Page 11

Delaney's restaurant was called A Taste of Versailles. The exterior of the building was clean but faded, and the lawn was ill-maintained. The tint on the windows was peeling visibly, and the door creaked when Faith opened it. This place had seen better days.

Eleven years ago, to be exact. A plaque on the ma?tre's counter proudly announced A Taste of Versailles as a winner of two Michelin stars during that year. Looking around the fading interior with it’s half-empty dining room of disinterested diners, Faith imagined they didn’t hold either of those stars anymore.

The hostess at least made an attempt at civility when she greeted them. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but we don’t allow pets inside, not even service animals.”

It was illegal for a business to refuse service animals, but Faith wasn’t here to argue that point. “We need to speak with Marcus Delaney.”

The hostess blinked. “Chef Delaney is busy with service at the moment.”

“At ten in the morning?”

“We have a brunch special.” She gestured around the dining room. “As you can see, we’re very busy at the moment.”

Michael pointed at the bright white FBI logo on his vest. “See this? We don’t care if you’re what you consider busy. Get Marcus Delaney out here now.”

The hostess paled and started to leave, but Faith held up a hand. “One moment. Before you do that, can you tell me if a man named Harold Grimes dined here recently?”

The girl paled another shade, and Faith knew the answer. “Umm… I’d have to check.”

“When was he here?” Faith asked.

The girl hesitated and looked between the two agents.

“We’re here for Marcus Delaney,” Michael reminded her. “Let’s keep it that way.”

The hostess took a deep breath, then said, “Umm… it was last Friday. Marcus threw him out. He… doesn’t take criticism well.”

Faith nodded. “Thank you. You can take us to Chef Delaney now.”

The hostess hesitated again. “I’d better talk to him first. He can be a little aggressive.”

“We can handle it,” Faith assured her. “Lead the way.”

The hostess looked miserable, but she didn’t argue any further. She led the three agents toward a door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY and said, “You should wait out…”

Faith and Michael pushed past her without waiting for her to finish. The hostess swore and rushed back ahead of them. “Marcus, I’m sorry! I tried to keep them outside. They wouldn’t listen.”

The kitchen was full of cooks bustling to prepare for the coming dinner rush. They all turned to the agents with annoyance, but by far the most annoyed of the faces came from a young man with the tall hat that indicated his position as the head chef.

“What the hell is this?” the chef asked. “How dare you enter my kitchen?”

Marcus Delaney was a tall, athletic man in his mid-thirties with exquisitely styled dark hair and piercing blue eyes. His clean-shaven face was set in a sour frown, and his brow was furrowed sharply over those eyes.

The hostess lifted her hands apologetically and said, “I’m really sorry. They wouldn’t—”

“I’m Special Agent Faith Bold of the FBI. This is my partner, Special Agent Michael Prince, and my K9 Unit—”

“You brought a dog into my kitchen?”

Faith’s eyes narrowed. “My K9 unit, Turk. We need to ask—”

“Katie, what the hell is a dog doing in my kitchen?”

The hostess took a step back. “I’m so sorry, Marcus. I—”

“What the hell is sorry? Sorry is bullshit. Get these assholes out of my kitchen! And make sure their fucking dog goes with them!”

His voice rose in pitch as he spoke, and Katie began to shake. Faith wondered exactly what their relationship was and what the dynamics of that relationship might be. Turk must have felt a similar discomfort because he stepped protectively in front of Katie and growled at Marcus.

“You can leave, Katie,” Faith said, keeping her eyes on the irate chef. “We’re going to speak with your boss.”

“Like hell!” Marcus thundered. “I’m trying to run a kitchen! I have a service to run right now, and you come in here and bring a dog into my kitchen? Fuck you! Get the hell out of my restaurant.”

“Chef Delaney,” Michael began, trying for a diplomatic approach. “We’re investigating—”

“No,” Marcus interrupted. “No, you want to talk to me? Call and make an appointment. You don’t just barge into my kitchen and tell me what to do. I say what to do in my kitchen.”

“Not at the moment,” Faith said, choosing a somewhat less diplomatic approach. “We’re investigating the murders of Eleanor Crestwood and Harold Grimes. Both of them ate in your restaurant roughly a week before they were killed.”

“So Eleanor and Harold are dead? Good. Eleanor was a bitch, and Harold was a fat loser. Neither of them understood the cuisine, and they tried to tell me that my food is no good? They wouldn't know good if it bit them on the ass. Now please, fuck off out of my restaurant and let me make food for my paying customers, all right? All right.”

He turned around and pointedly ignored the agents. Faith had dealt with her share of vulgar suspects before, but Marcus’s foul mouth combined with his arrogance was causing her to see red. She struggled to keep her tone professional but allowed herself to sound more authoritative.

“Marcus, we need to talk to you right now. I don’t care that it’s in the middle of service. You’re a person of interest in a multiple murder investigation, so you need to put your utensils down now and come with us.”

Marcus continued to ignore them. Katie looked anxiously at the agents and said, "Maybe you should wait outside. I can pour you some drinks, and Marcus can join you after the lunch rush."

“No,” Marcus called with his back still turned. “Fuck after the lunch rush. They can call me and work with my schedule. I deserve respect in my own restaurant.”

Michael sighed. “Marcus, come on, buddy.”

“I’m not your buddy.”

Michael smiled tightly. “Okay, come on, dipshit. You know how this ends. We’re armed FBI agents with a dog. You’re going to come with us. The only question is whether you come willingly and talk to us in your office or in handcuffs to have a conversation at the precinct."

Marcus lifted a finger in reply.

Michael nodded. “All right. Sounds good.” He stepped toward Marcus. “You’re being detained for questioning in the murders of Eleanor Crestwood and Harold Grimes.”

“No, I’m not detained,” Marcus replied, still not turning around.

“Marcus,” Katie said worriedly.

“Katie, get out of here,” Faith said sharply.

Katie jumped but didn’t comply.

“Let’s go,” Michael said, reaching for Marcus’s left arm.

“No, I’m not detained. I’m not detained, fuck you!”

As soon as Michael touched the chef’s arm, Marcus whirled around, slashing with a kitchen knife. Michael jumped back, narrowly avoiding the blow. Katie screamed, “Marcus! Stop it!”

Faith drew her handgun and aimed it at the chef. The other cooks began to shout and protest, but when Turk barked, they drew silent and backed away warily.

“Smart move,” Faith told them. Do me a favor all of you and leave the kitchen. Katie, for the final time, that means you.”

“No!” Marcus shouted. “No! You can’t come into my restaurant and threaten me!”

"We're not threatening you," Michael said, hands up raised to either placate Marcus or defend against another attack. "We're trying to talk to you. You’re threatening us. ”

“Actually,” Faith corrected, sidestepping to get a better aim on Marcus. “You’ve assaulted my partner. So you’re not detained, you’re under arrest. Put the knife down.”

“Damn it, no!”

Marcus’s tone was plaintive now, almost a whine. Faith imagined he’d never been told what to do before. He was used to getting his way and couldn’t accept that he wasn’t in control of this situation.

“This is my restaurant!” he shouted petulantly. “You all have no respect! You have no respect for me, you have no respect for my food, you have no—”

Michael moved like a blur. Before Marcus could react, he had slapped the knife out of the chef’s grip and spun him around.

Marcus shrieked and struggled, and Katie screamed, “No! Please don’t hurt him!”

Faith turned to Katie, keeping her handgun on Marcus, and shouted, “Katie! Leave this kitchen now, or you’re under arrest for obstruction of justice!”

Katie burst into tears and retreated to the back of the kitchen. She didn’t leave the room, but Faith decided that was close enough and turned her attention back to Marcus.

Michael had him wrapped up and cuffed now. The chef was shaking with fury, but he wasn’t trying to fight him anymore, so that was a positive.

Michael turned to Faith and sighed with exasperation. “All right. We can go now.” He turned back to their suspect. “Are you going to behave? Or do I need to have Turk make you incapable of misbehaving?”

Marcus sighed. His head slumped forward, and when he spoke, his voice was far more subdued. “I’ll behave.”

“Good boy.”

Michael led Marcus out of the kitchen. Katie grabbed him briefly and tried to protest, but when Faith glared at her, she released him and sank to her knees, weeping as the agents left with the man who she was clearly enamored with.

God, what did women see in these assholes?

The diners exclaimed in shock as they led Marcus toward the door. “Wonderful,” Marcus muttered. “There goes my restaurant. Just when I was getting it back on track.”

“There’s a lesson in this,” Michael said drily. “Maybe you’ll figure it out one day.”

They put him in the car, and Turk jumped inside and glared at him. Marcus returned Turk's glare, but his body language showed he was cowed by the dog whatever he might pretend.

Faith got into the backseat across from Marcus, just in case. Michael hopped in the driver's seat, and they left A Taste of Versailles behind.

Faith felt a little guilty at feeling excited by the interaction they’d just had, but Marcus sure acted like a murderer. She hoped they would confirm it soon and wrap this case up before anyone else had to get hurt.