Devour, p.23
Devour, page 23
“But I’ll find out what’s going on. Whoever did this is going to pay.”
Staring at nothing, his mind racing to make sense of it all, Michael whispered, “No one fucks with my family.”
Just as they exited the Robin Williams Tunnel, he looked off to his right to see the familiar lights of Sausalito, and in the distance, his home tucked into the side of Tiburon. His eyes mindlessly scanned passing signs while he aimlessly scanned his thoughts.
Sausalito.
Stinson Beach.
San Quentin.
Sebastian.
Pinching his nose between his eyebrows, Michael tried to squeeze away the pain—to erase the heartbreaking news.
Again, Sebastian.
Just then, he looked up.
Dalton.
54
Man Up!
Michael whimpered in the dark, sputtering choked-cries. The pain in his bones was simmering. Hatred boiled in his belly. Petrified, he feared his chest would explode. Lightheaded, he was sure to pass out.
Then came a terrifying scream, and suddenly everything became bright red. With the taste of copper in his mouth, he wiped his face as blood poured from his nose. He was terrified he would black out—forever.
He sucked in what felt like a last breath, and with pain that could snap his ribcage, he screamed again.
Suddenly, he was blinded by a light burning his eyes.
Then, a shadow appeared.
And a hit.
SNAP!
A pain shot through his body along with the feeling of the walls falling in around him.
Next, he heard, “MAN UP, MICHAEL, MAN UP!”
“Wake up, Michael, wake up! Jasmine shouted.
Michael quickly sat up in bed, panting hard, trying to catch his breath. Sweat drenched the sheets beneath him.
“Holy shit,” he whispered.
55
Deep Cracks
Dalton was back and ready to set his next plan into motion. His intercontinental excursion fraught with intense timing and close calls had been exhausting, but now he had to make sure one piece of critical information disappeared.
Arriving at his office earlier than ordinary, Dalton knew the shifts were about to change. When the guards at the front desk saw him coming down the front sidewalk, they looked at one another like they were in trouble. Approaching with a box of donuts and a coffee carrier in hand, Dalton snapped them to attention with his mere presence.
“Morning, gentlemen. Thought I’d surprise the changing of the guards with a sweet little something,” Dalton said, raising the goodies in the air and making his way to a side counter. “They’re fresh off the Donut Alley rack. Help yourself.”
Skeptical smiles and quiet “thanks” sounded from the group.
After pouring a cup, he went to a cabinet and browsed a drawer of files that included paper visitor logs—somewhat archaic but still effective. Cross referencing dates with a calendar notebook, he found the day in question, earmarked the one sheet, placed it back into the file, and then tucked the entire stack into his briefcase.
As he finished, Dalton saw plenty of donuts were left.
“Don’t be shy, guys. I know you love these things,” he said, taking one. “That’s an order,” he barked over his shoulder as he left.
Back in his office, he removed the sheet in question, took scissors from a drawer, and removed a single line indicating a name and phone number, the prisoner’s name being visited, and both the date and time of the visit. Closing the gap, he taped it together, made a copy, then compared with the original.
Suddenly, one of his surprise migraine attacks appeared, nearly paralyzing the side of his face. Dalton stopped what he was doing, closed his eyes, and took repeated deep breaths, waiting for the pain to subside. When it finally dissipated, he looked at his work, and without thinking tossed the paper into a trashcan before placing the folder in the To Be Filed basket on the corner of his desk. That task completed and morning headlines playing on the television in the corner, he devoured a Black Forest ham and Gruyere cheese croissant the size of a football.
A half hour later, Dalton was finishing a second enormous croissant when Baxter arrived. The office door was partially open, so Baxter stuck his head in. Dalton did not notice him immediately, then looked up and jumped.
“Holy Shit-cakes, Baxter, you startled me.”
“Sorry, Sir. And good morning. How are you feeling?”
Licking his fingers, he said, “Fantastic. That bug? Not sure what it was but gone in a flash.”
“Great news. Let me drop my things and we can discuss what you need from me today.”
Through a full mouth Dalton shouted, “Get me another coffee, will ya?” He continued swiping through his smartphone—admiring the photos of his recent trip. He enjoyed having mementos as inspiration for future acts. Among an occasional shot of the Tokyo skyline were photos of various stages of destruction, along with the organs he brought back. He had plans for each: one would become the base for a stew; another would fold into a foie gras; yet another would be baked into a pie. His collection of photos would eventually become part of a cookbook he was developing, complete with his own wicked recipes.
As Baxter entered—one hand holding a donut, the other balancing two coffees, and under his arm, a notepad—Dalton quickly silenced his phone and slid it aside.
“I didn’t think you had a sweet tooth,” Dalton said, taking the coffee and chuckling. “Not afraid it’ll fuck up your figure?”
Licking powdered sugar from his fingers, Baxter said, “Coming in this morning I almost passed them by.” Lick. “But with the workout I had this morning, I figured what the hell, right?” Lick. “And I doubt one donut every few months will ruin my waistline.” Slurp.
Any jovial energy Dalton had this morning dropped like a rock. His face reflected the same.
Baxter looked up and stopped mid-slurp, “Sorry, Sir.”
“Shut it, Baxter,” he barked. “We’ve got too much to do without hearing about your training regimen. And save your fucking comments for the fags at the gym.”
Opening a folder without looking up, Dalton spat, “And stop that incessant slurping—where were you raised, a barn?”
Baxter was seething but would never show it. Instead, he gave a terse nod and opened his pad.
56
Print Job
Michael sat frozen in silence, staring at a cup of steaming coffee, working to make sense of it all.
The dream. The meaning.
His brother’s death. The reasoning.
“Are you okay?” Jasmine asked. Her somber eyes betrayed the smile on her lips. The strong front was for him.
“Yeah,” he managed. “I’m fine. Thank you.” He looked at the horizon.
She followed his gaze and whispered, “Really?”
After a long moment, he leaned closer.
“It’s going to be fine. Things will work out for us. They always will.”
Now, her smile felt real. “Promise?”
He nodded, then went to the fridge. Staring at the contents, he asked, “Can I fix you something to eat?”
Joining him, she took his face in her hands. “Babe, I know you’re my knight in shining armor, but you don’t have to do everything. Now, go take a long, hot shower, and I’ll whip together a little something. I have a really good teacher who taught me this nifty trick with an Eggs Benedict dish,” she winked.
“I’ll show you a nifty little trick with—”
“You already have. And I’m happy to take seconds,” she pushed him away. “But for now, and with the day facing us, you need to recharge. Now, scoot, and don’t come back until you’re wrinkled like a prune.”
With a kiss and a bow, he disappeared. Over his shoulder, he shouted, “You sure you want to see me as a wrinkled prune?”
“GO!”
Returning to the kitchen, Michael headed straight for the French press. Having trimmed his several day beard into a tidy goatee and gelled his hair, he was sporting Brunello Cucinelli slacks, cardigan, and shirt.
Jasmine looked up from the newspaper. “Woah, don’t you look delicious?”
“Figured I’d turn it up a notch.”
“Mission accomplished.”
Taking a dish from the oven, he joined her at the nook. She folded and set aside the paper. “I’ve got to take you shopping more often,” she cooed, running a hand across his cashmere sweater. “Meow.”
“Okay, young lady, you can turn it down a notch, or you’re going to get me all distracted.” With a bite, he said, “This is good. You’ll have to introduce me to your teacher—the one with the nifty trick!”
Dressed in a navy cocktail dress from Dolce & Gabbana an hour later, Jasmine glided out of the house. It was now Michael’s turn to gawk as he held her car door open, “Talking about delicious.”
“What was that you said earlier about getting all distracted, Mr. Rogan?”
Within minutes, they were approaching the Golden Gate bridge. He could not help but think of Natalie and the hundreds of times they had crossed this very spot at this same time of day.
He looked over to see Jasmine staring through the sunroof like Natalie did—looking as though it were her first time seeing it. He felt the same as he loved the view. The remarkable city. The energy of it all. He could not imagine living anywhere else. As much as he was excited about opening in Beverly Hills, however, it was becoming harder to imagine not having Jasmine by his side.
She looked over and caught him smiling. “What?”
He shrugged it off, but she poked him in the ribs.
“Hey,” he playfully poked back. “Just thinking about—even amidst the pain of today—how happy I am with you.”
Morning sunlight made her eyes sparkle. “See how well that works?”
Pulling up to the SFPD Central Division on Vallejo Street, eight blocks from the restaurant, they parked on the first floor of the garage. The nondescript five-story tan and charcoal building looked more like a parking garage than a police station.
“Charming,” she faked a smile, leading the way.
“Very,” he smirked, opening the door.
After signing in, they were escorted to a windowless room that smelled of burnt coffee and decades of smoking—even though faded No Smoking signs were on every wall.
Within minutes, two men arrived.
“Hello, I’m Officer Chris Proctor and this is Detective Dan McKenzie. You must be Michael Rogan,” he said, shaking hands.
“Yes, and this is Jasmine Barthold.”
Everyone shook hands and took their seats.
“First of all, please accept my condolences for your loss,” Proctor began.
“Thank you,” Michael nodded. “It’s been a real shock.”
“I’m sure,” Proctor said with a warm smile before opening a manilla file.
Instead of words, McKenzie offered a friendly, acknowledging nod.
Officer Proctor began. “Well, there’s no easy way to do this but to jump right in. Agreed?”
They nodded.
“Good then. Let me begin by asking where you were, Michael, sometime between 6 a.m. and noon yesterday.”
Feeling oddly defensive, he calmed himself with a deep breath and a warm smile. “Both Ms. Barthold and I were on a plane to Los Angeles. We arrived at SFO around 8:00 a.m. and our flight departed at 9:05.”
As Proctor nodded, Michael added, “I recall because that’s when I turned off my phone.”
“Excellent,” he said, flipping over a page. “And before that, you were where?”
“I was, I mean, we were at Jasmine’s home. In Pacific Heights.”
“Nice neighborhood.”
Neither Michael nor Jasmine shifted their expressions.
“And when was the last time you saw the deceased?” He paused. “Sorry, I mean Scott.”
“The day before.”
“That was at the restaurant? And was he working?”
“Yes. And yes.”
“Were you two close?”
Michael looked over to Jasmine and back. “Not exactly. I mean, we had been. Earlier in life. Like when we were younger. When I was much younger.”
“But not so much later in life,” Proctor acknowledged with a nod. “Is that safe to say?”
“Yeah, not really. In fact, we hadn’t talked for maybe a dozen years or so. Since he left for college.”
As McKenzie scribbled a note, Michael reached to take Jasmine’s hand.
“Okay, so when did Scott come to work for you?”
“About a week ago?” he said, turning toward Jasmine. “Right?”
“Yes, last week.”
“And in that time, did you two get along well? I mean, that much time apart, then he shows up, what—out of nowhere—and lands a job at the nicest restaurant in the city? Pretty lucky, huh?”
“Yeah, it was a nice stroke of luck for him.” Michael could not suppress a frown. “But then, he’s my brother. I take care of my family. And to your point, yes, we…got along just fine. And as crazy as it may sound, we just kinda picked up where we left off.”
“Nice,” Proctor smiled. “So, no arguments, no fighting, no ill will; nothing like that?”
After a second of hesitation. “Nope.”
“And the last time you saw one another again, was…” he turned a page in his folder. “Your high school graduation?”
Confused, Michael knew he did not mention anything about high school. “Uh, yeah, that’s right.”
In that moment, it was not like Proctor and McKenzie looked at one another as much as they looked from the corner of their eyes simultaneously—as though thinking the same thing. Either way, Michael remained calm.
“So, have you learned anything? I mean, what I can’t figure out is,” Michael began, “Who had anything against him? And who knew him. I wasn’t aware of his having many if any friends here. Besides, who would come to his work to kill him? Especially given the restaurant was closed as it is every Monday. I mean, he worked hard and played hard. And when he had a chance to relax, well, frankly I have no idea why he went in. It certainly wasn’t directed by either one of us.”
“Agreed. And good questions,” Proctor said, nodding to someone who was looking through a tiny porthole window of the door behind them. “Listen, before we go any further, and this is standard practice—especially given you two are among several who work in and around the restaurant—we need to get fingerprints from both of you. Again, it’s just as a precaution and to match any latents we may come across during our investigation.”
He stood, waving the door open. “Does that work? Won’t take three minutes, and you two can be on your way. That is, if there aren’t any other questions you have for us. Because we’d be happy to sit back down afterwards and chat as long as you like.”
McKenzie followed with a complimentary smile.
“Uh, of course we’ll help with the prints. And I don’t think there’s any questions,” Michael said, turning to look at Jasmine. “Do you?”
She shook her head with a nondescript smile.
“Good then,” Proctor said, then stopped. “Oh, and not to pry, but you two aren’t married, right? I mean, you’re wearing a ring, Michael, but Ms. Barthold, you’re not. However,” he smiled, “You two act like you’re married. Is there, or was there, a Mrs. Rogan?”
Michael wanted to tell him it was none of his business and had nothing to do with this investigation, but thought differently.
“There is a Mrs. Rogan. And, not that it’s really any…” he took a breath. “Not actually a part of this investigation. We are in the process of divorcing. Soon.”
“Right. Okay. And if we were to need to speak with her, how would we go about doing that?” He asked, putting a pen to paper.
Taking the paper and pen, Michael down wrote her number.
“Here you go, Officer. She’s currently in Hong Kong working on a film, but I’m sure if you leave a message, she’d be happy to get back to you. And for the record, she was on a flight, or perhaps already in China, when this happened.”
“Thank you,” Proctor said, taking the paper. “Just follow Officer Denny, and he’ll have you on your way. And I’m assuming the number I have is still the best one to call you if we need to speak, correct?”
“Yes.”
Michael and Jasmine followed the officer to another room down the hall where they were printed and released within ten minutes. Once outside, they both let out an enormous breath and hugged one another.
“Holy shit,” she said. “That was unnerving. And we didn’t even do anything wrong!”
“No doubt,” he said, taking her by the arm. “What do you say we catch our breath and grab a cocktail before we head in to work. I have just the place.”
“You had me at cocktail.”
57
Surf’n Turf
Dalton had wrapped his meeting with Baxter and was making his way across the compound to spend a few minutes with an old friend. On the way, he was lost in thought, envisioning Baxter participating in his upcoming dinner party. He considered on which side of the table Baxter would appear: server or entree. Grinning, he imagined how he would prepare that dish.
Approaching the AC security desk, Dalton could hardly wait to see the look of surprise from Sebastian when he saw the gift he had brought from overseas.
“Open up, Fuck-knuckle,” he barked to Officer Jansen. “And do me a favor, Slack. For the love of God in heaven, don’t allow anyone to interrupt us. I mean it.”
Snapping a hearty salute, he said, “Yes, Sir!” And after the double doors shut behind him, Jansen mumbled, “Fucking prick. Give me five minutes with that asshole. And after I break every bone in his face, he’ll beg me to kill him.”
“Preach,” a co-worker snarled.
