everyone else turn from their staff meal. Heat flashed tin as she strode toward the head of the table and said, 'NYPD. Everyone remain seated. Richmond Vergennes, I have a warrant for-'
The celebrity chef's chair tipped back onto the hardwood floor when he bolted. Nikki peripherally registered a few gasps and clangs of dropped silverware from the staff as she took off into the kitchen after him.
Vergennes tried to slow the cops down by sweeping a stack of oval plates onto the floor behind him as he rounded the break in the counter leading to the kitchen, but Nikki didn't even go that way. The stainless serving station was waist-high, designed to allow diners a view of the superstar chef and his crew at work. Heat slapped a palm on it, kicked her legs to the side, and vaulted into the kitchen, dropping just three steps behind Vergennes.
He heard Nikki stick her landing and knocked a tub of ice chips onto the drainage mats. She slipped but didn't fall, yet it gave him some steps on her. But even though the chef was a weekend triathlete, nobody moves fast in Bistro Crocs. Speed wasn't his issue at that point, however. Raley and Ochoa came through the back delivery entrance from the alley and blocked his exit.
Chef Vergennes stopped and made a desperate claw at the set of Wusthofs nested in their rack. He came up brandishing an eight-inch cook's knife and the guns came out. In the chorus of 'drop its,' he let go of the knife as if the handle were on fire. As soon as it left his hand, Heat came from his blind side and scissor-kicked his legs from under him-the same takedown she had practiced just that morning.
Nikki pulled herself up off the deck and read Vergennes his rights as Ochoa cuffed him. They put him in a chair in the middle of his prep area, and she said, 'I'm Detective Heat, Mr. Vergennes. Let's make this easy and you just tell us. Where's the body?'
The ruggedly handsome face seen by millions on TV over the years bled a trickle from a small scrape on his eyebrow from the takedown. Behind Nikki, Chef Vergennes saw his entire staff at the counter, staring in at him. He said, 'I have no idea what you're talking about.'
Nikki Heat turned to the squad. 'Toss it.' An hour later, after searching his restaurant and finding nothing, Heat, Rook, and Roach brought Richmond Vergennes in handcuffs to his SoHo loft off Prince Street. In police custody, he did not look anything at all like a perennial Zagat favorite and Iron Chef candidate. His starched white tunic was soiled, embossed with the grid pattern of the grimy floor mats from his Upper East Side restaurant. A bloodstain the size and shape of a monarch butterfly had dried on the knee of his black-and-white checked chef's pants, another battle prize from Heat's takedown, to complement the cut on his eyebrow, which paramedics had cleaned and Band-Aided.
'You want to save us some trouble here, Chef Richmond?' asked Heat. It was like he didn't hear her. He lowered his gaze and just studied his blue Crocs. 'Suit yourself.' She turned to her detectives. 'Have at it, guys.' As they moved off, opening closets, cabinets, anywhere large enough to hide a body, she warned him, 'And when we finish searching your loft, we're going to your other restaurant in Washington Square. How much will you lose if we close down The Verge for all your seatings tonight?' He kept his silence, giving nothing.
After they had searched the armoires and closets and a steamer-trunk coffee table in the living room, they put him in a chair in his custom kitchen, a kitchen so large and well appointed, one of the lifestyle cable networks had used it to shoot his series, Cook Like a Vergennes. 'You're wasting your time.' The chef was trying to sound affronted and wasn't pulling it off. A ball of perspiration hung on the tip of his nose, and when he rocked his head to shake it off, his dark hair, long and parted in the middle, fanned in the air. 'There's nothing here you'd be interested in.'
'I don't know about that,' said Rook. 'I wouldn't mind finding the recipe for these jalapeno corn sticks.' He was helping himself to a sample from the cast-iron corncob forms on the counter.
'Rook?' said Heat.
'What? They're crunchy outside, moist on the inside, and the kick from the pepper… Mm, the way it melds with the butter… Man.'
Ochoa returned from the pantry. 'Nothing,' he said to Heat.
'Same in the office, and bedrooms,' reported Raley as he came in the other doorway. 'What's he doing?'
Nikki turned to see Rook's face, contorted into a wince. 'Being a nuisance. You know, Rook, this is why we don't let you come along.'
'Sorry. I got a little spice issue here. Know what I wish I had? Some sweet tea.'
Raley gave Rook a foul look and joined his partner, who was trying to open a locked door at the back of the kitchen. 'What's in here?' said Ochoa.
'My wine closet,' said the chef. 'I have some rare bottles in there worth thousands. And it's temp controlled.'
That got Heat very interested. 'Where's the key?'
'There is no key, it takes a code.'
'OK,' she said, 'I'll ask nicely. Once. What is the code?' When he said nothing, she added, 'I have a warrant.'
He seemed amused. 'Why don't you use it to jimmy the door?'
'Ochoa, call Demolitions and tell them we need a team with a blast matrix. And evacuate the building.'
'Hold on, hold on. Blast matrix? I have a 1945 Chateau Haut-Brion in there.' Nikki cupped a hand behind her ear. He sighed and said, 'It's 41319.'
Ochoa entered the code on the keypad, and a servo motor whirred inside the lock. He flipped on the light switch and stepped into the large closet. After a short moment, he stepped out and shook his head to Heat.
'Why are you hassling me, anyway?' said the chef. The attempt at peeved bravado had returned.
Nikki stood over him, close enough to make him have to strain his neck to look up at her. 'I told you. I want you to give up the body of Cassidy Towne.'
'What would I know about Cassidy Towne? I didn't even know the bitch.'
'Yes, you did, I heard you fighting,' said Rook. 'Whoo,' he blew air out of his mouth in a huff, 'must have gotten a seed.'
Vergennes acted as if a distant memory had been jogged free. 'Oh, that. We argued, OK? What the hell, you think I killed her because she was pissed I wouldn't comp her a party of twelve at my opening?'
'We have a witness that says you hired them to steal her body.'
He scoffed. 'I'm done. This is getting crazy. I want my lawyer.'
'All right. You can call him after we take you to the precinct,' said Heat.
Taking opposite sides of the kitchen, Raley and Ochoa moved in a line, systematically opening and closing custom cabinets, all full of either cookbooks, imported dinnerware, or a Williams-Sonoma's worth of kitchen gadgets.
'For real, my mouth is seriously on fire.' Rook stepped to the big Sub-Zero. 'Wow, this is some fridge. Gorgeous.'
Vergennes called out, 'No, don't, that's broken.'
But Rook had already pulled the handle. And then he got knocked backward when the body of Cassidy Towne bumped open the refrigerator door as it toppled out and landed on the Spanish tiles at his feet.
The uniformed officer posted at the front door ran in when he heard Rook scream. Richmond Vergennes was a different man when confronted by the harsh reality of the Interrogation Room. The cockiness was gone. Nikki watched his hands, callused and scarred by years on the cook line. They were quaking. From the chair beside him, Vergennes's lawyer gave him the nod to begin. 'First of all, I didn't kill her, I swear.'
'Mr. Vergennes, think of how many times in your career you've heard a waiter bring a dish back to the kitchen and tell you the customer says it's cold. That's about half as many times as I've sat here and heard the guy in cuffs on your side of the table say, 'I didn't do it, I swear.' '
The lawyer chimed in. 'Detective, we are hoping to be cooperative here. I don't think there's any call to make this difficult.' The suit was Wynn Zanderhoof, a partner in one of the big Park Avenue firms that specialized in entertainment law. He was their criminal face, and Heat had seen plenty of him over the years.
'Sure, Counselor. Especially after your client made our lives such a breeze. Resisting arrest, brandishing a weapon at a police officer, obstructing an investigation. And all that comes after the murder of Cassidy Towne. Plus the conspiracy to hijack her body. Plus the numerous charges related to that. I think difficulty is the word of the day for Mr. Vergennes.'
'Granted,' said the attorney. 'Which is why we were hoping to strike some sort of arrangement to mitigate
