Cook the Books by Jessica Conant-Park, Susan Conant Page A

unannounced visits from health inspectors and were keenly aware that inspection scores could affect their salaries and bonuses. Besides, Digger prided himself on maintaining a sterile kitchen. Even if the rest of his apartment had been a complete dump, there was no way that his kitchen would have had the layers of smelly grease and gunk that posed a fire hazard. He wouldn’t have left an oven or burner on, of course. And if he had actually been cooking in the wee hours of the night and had somehow managed to start a fire, he certainly would have known how to put it out; he and Josh both kept bins of baking soda near their restaurant stoves so that they could dust out flames in an emergency. I’d have bet anything that Digger did the same at home.
    A car horn blared. Turning, I saw a black Hummer idling in back of the police barricade. The driver was arguing with an officer. Until that moment, I’d totally forgotten about Kyle and Hank Boucher.
    “Excuse me,” I said to Barbara and Norris.
    I made my way to the environmentally unfriendly vehicle that Hank had no doubt rented for his stay in Boston. I couldn’t imagine that Kyle had chosen this monstrosity. My guess about who’d picked the Hummer spoke well for Kyle. In any case, his father was in the driver’s seat—yes, probably in every sense of the phrase. Hank was just as well groomed off camera as he was on. He was a tall, lean man with graying hair that was slicked back, creating a severe look that I found unpleasant. I wondered if his deeply tanned skin was the result of his worldwide traveling or if it was one of those spray tans that were so popular with celebrities.
    I approached the passenger’s side of the Hummer as Hank was complaining about the neighborhood. “Nice work, son. You’ve managed to put us smack in the middle of luxury here, haven’t, you?” Hank gestured grandly. “We’re sure to find culinary greatness living in one of these stupendous buildings. And just because there’s a serious police presence in the neighborhood doesn’t mean that we should be thwarted by the threat of gang violence, does it? Where the hell are we supposed to park around here, anyway? Not that I m overly anxious now to get going with this supposed tasting you’ve set up, but since we’re here, we might as well get it over with. I don’t imagine there’s valet parking nearby, is there?”
    Kyle squirmed uncomfortably.
    I pursed my lips. “Hello, Mr. Boucher,” I said coldly. “I’m Chloe Carter. I hardly think you need to worry about gang violence or valet parking right now. There’s been a fire in my friend Digger’s building. He apparently died in the fire.”
    “Typical!” Hank barked angrily. His face barely moved, and I suspected a good dose of Botox was preventing any expression. “Good job, Kyle. This book is coming along swimmingly, isn’t it?”
    “Dad!” Kyle glared at his father. “You can’t blame me for this.”
    “Christ, let’s get out of this hellhole before something else happens.” Hank started to back the car up to make a three-point turn.
    Kyle shot me an apologetic look. “I’ll call you later, Chloe.”
    I watched in disbelief as the pair drove off. Hank had hardly glanced at me, and Kyle had been too wrapped up in his father’s obnoxious behavior even to ask how I was. I wanted to get out of there, too, but as I began to head toward my car, I realized that Digger’s girlfriend and manager, Ellie, might not know of his death. Backtracking, I found Norris and Barbara still staring at the charred, sopping remains of the building.
    “Does either of you know whether Digger’s girlfriend has been here? Whether she knows what happened?” I asked.
    Barbara shook her head. “Sorry, hon, I don’t know anything about a girlfriend.”
    Norris rolled his eyes. “There’s another thing. Not only did this guy smell up the entire street, but there was a whole business of women in and out of the place. Like we’re some sort