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this?” had become a tagline. It was even an answer on
Jeopardy
one night, and James found it in a
New York Times
crossword puzzle. “But can you do this?”
    â€œYou know,” James was staring out the window, watching the water catch the late afternoon sun, “there’s one common denominator in that kitchen.”
    â€œCommon denominator?”
    â€œYeah. There’s something that qualifies almost anyone on that kitchen staff to be the killer.”
    â€œAnd what’s that?”
    â€œThey all know how to use a knife, Skip. They all know how to filet, slice, dice, chop. It’s part of the culture.”
    I couldn’t argue with that.
    I saw his expression change, his eyes reflecting with a blank stare. “Well, that’s not entirely true,” he said.
    It had made sense to me. “No?”
    â€œThe dishwasher. I mean, you start as a dishwasher. Bottom of the chain, you know? That guy, that girl doesn’t have to know how to use a knife. Dishwashers are exempt. But everyone else—”
    We drove the rest of the way in silence, and five minutes later I dropped him off at the rear of the small white-stucco building.
    â€œYou’ve got your knife?”
    â€œYes, Mother. And I’ll play nice with all my new friends.”
    â€œBe safe, James.”
    He took a deep breath, slowly exhaled, and forced open the squeaky door. Glancing back at me, he folded his hands in front of him.
    â€œThink about me, amigo.”
    â€œI will.”
    â€œAnd one more thing.”
    â€œWhat’s that?”
    â€œBoth of these doors get harder to open every day,” he said. “Get some WD-40, Skip. Oil the damned doors.”
    â€œCall if you find work,” I shouted as he walked into the restaurant.

CHAPTER SEVEN

    Em lives just down the street in a condo twenty-three stories over the water. I love waking up there in the early morning, looking out at the clear blue water and South Beach in the distance. I love going to sleep there, watching the tiny lights of South Beach, Star Island, and the causeways twinkle. I actually love waking up next to Emily. Most of the time I wake up at the crummy apartment where James and I live, where I can see a muddy dirt-brown ditch running behind the units. Not quite the same. I shared James’s dream about one day being rich and famous. But the longer I spend time with him, I realize the way to achieve that dream is not always the same as my best friend’s.
    Em was waiting for me, and we’d decided to spend some time going over Amanda’s past, seeing if there was anything Em might remember about her friend that would shed some light on the grisly killing.
    I immediately thought about Amanda confessing to a crime that Em was accused of committing, but my girlfriend had told me that story wasn’t going to see the light of day. Emily, being a strong woman, had laid down the rules long ago.
    Her mom had died when she was eleven, a victim of breast cancer. Em had grown up an only child with a workaholic father who wanted only the best for his daughter. She’d taken on adult responsibilities at an early age and now practically ran the construction business for her father. She’d begged me to work for the company, I guess hoping that I’d finally grow up and be responsible for a change. But I couldn’t convince myself to do it. Working for Em’s dad would have been like working for Em, and that just wasn’t going to fly.
    When she was right, she was right. And, she seldom was wrong. If you didn’t believe it, just ask her.
    I was halfway to her condo, the white box truck sandwiched between an Escalade and a Porsche Panamera, when Bruce Springsteen’s ring tone blared from my pocket.
    â€œJames, it’s only been fifteen minutes. You’ve solved the crime?”
    â€œSkip, there’s a little matter here that I could use some help with. You know you said you had my