Nikki did her customary last-minute detail check. The small detachment of uniforms was doing its job holding pedestrian traffic back on both ends of the sidewalk on Lex. Detective Hinesburg stood behind her and gave her the nod as she adjusted her shield on the lanyard around her neck. Rook took two steps back to position himself, as agreed, behind the two plainclothes from Burglary who were joining the party.
The squad followed Detective Heat, streaming through the front doors of the empty restaurant in a brisk walk. Nikki had waited, timing this to come down right after the lunch service so there wouldn’t be customers to deal with. Rook had sketched her the layout of the restaurant, fresh in his mind from his visit the previous week, and Nikki found Richmond Vergennes exactly where Rook said he would be at that time, presiding over the staff meeting at the big table near the showcase kitchen.
One of the busboys, an illegal, saw her first and made a fast exit to the men’s room, and his flight made 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 Wüsthofs 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.”