An hour later, after searching his restaurant and finding nothing, Heat, Rook, and Roach brought Richmond Vergennes in handcuffs to his SoHo loft off Prince Street. In police custody, he did not look anything at all like a perennial Zagat favorite and Iron Chef candidate. His starched white tunic was soiled, embossed with the grid pattern of the grimy floor mats from his Upper East Side restaurant. A bloodstain the size and shape of a monarch butterfly had dried on the knee of his black-and-white checked chef’s pants, another battle prize from Heat’s takedown, to complement the cut on his eyebrow, which paramedics had cleaned and Band-Aided.
“You want to save us some trouble here, Chef Richmond?” asked Heat. It was like he didn’t hear her. He lowered his gaze and just studied his blue Crocs. “Suit yourself.” She turned to her detectives. “Have at it, guys.” As they moved off, opening closets, cabinets, anywhere large enough to hide a body, she warned him, “And when we finish searching your loft, we’re going to your other restaurant in Washington Square. How much will you lose if we close down The Verge for all your seatings tonight?” He kept his silence, giving nothing.
After they had searched the armoires and closets and a steamer-trunk coffee table in the living room, they put him in a chair in his custom kitchen, a kitchen so large and well appointed, one of the lifestyle cable networks had used it to shoot his series, Cook Like a Vergennes. “You’re wasting your time.” The chef was trying to sound affronted and wasn’t pulling it off. A ball of perspiration hung on the tip of his nose, and when he rocked his head to shake it off, his dark hair, long and parted in the middle, fanned in the air. “There’s nothing here you’d be interested in.”
“I don’t know about that,” said Rook. “I wouldn’t mind finding the recipe for these jalape?o corn sticks.” He was helping himself to a sample from the cast-iron corncob forms on the counter.
“Rook?” said Heat.
“What? They’re crunchy outside, moist on the inside, and the kick from the pepper . . . Mm, the way it melds with the butter . . . Man.”
Ochoa returned from the pantry. “Nothing,” he said to Heat.
“Same in the office, and bedrooms,” reported Raley as he came in the other doorway. “What’s he doing?”
Nikki turned to see Rook’s face, contorted into a wince. “Being a nuisance. You know, Rook, this is why we don’t let you come along.”
“Sorry. I got a little spice issue here. Know what I wish I had? Some sweet tea.”
Raley gave Rook a foul look and joined his partner, who was trying to open a locked door at the back of the kitchen. “What’s in here?” said Ochoa.
“My wine closet,” said the chef. “I have some rare bottles in there worth thousands. And it’s temp controlled.”
That got Heat very interested. “Where’s the key?”
“There is no key, it takes a code.”
“OK,” she said, “I’ll ask nicely. Once. What is the code?” When he said nothing, she added, “I have a warrant.”
He seemed amused. “Why don’t you use it to jimmy the door?”
“Ochoa, call Demolitions and tell them we need a team with a blast matrix. And evacuate the building.”
“Hold on, hold on. Blast matrix? I have a 1945 Chateau Haut-Brion in there.” Nikki cupped a hand behind her ear. He sighed and said, “It’s 41319.”
Ochoa entered the code on the keypad, and a servo motor whirred inside the lock. He flipped on the light switch and stepped into the large closet. After a short moment, he stepped out and shook his head to Heat.
“Why are you hassling me, anyway?” said the chef. The attempt at peeved bravado had returned.
Nikki stood over him, close enough to make him have to strain his neck to look up at her. “I told you. I want you to give up the body of Cassidy Towne.”
“What would I know about Cassidy Towne? I didn’t even know the bitch.”
“Yes, you did, I heard you fighting,” said Rook. “Whoo,” he blew air out of his mouth in a huff, “must have gotten a seed.”
Vergennes acted as if a distant memory had been jogged free. “Oh, that. We argued, OK? What the hell, you think I killed her because she was pissed I wouldn’t comp her a party of twelve at my opening?”
“We have a witness that says you hired them to steal her body.”
He scoffed. “I’m done. This is getting crazy. I want my lawyer.”