Death Row (28 page)

Mike grinned. "I was just giving her something to worry about."

"So now you think Sheila Knight killed Erin?"

"I don't think anyone killed Erin except Erin. That's your delusion, not mine." He paused, hung a hard right. "Even if there was a murder, it couldn't have been Sheila Knight. She has an airtight alibi."

"She might've had an accomplice."

"And in that unlikely event," Mike said, "she will now be desperate to get to her accomplice and inform him that his hands are coated with hyperthermal luminous paraffin."

"And she won't call, because you fed her all that BS about being able to trace and eavesdrop on her phone conversations." Her head tilted to one side. "Not bad, Morelli. Will Blackwell authorize a stakeout team?"

"For this case? Not a chance. But I called for an unmarked car to watch her office. For her own safety, you know," he said, winking. "That'll get us to sundown. Ben's investigator might take over after that. Mind you-just because Sheila's lying doesn't make her a killer. But if she is working with someone else-we'll find them."

Baxter nodded grudgingly. "It hurts to admit it, but-not bad detective work, Sherlock. You should teach a course."

"I do. Every year. You'd know that if you'd gone to school on the right end of the turnpike."

Baxter gave him a long look. "I never figured you for a teacher. How'd you get started on that?"

"There was an opening at the academy, and frankly, I needed the scratch. Alimony payments were killing me. But I found I enjoyed it. It's a kick, really. Hanging out with the baby cops and wannabes."

"That must require patience. Some of those new recruits are pretty green."

Mike grinned. "Not as green as I was, way back when."

"Oh yeah?"

"Oh yeah. Bright-eyed and bushy-brained, that was me. I thought the world was my private crime lab. Thought I could do no wrong."

"Did that change?"

Mike gave her a wry expression. "Yeah. That changed. All too soon." He hung a left and glided onto the highway. "Sorry. Didn't mean to get all boring and autobiographical on you."

"Not at all. It wasn't-I didn't-" Her hand stretched out, but almost immediately she drew it back. "I'm not complaining. Hey-this is the first time we've talked for more than ten minutes without yelling at each other or threatening bodily harm."

"Well, that calls for a celebration." Mike stopped at a light, then turned to face her. "Sergeant, can you make a decent pot of coffee?"

"I do all right."

"Good. I'll bring the beer nuts."

She looked at him blankly. "Are we going on a date?"

"Something even better." His eyebrows danced. "Stakeout."

"What's your preference, Ben? Free weights or Nautilus equipment?"

"This is your party," Ben answered. He felt distinctly uncomfortable in this workout suit. Could he tell Ben hadn't worn it once since his mother gave it to him for Christmas four years ago? "You pick."

"Good enough. Let's go Nautilus." Peter Rothko was a tall, lean man with a striking shock of burnt-orange hair. "I need to do some serious sweating. I had lunch in the corporate dining room-fabulous food, but so rich!" He patted his stomach, which did not appear extended to Ben. "Thanks for meeting me here. I know it's indulgent, but with my schedule the way it is these days, it was here or not at all."

"I'm grateful to you for meeting me. I feel out of my depth with all this fast-food-and-flavor stuff, and I think it may be important. I needed to talk to someone who really understands the business."

"Well, I might qualify." He led the way to the Nautilus machine. "I like to do the whole circuit in order, starting with the leg presses. Can I show you how it's done?"

"Thanks, I know how it goes." Ben lowered himself onto the black leather seat and wrapped his feet behind the weighted bar.

"You work out?"

"Yeah, I have a membership here, too," Ben said, grunting slightly as he worked his quads. "But don't tell my staff. It would destroy my image."

"You come regularly?"

"A couple, three times a week. Though I don't normally wear this snazzy suit." Ben smiled. "That was just to impress you. I come as often as I can, when I'm not in court. I usually arrive later in the day, though. After work."

"Good for you. How long have you been doing it?"

"A couple of years now. A while back I got the bad end of a scuffle and-well, the result was being pushed off some high-rise refinery scaffolding."

"Ouch."

"Yeah. I was hurt pretty bad-in a coma for days. After that, I decided I needed to do something to improve my physical condition. Before it was too late." Ben finished his leg presses, then vacated the seat. "But you know-I'm supposed to be interviewing you here. How did an amiable guy who's even younger than I am end up the CEO of a huge national fast-food chain?"

"Oh, dumb luck, mostly."

"Yeah, I believe that. Don't be modest, Peter, or we'll never get anywhere."

"It's true. But what is luck, really? Let me tell you-it's when opportunity meets preparation. I'd been preparing for a long time, toiling away in the burger biz. When the opportunity came, I jumped at it."

"What happened?"

Rothko straddled a bench and began doing arm curls. "Like most of America, I grew up working at McDonald's. When I turned twenty-one, I managed to get a little seed money so I could buy an independent burger joint on Peoria that was closing. My parents thought it sounded like a dodgy move, but hey, fast food was all I knew."

"How did it go?"

"Terribly. Disastrously. I lost money by the fistful."

"So why is it my partner thinks you're the richest most eligible bachelor in Tulsa?"

Rothko grinned. "That came later. The first two years were a travesty. Competition was slaughtering me. And then-things began to change."

Ben grabbed an overhead bar and pulled it down behind his head. "What made the difference?"

Rothko released the pull bar with a grunt. "Chemicals."

For someone who didn't even like to drink that much, he sure spent a lot of time in bars, Loving mused. Maybe it was just his imagination, but he'd been working as Ben's investigator for many years now, and it seemed as if he'd spent about half that time hanging out in saloons, taverns, pubs, and watering holes of all shapes and sizes.

Why did he always draw these assignments? he wondered as he climbed out of his pickup. If the investigation involved some high-tech something or other, Jones would handle it. If it involved anything feminine or upscale, Christina would draw the straw. And if involved anything fun, Ben would do it himself. Why was he always the one who got sent to the bars?

To be fair, bars were generally a good place to get people talking. Whether they thought the alcohol affected them or not, it did, and tongues moved more freely after the third or fourth Bud Light. Just observing people in this environment told Loving more than he could learn in half an hour of sober yakking.

So, he supposed, he drew these assignments because he was good at them. That was what he was going to tell himself, anyway.

As he surveyed the exterior, he realized that this trendy Brookside hangout was considerably more upscale than his usual haunt. He wished he had dressed differently-his white T-shirt and blue jeans might look out of place among the Ralph Lauren pullovers and Miss Jackson originals. But what the heck. He'd make do.

He stepped inside, then caught his breath. Wait a minute. This wasn't a bar. At least not his idea of a bar.

This was a sushi bar.

The fishy aroma wafted down to Loving's nostrils, and he almost instantly felt sick. He didn't like fish even when it was cooked; there was no way he was going to be able to keep this squishy slithery stuff down.

Did Ben know where this woman was going when he handed out this assignment? Was this his idea of humor? Send the big burly redneck to the raw fish joint? Laugh when his face starts to turn white? Watch him try to order chicken fried chicken or something?

Well, it wasn't going to happen. Loving felt a great deal of loyalty and devotion to Ben-but everything had its limits.

To his relief, he spotted the woman he knew to be Sheila Knight sitting up at the front, at the bar. The liquor bar, that is. There were empty seats on either side of her. She appeared to be on at least her second drink, judging by the glasses in front of her. She was wearing a party dress-bright red and rather tight-fitting. No woman would dress like that unless she was going out on a date-or looking for one.

Perfect. This was going to be easier than he thought.

He sidled up to the stool on her left. "Mind if I sit here, ma'am?" He couldn't be less subtle; almost every other seat at the bar was untaken.

To his relief, she didn't object. She gave him the split-second once-over and shrugged. "Sure."

Loving assumed that meant he had passed the sniff test. The bartender asked for his order. "Shot of Bailey's, shot of Kahlua. Separate glasses."

That got her attention. "Little early to break out the hard stuff, isn't it?"

Loving grinned. "Each to his own poison." After the drinks arrived, Loving pulled his laminated Oklahoma driver's license out of his wallet and plopped it on the top of the bar. "Okay, here's the challenge. Get the Kahlua into the Bailey's glass, and vice versa. Using only what's on the bar right now."

She arched an eyebrow. "Is this one of those stupid bar tricks?"

"Yup. And since it's so stupid, you shouldn't have any problem."

She gave him a sharp look, then turned her attention to the two drinks. She picked up both shot glasses, as if to pour one into the other. No, that wasn't going to work. She considered the driver's license, but that didn't bring many possibilities to light. She experimented with the salt and pepper, the Tabasco sauce, the menus, the nonfat dairy creamer. But none of it solved the problem.

"All right, wonder boy. I give up. Show me how it's done."

"It's a secret."

"If you weren't planning to tell, why'd you start this thing?"

"I'm not saying I won't tell. I'm just saying you gotta make it worth my while."

She drew back. "Wait a minute, cowboy. Do I look like-"

"Five minutes. That's all I want."

"Five minutes of what?"

"Talking. Like this. Right here. I ask questions, you answer."

"Is this going to be some kind of kinky
Cosmo
test thing?"

"Nope. Just regular gabbing." He lowered his chin. "I'm a very lonely person."

"Why do I not believe that?" She looked at him for a long moment, and when she finally spoke, it appeared to be against her better judgment. "All right. Go for it."

Loving laid the license across the top of the Kahlua, completely covering it. Gripping the glass firmly, he turned it upside down so that it and the license were on top of the Bailey's shot. Slowly and gently, he slid the license to the side until there was a gap between it and the rim of the glasses. The Kahlua began to flow through the gap into the bottom glass. And then, like magic, the Bailey's began to flow upward into the top glass. When the two liquids had totally changed places, Loving closed the gap and flipped the top glass upright again.

"That's amazing," Sheila said, truly impressed.

"Yeah," Loving agreed. "Makes a mess of your driver's license, though."

"So I suppose I have to talk to you now, huh?"

Loving returned her smile. "Life is tough sometimes."

Ben readjusted the weights to add twenty more pounds. "So you got a new flavor formula?"

Rothko appeared impressed. "You know about this stuff?"

"I've had the short course. I've toured Prairie Dog Flavors' facility and talked to some of the chemists."

"Then you understand. When I started my operation, I couldn't afford that stuff. My food tasted like what it actually tasted like."

"Horrors."

"Well, it explained why my place was such a flop. You can't compete with the big boys at Burger King and Mickey D's if your food doesn't give customers the same buzz. And I couldn't afford the buzz. Then I got lucky. My grandfather died." He paused. "Wait, that doesn't sound very good, does it?"

"I think I know where you're going."

"He left me some money. Not a fortune, but enough. I spent every penny getting myself a secret formula. Something new. Something better."

"And it worked?"

"Like a dream." Rothko grabbed his towel and wiped his brow. "Have you ever eaten in one of my shops?"

Ben hedged. "Well..."

"That's all right. Nothing to be ashamed of. I'll just explain. Every business needs some kind of marketing angle, something to differentiate them from the competition. At Burger Bliss, our gimmick is that we're the high-class outfit. Better-quality food. Sit-down restaurant food delivered with fast-food efficiency."

"How did you come up with that?"

"Like most great ideas throughout history, it was born of sheer necessity. I had a great-tasting product, but that wasn't going to help me unless I could get people in my store. I couldn't underprice McDonald's. Who could? So I had to convince people my food was worth a little extra."

"How did you go about that?"

Rothko shifted to the next machine and started working his triceps. "We advertised that we used a higher-quality meat-which is true. And with the chemicals, my burgers tasted more like beef tenderloin than hamburger. We didn't bury it under mustard or ketchup or secret sauces. We let people taste the meat."

"And this worked?"

Rothko smiled. "Ten years ago I opened the first Burger Bliss. There are now three hundred and forty-three Burger Bliss restaurants in forty-eight states and three foreign countries. Burger Bliss is on the Fortune 500 list and is actively traded on the New York Stock Exchange. Our corporate profits are in the billions." He stopped to catch his breath. "Yeah, I'd say it worked."