Cool Cache

Table of Contents

 

Also by Patricia Smiley

Obsidian
Published by New American Library, a division of
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First published by Obsidian, an imprint of New American Library,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
First Printing, June 2008

Copyright © Patricia Smiley, 2008

All rights reserved

OBSIDIAN and logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Smiley, Patricia.
Cool cache: a Tucker Sinclair mystery / Patricia Smiley.
p. cm.

eISBN: 9781101384923

Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

PUBLISHER’S NOTE

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

Dedicated to George and Lillian Smiley

Acknowledgments

I wish to express my gratitude to the following people:

First readers William Solberg and Patricia Fogarty.

Los Angeles Police detective Rich Householder for answering endless questions with infinite patience. Captain Andy Svatek for coaching me on how to fly an airplane to Santa Catalina Island and for coming up with the title for this novel. John Bibb, MD, for enlightening me about chest wounds and ER/ICU procedures. If I got anything wrong, it was no fault of theirs.

My editor, Kristen Weber, and my agent, Scott Miller. How fortunate I am to have you both in my corner.

Finally, my heartfelt appreciation to the readers who have followed Tucker through her many adventures. You make it all worthwhile.

Chapter 1

It was the light in the display case that made me stop.

Helen never left it on. It was past eight p.m., and Nectar had been closed for hours. That wouldn’t matter to most people, but I have an overly developed sense of duty. When I take on a business client, it’s like adopting a puppy. Fluffy may leave teeth marks on my favorite shoes or whine to get up on the bed when I’m trying to sleep, but I’ve made a commitment to her and I’m going to see it through to the end. Helen Taggart engaged my firm to save her chocolate shop, and since Tucker Sinclair and Associates had only one associate—me—it was my job to make everything right.

Rain from an early November storm swept across the Boxster’s windshield in unrelenting sheets as I drove around the block past the palm trees on Brighton Way and the arched doorway of Christie’s auction house. The street was still lined with cars. I nosed into the alley in back of the building and found a Hummer as large as the Rose Bowl in one of the shop’s two reserved parking spaces. It had a BABY ON BOARD sign hanging in the back window. TOT IN TANK seemed more appropriate. A Mercedes was parked in the other spot. The Mercedes was new. It still had the GARVEY MOTORS—ALHAMBRA advertisement where the license plate should have been.

Neither car belonged to Helen Taggart. Both drivers had ignored the threatening NECTAR PARKING ONLY sign painted on the stucco wall. Helen would be upset if the valets from the restaurant next door were using her spaces for overflow traffic. She’d warned the owner on numerous occasions that she often stopped by the shop at night to drop off supplies or do paperwork, and even if it was chichi Beverly Hills, she didn’t want to walk alone in the dark from the public garage a block away. Her polite requests had been ignored time and again. Friendly reminders eventually escalated into skirmishes, then to battles, and finally to all-out verbal warfare.

The windows of the Mercedes were tinted, so I couldn’t see through the glass, but steam billowed from the exhaust pipe. The engine was running. I activated the turn signal and honked the horn, hoping whoever was in there would get the message.

A moment later, the driver’s-side window glided halfway down. A man’s hand appeared, holding a burning cigarette. He flicked the butt into the air. It flashed red as it arced upward and then fell into a puddle of rainwater. The window closed. The car eased forward and headed down the alley. If the driver was a valet from the restaurant, his lazy pace seemed abnormal. Usually it was all about screeching tires and burning rubber. At least he’d vacated the spot.

The alley was dark. The streetlights cast eerie shadows on the distant boulevard. Rain drummed the soft top of my convertible as I pulled in and cut the engine. I didn’t have an umbrella, so I stepped out of the car and took off my cotton jacket, spreading it over my head like a pair of wings. In no time, I’d be soaked.

I ran toward Nectar, drawing in the odor of rotting food from the nearby Dumpster. That’s when I noticed the back door was ajar. There was no sign of forced entry, so Helen was probably in the store. It just seemed odd she’d leave the door unlocked this late at night. I thought about calling the police, but I didn’t want to overreact. So I decided to investigate before doing anything rash.

Curiosity had gotten me in trouble before, so I dug out a canister of pepper spray from my purse. I poised my finger on the release button and nudged open the door with my shoulder, listening to the groan of hinges in need of lubrication.

It was dark inside. Tiny needles of tension prickled the flesh along my neck. I fought to keep my voice from faltering as I called out Helen’s name. There was no response. I leaned toward the blackness, listening for sounds like breathing or shoes slapping against the tile floor. All I heard was the muted hum of a compressor motor from the walk-in refrigerator.

I ran my hand along the wall, searching for the light switch. I flipped it on. Nothing. The fluorescent bulbs must have burned out. Helen would need to replace them in the morning. One more expense for her challenged budget.

My fingers groped inside my purse for the flashlight. My thumb pressed against the switch. I aimed the beam of light toward the gloom, half expecting to see a dark figure crouching in a corner, waiting to pounce. But the workroom was empty. I stepped over the threshold. The smell of wet cotton from my jacket mingled with the aroma of bitter cocoa and something else, something foreign—the faint odor of garlic.

There was a round aluminum foil container on one of the marble tabletops where Helen worked her magic. The lid was off but the food looked untouched—shrimp sautéed in garlic. If she was experimenting with some kind of seafood truffle, I didn’t think it had much of a future.

The shop consisted of four rooms: the front retail store, the back workroom, a small bathroom, and a cubbyhole Helen used as an office. There was no sign of life in the workroom or in her office, so I inched along past metal shelves lined with baking pans, dipping forks, chocolate molds, graters, and copper pots until I reached the retail store. I turned on the overhead light and stepped into a room filled with the heady aromas of chocolate and coffee beans. A wave of relief swept over me when I saw I was alone.

The room held tiered glass cases and small round tables where Nectar’s customers lingered over cappuccinos and artisanal chocolates Helen made from recipes passed down from her Belgian great-grandfather. Hanging on the wall behind the counter was an article I’d pitched to the
Los Angeles Times
. The paper had featured the store in the food section two weeks earlier, along with a photograph of Helen in the retail store. Since then, Nectar had seen a bump in sales.

Something about the retail store looked different. I just couldn’t put my finger on why. I glanced at the photograph again. In it, Helen was holding a tray of chocolates. On the wall behind her were three shelves, each displaying various chocolate-related objects—vintage cocoa tins, a Spanish
molinillo,
an antique Cadbury heart-shaped candy box, and a replica of a Mayan spouted chocolate pot. That’s when I realized what was wrong. The shelves weren’t there anymore.

I raised the pepper spray to eye level and listened for sounds. Silence. I switched off the light in the display case and the one overhead and was making my way back to the workroom when I felt pressure under my foot. The beam from the flashlight revealed one of Helen’s molded chocolates, called L.A. Noir, crushed beneath my shoe. I scraped off what was left of the shell and the soft ganache and tossed it in a nearby wastebasket.

There was another chocolate under the table and another by the door of the walk-in refrigerator. Helen was meticulous in her kitchen. She wouldn’t have been that careless. I followed the trail to the refrigerator and pulled on the cold metal handle of the door.

Inside, a single lightbulb illuminated shelves lined with packages of unsalted butter, heavy whipping cream, sugar, and bars of solid chocolate. On the floor were several more candies. My clothes were damp from the rain, which made the air seem unbearably cold. My body began to tremble. I stepped out of the refrigerator, closing the door behind me.