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So if Bouvier pretended to have seen some talent, some potential in James, it was possible he found it at the fast-food restaurant. He could convince his staff that he’d found James at Cap’n Crab, and he’d felt that the culinary graduate had potential. I realized the idea was improbable, but possible.
    â€œIf they find out, James, we could be in a lot of trouble.”
    â€œBouvier swore that he was keeping this a secret, okay?”
    â€œTrust no one.”
    â€œEasy quote, Skip.
Doctor Strangelove
.”
    â€œNo. I wasn’t doing a movie quote. I’m simply saying—”
    â€œI’m going to the line. Help where I can, talk to whoever I can. It’s the only way we’re going to get information.”
    â€œJames,” this was not the place to discuss our ulterior motives, but with the noise level at its peak, I figured no one would hear us, “when I called Em, the first thing she said was ‘why didn’t the dishwasher show up?’ “
    â€œGood question. Night after the murder.”
    â€œI think it needs an answer.”
    â€œYou’re right, we should look into it. But remember, man, these guys are gypsies. I mean they change jobs at the drop of a hat. Guy could have a drug habit, be running from the law, or trying to avoid an alimony payment.”
    â€œIt’s a place to start.”
    Over James’s shoulder, Marty was motioning with his index finger. He wasn’t trying to get my attention.
    â€œJames,” I pointed toward the cooking line. “Marty, excuse me, C
hef
Marty wants you.”
    James looked at Marty and nodded. Turning back to me he frowned. “I’ll get information on the dishwasher. Cell phone it to Em on my next cigarette break.”
    â€œUh, James, do I get a break?”
    â€œYou smoke?”
    I stared daggers at him as a runner brought another tray piled high.
    â€œBetter get scraping, pardner.”

CHAPTER NINE

    Half an hour turned into an hour, and I almost scalded myself with the one-hundred-eighty-degree water from the evil stainless machine. One of the runners in a white jacket and black headband stopped for a moment. As I grabbed his tray, he asked, “Where’s Juan tonight?”
    â€œJuan?”
    â€œJuan, man. The dishwasher?”
    â€œDidn’t show up. You a friend of his?”
    The swarthy runner glanced back at the cook staff, busily working at their stations. Roasting, broiling, boiling, baking, whatever it was that they did.
    â€œAin’t nobody friends with nobody.” He spoke softly as if this was a big secret. “
Yo conozco a ese hombre
. I know the man. You know? We used to go out for a drink after this place close down. Just wondered if something happened, man.”
    â€œIf I see him, I’ll tell him you asked about him. What’s your name?”
    He hesitated.
    â€œJust asking, man.”
    â€œCarlos.”
    â€œSkip. Skip Moore.” I reached out with a gloved hand but he kept his hands close to his sides.
    â€œDon’t have to mention this.
Yo no sé nada
.” He glanced again at the cook group, where James was slicing something with his prized knife. I hoped it wasn’t his hand.
    â€œWas Juan close to the girl who was killed?”
    Carlos took a step back, a puzzled look on his face. “Why you ask something like that?”
    â€œI just thought,” I was winging it, “maybe he was upset about the murder and needed a day off to grieve.”
    â€œMaybe. He find her attractive. I don’t think it went any further than that. Grieve? I don’t know. Don’t say nothing to him, okay? I never ask.”
    With that, Carlos spun around and headed back to the dining room. I saw him numerous times the rest of the night, bringing trays of dishes, but he never spoke to me again.
    Halfway through the evening, I saw the baker, squeezing red icing from a tube onto a velvet cake, her long brown hair