Devour, p.22
Devour, page 22
“It has to be connected,” he whispered.
Pulling a handle on the back of the PC, Dalton released a removable hard drive—the screens dimmed and a warning label appeared: Data Lost. Taking the drive, he turned off the screen, killed the lights, and returned to the freezer, replacing the keys in the dead man's pocket. His last move was setting the alarms.
Within minutes, he was heading home on the 101.
52
Free Man
An hour later, Hector pulled into the restaurant parking lot. His smartphone had alerted him that an alarm had been tripped—something to do with the exterior backup cameras. It was the last piece of hardware not updated.
Coincidently, Michael and Hector had just discussed a week earlier the recent installation of new cameras throughout the restaurant and purposely left the two older outside cameras as a deterrent to anyone wanting to break in. They had, however, installed state-of-the-art cameras inside the restaurant: tiny, barely visible, and highly effective with their wide-angle lens. Hidden within light panels, CO2 monitors, and air grates, the naked eye would never see them.
Moreover, the looping video was stored on an outside server in the cloud so that neither a power outage nor a theft could damage evidence—a decision that helped catch people who tried stealing some of their higher-priced vintage wine.
The moment Hector entered the restaurant, he felt something was different. He instantly stopped to scan the room. Meticulous with detail, Hector would not take long discovering what it was.
Pots and pans were neatly arranged on hooks overheard—check. Floors and counters were spotless—check. Trash and recycle bins were covered—check. He looked up where the new cameras lived—nothing out of place.
Then, just as he was heading toward the dining room, something about the symmetry of the hanging knives caught his eye.
Knowing Michael was fanatical about how he hangs his knives, Hector knew that while Michael’s favorite knife was in the right place, the blade was facing the wrong direction.
Going to the front door, he checked it, then the side emergency exit and all windows. Everything was secure. The only room left to check was Michael’s office.
Using his master key, Hector entered, looked around, and instantly spotted what had triggered the alarm. The PC had been pulled out from under the corner desk just enough for someone to reach behind and remove the hard drive.
Suspicions confirmed, Hector took out his phone and typed 911—hesitating for just a moment without placing the call. He remembered two places he forgot to check.
He left Michael’s office, passed the wine library, and headed back toward the kitchen. Opening the walk-in fridge, he saw nothing unusual. Next, he opened the walk-in freezer.
Slouching in the middle of the chilled space, propped against a rack, Scott Rogan sat with a chef’s knife handle sticking out of the middle of his chest.
It did not take long for the SFPD, Central Division, to respond to a murder, especially since it happened in Knob Hill—one of the most prominent neighborhoods in the city and in one of the most expensive five-star restaurants.
Police Officer Chris Proctor, a member of the force for nearly two decades, stood beside Hector. Squatting next to the body, Detective Dan McKenzie stared at the dead man. A crime scene photographer captured the scene from all angles while additional techs waited in the wings.
Officer Proctor spoke first. “So, just to confirm, you installed new cameras, but left the old ones outside?”
“Yes,” Hector said, handing him a piece of paper. “Here’s a diagram of where each camera is mounted.”
Officer Proctor looked it over. “And the hard drive was connected to the two out back, but everything else is in the cloud?”
Hector hesitated, then nodded.
Proctor did a double take. “Why the hesitation?”
Hearing this, Detective McKenzie removed a pad from his pocket and stood.
“Well, there’s good news and bad,” Hector said quietly.
Officer Proctor’s eyebrows raised as did his voice. “How’s that?”
Rubbing his beard, Hector moaned. “The good news? These cameras are state of the art. They’re super wide—lets us cover more space with fewer cameras. And the clarity is nuts.”
“Uh huh,” Proctor grunted. “All that good news tells me the bad must really suck.”
“Yep. Just installed. As in last week. Problem is the company that installed them either lost, didn’t have, or brought a wrong piece—a master link that would pull all the cameras together, connecting them to the new interface in the office.”
Proctor raised his eyebrows.
“Yeah, and that was supposed to be delivered...uh, hold just a second,” he frowned, heading to Michael’s office. Inside on the corner of his desk sat a stack of mail and a package. He picked up the small box, shook his head, and turned, nearly bumping into Officer Proctor who had followed him in.
Looking down, Proctor said, “Let me guess.”
Nodding. “Must’ve come yesterday. It was a crazy busy day. Michael and the manager were heading to LA and it was supposed to be installed, like, right away.”
Detective McKenzie deadpanned, “Of all the shitty luck.”
Back in the kitchen, the Medical Coroner had arrived, labeled the murder weapon, and was placing it in an evidence bag. He handed Officer Proctor a second bag containing a key ring with five keys.
“You might like this. Five keys. A wallet and a cell phone.”
Proctor took the bag and examined the contents. “We’ll run a log of the last calls. Check the wallet. As for the other—looks like an apartment key, obviously a car key, and what looks like either a bike lock, or maybe a safety deposit box? Plus, two commercial keys—likely for here,” he handed the bag to Hector. “Agreed?”
“Yep. Rear door and Michael’s office,” he said, handing them back. “All employees have a copy for the rear entrance, and Scott had a copy of Michael’s office because…well, they’re brothers, and I think the boss wanted Scott to cover his back. In case I was unreachable. But just for a day or two.”
“What?” Looking from Hector to Officer Proctor, McKenzie said, “They’re brothers?”
Hector nodded.
“And where’s the brother? He’s the owner, right?”
“Yes, this is his,” he tossed a thumb over his shoulder. “He and the Manager Jasmine Barthold are in Los Angeles. Overseeing the opening of a new restaurant.”
Both Officer and Detective nodded but said nothing.
In fact, no one said anything for much too long.
Finally, Hector said, “You…don’t think—”
“Who knows?” Officer Proctor shrugged. “I mean, when did he leave? When’s the last time he was here? Were they close? Had they had any arguments of late? And—” Proctor stopped when he noticed Hector’s expression change. “What?”
“Uh, yeah, his brother…” he nodded toward the gurney, “He’s a…was a new employee. Just a few days, actually. Kind of an angry guy. In and out of trouble, didn’t seem to have much of a life, came looking for work. Michael was trying to help him out.”
Hector knew a good deal more but said less.
Michael had given him a second chance a few years back when he had come on hard times. Now, with the responsibilities of a growing family and a reputation he had worked hard to build, he certainly did not want to divulge any more without talking to Michael first.
“All right, well, that gives us a good start, don’t you think, McKenzie?” Officer Proctor asked.
“Yeah. Good stuff. Listen, I’d like to get your direct line. And if you would, can you please share both Michael’s and Jasmine’s numbers? I will, or we will, have to get in touch with them right away. Especially Michael. And you said he’s due to return…”
“Tomorrow,” Hector lied. “Probably get in around noonish.” Looking at his hands, he said, “I can’t imagine who would do this. I mean, nothing’s missing. Not even the good wine,” he forced a smile. “Which has disappeared on occasion.”
“Probably my wife,” McKenzie said with a straight face. “Loves the good stuff. A real foodie,” he grinned. “Me? Anchor Steam and a burger’s all I need.”
“We serve both,” Hector fidgeted. “Burger’s one of Michael’s specialties.”
“Maybe so, but on my salary, I bet I could eat a dozen Beeps Burgers over on Ocean Ave before I could pay for one of his.”
They laughed, and Hector said, “Yeah, but our truffle fries’ll knock your socks off.”
“Well,” Officer Proctor began, starting toward the door, “Whoever it was—at least at first blush—probably knew this kid. Hell, what am I saying; he’s what, 40? So, not a kid, but without a door being broken into? Nothing taken?” Shaking his head, Proctor bit the inside of his cheek. “Who knows?”
Both men walked out along with the coroner and any remaining techs. Hector followed.
Proctor said, “We’ll be in touch.”
“Yeah,” McKenzie said, “Maybe even have a burger.”
Their cars had barely left the parking lot when Hector texted Michael: Michael, you need to call me as soon as you can. It’s a 911.
Next, he walked through the kitchen—disregarding all the mess the crew had left behind—passed the office, through the restaurant, and to the bar. Taking down a bottle of Don Julio Tequila, he poured two-fingers and slammed it.
53
Bad News
The trip to Beverly Hills was everything Michael had dreamed. The primary investor had decided to bring in a friend who helped increase the offering. Michael’s main investor was a fan first, a believer second, and an investor third, a rarity in the investment world. The location was on the first floor of the iconic Beverly Wilshire Four Seasons at the corner of Wilshire and Rodeo Drive. It was within steps of one of the most iconic and luxurious shopping avenues in the world, and given the location, the business should face instant success. All things considered, Michael was happy and Jasmine pleased.
They wrapped up business, had an early dinner with investors and their wives, and caught the nine o’clock to SFO—landing them a bit after 10 p.m.
Michael’s phone had died on the way to LA, and he had not taken time to charge it. In fact, he did not even think about it again until he boarded the return flight home. At that point, there was no juice to display messages, so he waited.
Just under an hour later, taxiing the SFO runway, Michael turned on the charged phone and it pinged like a pinball machine with texts from Hector.
2:05 p.m.: Michael, you need to call me as soon as you can. It’s a 911.
3:15 p.m.: Michael, I really need you to call me. It’s important.
4:25 p.m.: Hey buddy, I really don’t want to leave a message on your voicemail, so please call ASAP.
5:35 p.m.: Michael, I’m assuming your phone is dead. Just call the instant you land, okay. We need to talk.
6:55 p.m.: Okay Michael, I’m taking the family to dinner. I’ll keep my phone by my side. Well…like I said before, call as soon as you can.
After Michael read his texts, he listened to the voicemail from 8:45 p.m.—his stomach dropped into his lap.
It was not Hector.
A car service was waiting for them at Departures. As soon as they were in the car, he dialed Hector. By now, it was 10:25 p.m.
“Hector, I’m sorry. My phone died en route to LA; we got there and were just running from the get go. Apologies for not—”
“Michael, stop! Listen to me. You’re probably going to be getting a call first thing in the morning, if not earlier, and I wanted you to—”
“Hector, I got your texts and the voicemail message. Who’s Officer Proctor? Something about my needing to call him right away.”
“Yes, that’s the call I was trying to intercept,” Hector said. “Or rather, I wanted to get to you before you got to them.”
Michael’s stomach was tied in knots—about as tightly as Jasmine’s hand was squeezing his hand.
“Okay, let’s both take a deep breath. First of all, what had you blowing up my phone all day?”
Silence.
“Hector?”
“Michael,” he swallowed hard. “Your brother is dead.”
For a split second, he was not sure if he heard Hector right. “How, Hector? When did this—”
“Sometime around midday. At the restaurant and evidently—”
“Wait, what? The restaurant? What’n the hell?”
“We’re not sure. The police, I mean, are not sure.”
“Oh shit, that’s why…Officer Proctor.”
“Right. I went to the restaurant to check on a tripped alarm. It came to my phone. When I got there, something wasn’t right, anyway, I, uh, found Scott in the walk-in freezer. With a knife in his chest.”
Michael’s ears started ringing like they did whenever something intense happened, like when he heard news he could not fathom or absorb at the time. The ringing would come in quietly, pick up speed, get extremely loud, then slowly fade into the distance.
He waited for the fade into the distance part.
“Michael?”
“Yeah, I’m here. Just trying to take it in. Holy shit!”
One part of him was stricken with sorrow—the other part, confusion. Either way, he felt numb. It had been a long time since they had seen one another. So on the one hand, he felt great loss, but perhaps on an equal basis, he felt an odd sense of peace and he was not sure why.
“Hector, as you can imagine, this is a helluva shock. I’m gonna need some time.”
“That’s just it, Michael. You don’t have time.”
Michael was confused as was Jasmine. Between his half of the conversation she heard, along with his obvious nerves and distressed expression, she looked as though she were quietly losing her mind.
“Just a second, Hector.” Turning toward Jasmine, he took a deep breath and said, “Baby, it’s Scottie. He’s…dead. Found in the restaurant. Police were there. Not sure of any more than that, but I’ll tell you more in a second, let me just—”
After a gasp, she said, “Of course,” then clasped both hands over her mouth.
“Hector, what do you mean I don’t have any time?”
“The police were there around midday. Had some pretty interesting ideas…before they even left. Nothing concrete, but it was like they knew something already and it had only been—who knows how long. But then, I guess that’s what they do.”
“Hector?” he said calmly.
“Yeah? Sorry. I’m still shaken up. Anyhow, I’m sure they’ve been working on clues and such all afternoon. And they want to see you. That’s why they’re calling. You’ll probably need to, I don’t know, call them, or go to the station.”
Michael’s head was pounding. It was a combination of stress, dehydration, exhilaration, and now some sort of depression. Either way, he needed to catch his breath.
“Michael, on second thought—maybe some good news—they’re not expecting you until tomorrow. I told them you’d be back around noon. So, why don’t you go home, get some rest, let this sink in—if it can—and let’s reconvene first thing.”
“Yeah, sounds like a plan. And thank you, Hector. For being there. I’ll call you first thing.”
“My pleasure, Boss. Give my love to Jasmine. Good night.”
Ringing off, Michael sat frozen in silence, unsure why this happened. He could fathom no reason. His brother disappeared right after his high school graduation; Michael was barely a teen. Scott sent an occasional birthday card for a couple of years, but then that gesture fell away. Somewhere in that long stretch of time, it was as though he could feel his brother somehow watching from a distance.
When they were young, they were super close. He was always nearby when their father lost his temper, especially when the beatings began. First, it was Michael—probably because Sebastian never truly wanted him. Then, it was their Mother—probably because he was not sure if he wanted her. But it was never Scott. Michael had always assumed Scott would fight back because he never took shit from anyone.
He tried to imagine other employees who might have had something to do with it. Kiko was not particularly keen on Scott—thinking he was working a con on Michael. He had even suggested Michael add a vault to the restaurant because he did not trust having a lot of cash around. Michael dismissed it.
He was aware of the way Scott flirted with several of the waitresses, especially on smoke breaks, but Michael chalked it up as just a guy being a guy and they were big city girls capable of handling themselves.
Then, he thought of his lead bartender. The two of them seemed to be pals at first but always managed to get into arguments over something—whether it was sports scores or a waitress they both had their eyes on. On several occasions, long after closing, Michael would walk in for a nightcap only to hear them going head to head about something. Veiled threats mostly, so he chalked it up as too much bravado and too much booze.
Drugs, he thought—feeling a whisper of confidence. He told Scott on day one not to bring drugs into the workplace—only to turn around and show up stoned out of his mind. Suppose his supplier came to work and things went sideways—but they were closed for the day and Scott had no reason to be there.
Right now Michael was toast. The pressure to perform had been immense because he had a great deal riding on the second restaurant, and he had just said goodbye to his wife and daughter, and now his brother—forever.
Jasmine leaned over, putting her head on his shoulder. “Babe, I’m so sorry. This is just terrible.”
Squeezing her hand, Michael was quiet for a long moment, and then said, “I’m confused and have no way to understand it. Something like this doesn’t just happen to me. To us.”
“I know,” she whispered.
