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Marcus was far calmer when they reached the precinct. Faith was still avoiding the Field Office, so they took the chef to a local police precinct. Faith was nearly as famous with the Philadelphia PD as she was with the FBI, but she was also friends with the agents at the Philadelphia Field Office, so they felt more comfortable interrupting her during work than the officers here did.

Still, the stairs grated on her as she waited for the precinct to give them an interrogation room. Did they have nothing better to do than gawk? West was arrested four months ago. The rest of it was courtroom bullshit. There were bigger fish to fry.

After what seemed like an eternity, an officer gestured for them to follow him down the hallway. The three agents and their suspect shuffled through the narrow corridor until they reached the room. The officer smiled at Faith and extended a hand. “I just wanted to say good work with West. My wife and I sleep a lot easier at night knowing that fucker’s behind bars.”

“Actually, it was two PD officers who arrested him,” Faith said, “but thank you.”

She shook the hand briefly, then walked into the room before the officer could say anything else. Michael led Marcus in, and Turk brought up the rear, glaring at Marcus like he desperately hoped the man would try something.

Marcus was smart enough not to do that and allowed himself to be cuffed to the chair. He kept his eyes averted as Michael crossed the room and stood with his arms folded over his chest. At six-foot-one and two hundred ten pounds of mostly solid muscle, Michael was actually shorter than Marcus by a couple of inches but at least thirty pounds heavier. And he had just beaten Marcus in a physical altercation.

So, Marcus was appropriately cowed when Faith began questioning him. “We’ll start with an easy one. Will the CSI team we sent to your restaurant find any trace of the poison that killed Eleanor Crestwood and Harold Grimes?”

Marcus started. “You sent CSIs to my restaurant?”

“Yep,” Michael replied. “They texted me five minutes ago to let me know they arrived.”

Marcus leaned back in his chair and stared up at the ceiling. “Don’t you need a warrant for that?”

“Or probable cause,” Faith replied. “We have both of our victims in your restaurant within a week of their death, and both of them had some pretty crappy things to say about your food.”

Marcus’s lips twitched, but he didn’t reply.

"We also have you not only refusing to speak to us but also assaulting my partner with a deadly weapon."

“I wasn’t trying to kill him,” Marcus muttered. “I was just mad.”

“If I had a nickel for every killer who said that,” Michael said.

“Were you mad at Eleanor Crestwood and Harold Grimes?” Faith asked.

“Of course I was,” Marcus said, lifting his hands as far as the shackles would allow. “They were going to ruin my reputation.”

“If you’ll forgive me for being rude,” Faith replied, “A Taste of Versailles looks like it’s seen better days. Are you sure your reputation wasn’t already ruined?”

Marcus stiffened. He had terrible control of his temper. “Yeah, it has. And it was going to see better days again. I had finally figured it out. I had a new menu, a hip menu, something Philly’s never seen before. I was going to bring French cuisine back to the forefront in this hillbilly town, and those two assholes were going to ruin all of that.”

“Hillbilly town,” Michael repeated. “Can’t say I’ve ever heard anyone say that about Philly.”

“That’s because you’re not a connoisseur of fine dining,” Marcus said with a handsome helping of contempt. “If you were, you would know how utterly bereft this area is of anything resembling class.”

“Really? We just came from a Michelin star Italian place yesterday.”

“Italian.” Marcus prepared to spit, and Turk growled. He thought better of it and contented himself with saying, “Italian food is for peasants.”

“Ah. So you mean Philly doesn’t have a good French restaurant.”

“ I have a good French restaurant. But getting people here to understand that is like trying to teach the French language to a horse. They just stare at you with their cow’s eyes and ask if you sell chicken tenders.”

“So are they cows or horses?” Michael asked.

“So you felt that your new menu was going to revitalize your business,” Faith interjected before they could get any more off track, “and you felt that Miss Crestwood and Mr. Grimes were going to negatively impact that effort.”

“Yes!” Marcus said forcefully. “They were writing this bullshit about my menu. Crestwood said something about me being a toddler trying to mimic my mother’s cooking and Grimes said that my food tasted like it came out of a cardboard box and I had misread the directions.”

“Ouch.”

“Yes, ouch. And it’s bullshit. We’ve been busy every single night.”

“Didn’t look busy earlier,” Michael said.

“I said we’ve been busy every night . The brunch is just to help us pay the bills until dinner gets to where it needs to be. And it was getting there. Damn it, I was so close! But between those assholes publicly shaming me and your circus today, I’m ruined. For sure this time.”

“Let’s talk about that,” Faith said. “You say they publicly humiliated you. But both of them were killed before they had a chance to publish their articles.”

“Yeah, good thing,” Marcus scoffed. “Or A Taste of Versailles would have been closed when you two showed up.”

“Exactly our point,” Michael said, unfolding his arms and walking closer. “It’s a very good thing for you that those two were murdered. Now, considering your cheery personality and outstanding self-control, I know it’s a long shot, but”—he leaned over until his face was inches from Marcus’s—“Did you kill them?”

“Fuck you.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“No! I didn’t kill them!”

“You said they publicly embarrassed you,” Faith said. “How so?”

“They were vocal about their dislike. If they had something to say, they could have told me privately.”

“So you could swear at them and tell them to get out of your kitchen?” Michael challenged.

Faith laid a hand on her partner’s arm. “What happened, Marcus?”

“Eleanor berated my server for our wine selection. She wanted more California wines.” He made his voice higher-pitched and nasal. “‘ To reflect the modern assortment of fine wines that exemplify the French tradition around the globe. ’ Bullshit. California wines are trash, and I would never serve that swill in my restaurant.”

“Did you tell her that?” Faith asked.

“Of course I did! She is a professional! She should know better!”

“Did you tell her that, or did you shout her that in your dining room while calling her names and swearing at her?” Michael asked.

“I…” Marcus reddened and fell silent.

“What about Harold Grimes? What happened with him?”

Marcus shrugged. “He’s a pig. He wants slop. He started asking me why there was no cassoulet or potatoes au gratin.” Marcus shivered. “Do you go to a fine American restaurant and ask for a hot dog or macaroni and cheese? Of course not! I told him to leave my restaurant.” He shook his head. “They’re just… they’re fools.”

His anger faded, leaving a forlorn expression that Faith might have sympathized with if it weren’t for every other experience she’d had with him. “People just don’t understand. Food doesn’t just have to be sustenance. It’s art! It’s life! It’s…” he lifted his hands again and let them drop. “The world is cruel, and life is hard. If we are fated to wander this cruel world and live this hard life, then why can’t we elevate these experiences to mean more than just their basic function? That is the whole purpose of French cuisine. It should be the purpose of all cuisine, but only France seems to get it right. Every bite should be an adventure! Every taste should be a melody. It’s not about following trends or showcasing diversity or appealing to the unwashed masses. It’s an expression of life itself, not the cruelty of survival, but the triumph of experience!”

He sighed and shook his head. “No one understands anymore. No one…” He slumped and said, “Arrest me if you want. I don’t care anymore.”

“Are you confessing to the murders?”

“I didn’t kill them, but there’s nothing left for me. I think there never was. I was born in the wrong country, and I waited too long to get out. It doesn’t matter what happens to me now.”

Faith sighed and looked at Michael. “Any news from CSI yet?”

“I’ll call them.”

He left the room to make the call, and Faith turned back to Marcus. "Can you account for your whereabouts the nights of their murders?"

“When did they die?”

“Eleanor Crestwood died nine days ago at Cucina Toscana.”

Marcus scoffed. “I’d never visit that pigsty.”

“Where were you?”

“I was at the restaurant. I am always at the restaurant. From six in the morning until ten o’clock at night.”

“Do your security cameras work?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never checked.”

“We’ll follow up on that. The same for two nights ago when Harold died?”

“The same. Always the same. That place is my life. Was my life.”

The door opened, and Michael waved Faith outside. Faith left Turk to guard Marcus and joined Michael on the other side of the two-way mirror. “What is it?”

“They didn’t find anything,” Michael said, frustration evident in his clipped tone. “But that doesn’t mean anything. He’s had more than enough time to clean the murder weapon. It could be at his home, or he could have dumped it, or—”

Faith lifted her hand and said, “Tell CSI to get security camera footage to confirm hisalibi. In the meantime, we’ll hold him on the assault charge. But I have to be honest, Michael, I don’t think he’s our guy.”

“You don’t? Why not?”

“He’s got a temper, but you’ve seen it. It’s up and down. One moment, he’s swinging a knife, the next he’s bemoaning the state of the world. He’s the kind of guy who would stab someone to death in a fit of passion, not the kind of guy who would hold a grudge and carefully prepare a poison to kill them from a distance.”

Michael sighed and planted his hands on his hips. “Yeah. Yeah, you’re probably right. Damn it.”

“Don’t give up hope,” Faith said. “He was our first real lead. We never strike gold the first time.”

“Sure would be nice if we did once in a while.”

“Your mouth to God’s ears.”

Michael chuckled. “I don’t think God wants to hear what I have to say.”

“Then keep your mouth shut. Now is not the time to be making enemies.”

Michael chuckled and said, “All right. I’ll call about the camera footage. In the meantime, why don’t you get PD to process this guy. I’d rather not look at him unless it’s to say, ‘Ha, got you,’ if his alibi doesn’t pan out.”

“Will do. Then go get us some coffee. I think we both need it after this.”

“You got that right.”

She left Michael to tell the desk to send someone to pick up their prisoner. Despite her encouraging words to Michael, Faith was very let down by the dead end. She hoped she was wrong, but unless a miracle occurred, they were holding the wrong man, and their killer was still out there, poised like a viper and ready to strike.