The Pot Thief Who Studied Escoffier by J. Michael Orenduff Page B

shoulder. He was wearing a jacket. I didn’t want to touch his skin.”
    He looked up again.
    “I didn’t want to touch a dead person. But then I did touch his neck just to make sure he was dead,” I said.
    He nodded. “Did you know the deceased?”
    “Yes. His name is… was Barry Stiles.”
    “How did you know him and for how long?”
    “I first saw him on Friday, but I didn’t meet him until Saturday. He and I were both working at Schnitzel, a new restaurant that hasn’t opened yet.”
    “You a cook? A waiter?”
    “No, I’m a ceramicist. I’m making plates for the restaurant.”
    “No kidding? I didn’t know restaurants had their plates special made. How about Stiles? He helping you make plates?”
    “No, he was a cook.”
    “So you met him three days ago?”
    I nodded.
    “What were the circumstances?”
    “The manager of the restaurant asked the workers to give me ideas about what design to put on the plates. The cooks and other people have been dropping by as they got the chance.”
    “How long you two talk?”
    “A couple of minutes.”
    “Why so short?”
    “I was in a hurry to leave. I wanted to get back home. I live in Albuquerque, but I’ve been working up here. That’s why I’m here in the hotel.”
    “What did he say to you?”
    “He suggested a design for the plates.”
    I was hoping he wouldn’t ask me what design Barry had suggested. I didn’t want to go into the public reprimand Kuchen had delivered. But Duran was thorough.
    “What design did he suggest?”
    “A swastika.”
    He looked up from his notes. “Was he joking?”
    “I don’t think so.”
    “What was he, a skinhead or something?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “What did you say about his suggestion?”
    “I ignored it. I didn’t think he really wanted a swastika on the plates.”
    His stare suggested I was being less than totally forthcoming. Or maybe I just read that into his stare because I was.
    “Then why did he suggest it?”
    I didn’t want to implicate anyone. I did want to tell the truth. “The head chef had criticized him rather severely in front of the whole staff. Barry was just venting his anger.”
    “They have a bad relationship?”
    “I have no idea. I’ve only been there two days.”
    “Maybe they had a confrontation.”
    It wasn’t a question, but he looked at me as if he expected me to confirm or deny the confrontation.
    “The only time I ever saw them interact was when the chef scolded him.”
    Duran stared at me a few seconds more.
    “You see him since Saturday?”
    “Yeah, I saw him at work yesterday, but we didn’t speak.”
    “So the only time you ever spoke to him was Saturday for a couple of minutes?”
    “Right.”
    “So how do you suppose he ended up dead in your vehicle?”
    I shook my head. “I started thinking about that after I made the 911 call and calmed down.”
    “And?”
    “I have no idea.”
    He stared at me. He was good at starring because he didn’t blink. He chewed his gum. Chomp, chomp.
    Finally he said, “Any theory?”
    “Maybe someone put him in my Bronco because the window was down.”
    He stared at me some more. Then he looked down at his note pad but didn’t write anything. He was reading his notes. “Don’t tell anyone that Stiles was found in your vehicle.”
    I wanted to ask why, but all I said was, “O.K.”
    “And don’t leave town.”
    “I live in Albuquerque.”
    “O.K., don’t leave the state.”

18

    I walked to Schnitzel and discovered the police had been there and everyone knew about Barry Stiles. Presumably they didn’t know where his body was found, so when the saucier, Maria Salazar, told me he was dead, I said that was terrible and went looking for Jürgen Dorfmeister.
    I found him at his station cleaning the grills.
    “I need to talk to you. Outside.”
    “Excellent,” he said. “I need a smoke.”
    We went to the loading dock, and I asked him if he’d actually slept in my Bronco.
    He exhaled a cloud of smoke.