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cruiser and have her wait in the car.”
    I gave up telling the detective to call me Liz. All business and no play, this one.
    He pointed at another young man. “Constable, put your gloves on. Let’s get this trunk open.”
    The sergeant and I walked quietly side by side to the curb. I was about to climb in the back seat when another cruiser pulled alongside. The driver waved at the officer, who briefly let go of my arm in order to wave back. I tore out of his grasp and ran back down the driveway, hopping sideways between the car and garage wall. Holding my nose, I looked directly into the trunk.
    Six cases of New York sirloins, stinking to high heaven, were marked:
DELIVERY — C.N.E.
    Winn slammed the trunk shut, and propelled me by my elbow back to my car.
    â€œI told you this morning I would meet you at the restaurant. What are you doing here? ” His softly rugged facial features had transformed into a harsh, uninviting landscape. He was trying to keep his voice down.
    â€œYou better check the house to see if Daniel’s in there.” I said, craning my neck around his wide shoulder. “He could be hurt.”
    â€œI want you out of here, now!”
    â€œI thought you wanted to talk to me.”
    â€œNow! Do you understand?” He was yelling again.
    I slammed my car door in his face and laid rubber on the pavement. Time to make a hasty retreat, or at least pretend to. I wasn’t leaving yet. I drove around the block to Eastern Avenue.
    The surrounding area was a mixture of new residential and commercial enterprises taking over defunct industrial warehouses. Film studios had replaced many of the empty factories. I had a look at one of the new condominium lofts and thought the mortgage payments were reasonable until the realtor pointed out that was the monthly maintenance fee.
    I parked the car at the end of Daniel’s street behind a stage mobile unit with orange cones marked “film” placed around it. I had a clear view of Winn on the phone. I picked up a cone, put it beside my car, and continued to watch. A few minutes later an unmarked van pulled into Daniel’s driveway. Two men in white dust suits emerged, nodded at Winn, and went down into the garage, carrying large, green, plastic tote containers. They returned, I assumed, with the load of putrid steaks packed inside. Depositing them into the back of the van, they gave Winn a paper to sign and left.
    By now I thought someone from the trailer would come out and retrieve the cone. But nobody was around, probably at lunch. LUNCH! I quickly called the restaurant. One of my favorite waiters picked up the phone.
    â€œWalker’s Way, Marshall here, how may I be of service?” His singsong voice held just the right amount of ingratiating professionalism.
    â€œMarshall, it’s Liz, I need to talk to Rick. How’s he doing?”
    â€œAs well as can be expected under the circumstances, I’ll get him for you.”
    The phone was put down on the marble bar top, which clearly transmitted the sounds coming from the kitchen. I could hear Rick in the background, vitriolic comments pouring out of his mouth.
    â€œWHAT?” he roared into the mouthpiece.
    â€œRick, I’m at Daniel’s place and the cops are here. You wouldn’t believe what I found in the trunk of his car.”
    â€œYou better tell me you found chef in it because if he isn’t dead I’m going to kill him myself. I’ve got a table of miserable fucking architects who don’t feel like eating chicken today, three burned cheesecakes, and a pot full of soggy pasta, thanks to Ceymore, the great incompetent.”
    Rick doesn’t use birth names for our chefs, just “Chef.” After ten years he gave up trying to remember their names. Only a few are ever memorable. Those are the ones we pay homage to, dance around, lick their boots. I actually thought Rick liked Daniel. I heard him use his real name