a written message in her hand. “Gloria Morning called an hour ago. She said she tried your cell phone but it went straight to voice mail.”

  I glanced at my cell phone. Missed call.

  “She said it doesn’t matter what time you contact her”—Candace stifled a yawn—“she needs to talk to you. Tonight. It’s about the restaurant guy that was murdered.” Her voice didn’t falter at the word murder, which made me worry about her jaded reaction. “She sounded sort of panicked, but not in danger panicked. You know?”

  “Thanks.”

  “I’m going to bed. Night, Opal.” She trudged to her room, her slippers never leaving the floor.

  Eager to know why Gloria needed to talk to me, I thanked Opal and offered to pay her.

  She declined and said, “It’s what neighbors do.”

  When the front door closed, I went to the kitchen and dialed Gloria. She picked up after the first ring.

  “Oh, thank heaven, Aspen, it’s you. Saturday . . .” Gloria sounded out of breath. “Saturday I received a note about Dr. Fisher. Some delivery person brought it to the studio. I thought it was bogus and dismissed it.”

  “Bogus how? What did it say?”

  “It said, ‘Dr. Fisher will never hurt you again.’ Aspen, she never hurt me, so, like I said, I dismissed it. I mean, I know she was killed, but I didn’t have anything to do with her other than the interview. I thought to myself, I’m a celebrity. I should expect to get off-the-wall mail. People want a brush with fame.”

  “Go on.”

  “Then I got another letter. Tonight. Delivered to my doorstep. About the restaurateur who was murdered.”