Spiced To Death Part 4

"You're from England-right?"

I agreed.

"You came all this way just to smell and taste this spice?"

"Not just that," I said. "Don Renshaw was asked by the buyer to get another referee to authenticate the Ko Feng and he proposed me. The sellers agreed. We tested the spice in a number of ways before declaring it genuine."

"Genuine ..." He chewed the word, making it rhyme with wine. "You declared it genuinely worth a million dollars?"

"That wasn't part of my a.s.signment-to estimate its value," I said, "only to a.s.sess its authenticity."

"a.s.sess its authenticity." He was probably mimicking my accent but it didn't sound anything like me so I wasn't bothered by it. Whatever his shortcomings as a mimic, he was extremely good at his job.

"Let me run through it the way I see it. This spice was never unattended, never out of sight except during the drive here from JFK. The van never stopped, there were no incidents on the way, no opportunity for anyone to open the back door-"

"It was locked. I had the key," said Cartwright. He was still shaking his head in disbelief. "The door was locked the whole time."

Gaines studied the two bank guards. "No one came in to that parking area while the signing was going on in here?"

"No, Lieutenant." One of the guards was a beefy man with bulging biceps. He was perspiring and stubbornly determined in his att.i.tude. "n.o.body came in. Del and me just stood there the whole time."

Gaines pierced him with an unbelieving look and the guard smiled uneasily. "Well," he amended, "we strolled around a bit, stretched our legs-but," he went on firmly, "we never left the area."

The detective's gaze switched to the other guard, who was older, with graying hair and the weatherbeaten face of an old sailor.

"No, sir. Neither of us."

"You went out for a smoke, to the john ..."

Both shook their heads.

"One at a time maybe ..."

They shook their heads again.

Gaines continued his interrogation but learned nothing further. The two men were unshakable in their stories. One of Ben Thuy's aides described the geography of the bank building. The way we had come in from the closed parking area led to this conference room in one direction and into bank offices in the other. A stairway went up to the ground level and into the part where everyday, off-the-street banking was done. It didn't sound as if anyone could have gone through there carrying a sack and not been noticed.

The detective rubbed his chin, scratching the stubble as if he was wondering how it got there. He went back to Sam Rong and interrogated him about the spice, how it had been found, how it came to be sold to Marvell-all the way up to its disappearance. Sam brought all of his Asian stoicism into play, not letting the detective's hectoring manner upset him.

A pretty young Thai woman came in with a tray holding a thermos of coffee and some cups. Gaines eyed it and Don pushed it over to him. Cartwright was nearest the cups but didn't even glance at them and Gaines had to get his own. He sipped the coffee and his face contorted as if it tasted awful.

"Not bad coffee," he said. He sipped again.

"You guys are lucky," he told us. "I don't have much on right now so I can spend all my time on this case." He twisted his face, rubbed his cheek. "We're gonna be seeing a lot of each other."

"Gosh, that's wonderful news, Lieutenant" would have been a fine response but n.o.body said it. He drank more coffee and his sour expression deepened. I realized now what it was and my guess was confirmed a minute late when he took out a plastic tube, shook a pill into his hand and swallowed it with coffee. He was dyspeptic. His facial contortions were genuine pain-gen-u-wine-and if I had needed further corroboration, it came quickly.

"I'm a burger-and-fries man myself," he announced. "Pizza sometimes-with the works. I love chili dogs, lotsa hot mustard. Black coffee by the gallon-though this brew here beats the stuff we get at the station."

He paused. He might have been waiting for comment but n.o.body really thought he was.

"So you can see how the idea of a sack of pepper being worth a million dollars kinda sticks in my craw," he went on. A thought struck him and he looked at the a.s.sembly. "Say, how would it be on pizza-this Ko Fang?"

Our combined expertise was not up to the question. We didn't even have to exchange glances. He nodded as if we had confirmed his opinion.

"Wouldn't help it none, huh? Well, you know your business, I guess," he said, although his tone clearly said that he wasn't convinced of that.

"Now," he resumed, invigorated by the coffee, "let's go over all this again and this time, let's see if we can make some sense out of it."

The interrogation was repeated. Cartwright controlled his tongue admirably, though a couple of times it was a near thing. Sam Rong had recovered his smile but soon lost it. Don was terse with his answers but kept remembering that he had to give them to help find the Ko Feng. I found the whole experience interesting even if it did get a little boring after going over the same points several times.

In fact, it was only about this time that the bottom line was finally sinking in. Who had taken the Ko Feng? And how? It was impossible.

"My sergeant is talking to all the bank people and getting statements right now," said Gaines. He pushed his chair back from the table. "Now I'm going to see them and the sergeant is going to come in here and talk to you. You can go over it all again, maybe remember things you forgot."

The loud groan that went up was unmistakable in implication. Cartwright looked distinctly unhappy. I had no doubt that he wanted the Ko Feng recovered but his dislike for Gaines was obvious and it wasn't hard to surmise that he didn't have a great deal of faith in the detective's ability to recover it. Don was squirming with suppressed sarcasm and Sam Rong was clinging valiantly to the frayed ends of his dignity.

And what did we have to look forward to when the sergeant came in? More of the same-maybe worse. Another devotee of Ronald McDonald and Wendy or perhaps a loyal subject of the Burger King.

Lieutenant Gaines left. There was no time to compare thoughts before the sergeant entered.

CHAPTER EIGHT.

THEY WERE CALLED INTERVIEWS but they were really interrogations. The lieutenant had evidently wanted all of us to be present when telling our stories so that he could catch us out in contradicting one another. The sergeant arranged to talk to us individually and we all sat in the conference room, waiting to be called into a smaller room. Cartwright went first, then Sam Rong and then Don. None of them came back but I tried not to read anything sinister into that. When my call came, the sergeant wasn't at all what I expected.

After asking me to sit facing her across the small table in a room that was a smaller copy of the larger one, she introduced herself.

"Gabriella Rossini, Detective Sergeant."

She was about thirty and looked as Italian as her name. Her accent was strictly New York so she had most likely been born here of Italian parents. Certainly her looks were cla.s.sical Italian. A strong nose, firm cheekbones and large expressive eyes gave her more the look of a budding actress than a detective. She had l.u.s.trous short dark hair but it was cut a little shorter than she would perhaps have preferred in order to conform to police convention. She probably had a lovely smile and even white teeth but her formal, almost severe manner prevented me from seeing either feature.

She regarded my card and said in a disapproving tone, "I see you're a detective. May I see your license?"

"I'm not," I explained, "I don't have one. What I do is-I seek out rare food ingredients, recommend markets for exotic and uncommon foods, advise on food and wine, things like that. Somebody nicknamed me the Gourmet Detective and it stuck. It's good for business and so-though I don't like it-I keep using it."

"Hm," she commented. She had some notes in front of her, written in a squiggly speedwriting in a black, spiral-bound notebook.

"Donald Renshaw brought you over here from England."

It didn't sound like a question so I didn't say anything.

She looked up sharply. "Did he or not?"

"Yes, that's right," I said hastily. "Yes, two referees were needed and Don suggested me."

"You know each other well?"

"We had business contacts a few times over several years."

"You are friends?"

"Business acquaintances." I wasn't sure how much detail she wanted but she apparently wanted more. She nodded for me to continue and her s.h.i.+ny dark hair bobbed up and down. I described the times we had worked together and how we had done it.

"You were never partners? Never in the same business?"

I could see what she was driving at-she was trying to determine if we were a team in the theft of the Ko Feng.

"No. We have never been partners, never in the same business."

She glanced at her notes again.

"You came over here strictly to do this-" She looked for the word and I supplied it.

"Authentication. Yes."

"Don't we have any people in this country qualified to do it?"

"Oh, yes. In this case, Don-representing the buyer-suggested me and the sellers agreed. The old adage of an expert being nothing more than an ordinary fellow a long way from home probably applies. In England, we often call in American experts."

"So how long did you intend to stay?"

Her use of the past tense wasn't encouraging. "Two or three days was the arrangement. I have a flight booked for tomorrow on British Airways."

She might be a member of the police department but she took considerable pains with her appearance. Italian women's eyebrows tend to be thick but hers were expertly tweezed and beautifully shaped. I noticed this because she had raised them while asking her question. I also noticed the gray, silky blouse which was all I could see of her clothes.

"I might have added another day," I said, "and done a bit of sightseeing. I love New York and haven't been here for some years."

She seemed to reach some kind of decision. She leaned back and half pushed the notebook away in a gesture that might be meaningful. The police interrogation aura eased and she became almost friendly. More likely it was a technique, but she was very attractive and I didn't want her thinking I was the kind of man who would steal Ko Feng.

"What do you think happened to it?" she asked me.

The world of music owes more to the Italians than to any other country and it has bestowed upon them more musical voices-a blessing which has spilled over into speaking voices too. Certainly, Gabriella Rossini had the kind of voice that was a delight to listen to and then there was that name ...

After these musings, I almost asked, "What was the question?" but I didn't want to appear flip so I pulled it out of my memory and said, "I'm completely baffled. I don't see how it can have happened. The chest was never out of our sight-"

"What about during the drive from JFK to the bank here?"

"True, we couldn't see it but the back was locked. We made no stops except for traffic lights and no one could have forced the back without us feeling or hearing it."

"Other than Donald Renshaw, you had never met any of the others before?"

"None of them, no."

"Did you know this bank?"

"No."

"Do you know anyone here?"

"No, no one."

"You have a very interesting job," she stated and if it was technique, she certainly knew how to move around.

"I love it."

"It must have been an exciting moment when you tasted the Ko Feng. How long has it been lost?"

"About five hundred years, maybe more."

She leaned forward and I thought I caught a whiff of perfume but perhaps not. That would really undermine the image of the NYPD.

"What did it taste like?"

"Indescribable, really. At first, there were hints of other spice tastes, then I felt I was mistaken and that it wasn't similar to any other spice. It was unique and somehow powerful, yet subtle at the same time."

"Spices can be hard to describe, can't they?"

"Very. We have lots of ways of describing how wines taste but the language seems inadequate for spices."

"My parents have a restaurant in Greenwich Village." Her tone was bordering on the friendly now but I kept myself ready for another of her s.h.i.+fts of emphasis. "I grew up there, so I love food. The idea of this Ko Feng fascinates me."

"Why do I think it's an Italian restaurant that your parents have?" I asked.

I had made the breakthrough after all. She smiled slightly and I had been right-she did have a lovely smile and even white teeth.

"La Perla di Napoli it's called. Open every day except Sunday. The specialties are scaloppine with mushrooms, saltimbocca and gamberi con aglio. Of course, they make all their own pasta."

"No piccione? What a shame!" I said.

"In New York?" She raised those eyebrows again. "Pigeons are considered a menace not a food."

"I'll have to eat there. Good saltimbocca is getting hard to find."

She nodded and the police persona returned. "Inspector Gaines wants you to stay in the city for a few more days."

"In that case, my address is going to change. My fee was on a daily basis and it's not likely to continue so I can't stay at the Courtney Park any longer."

"Here's my card," she said. "Let me know what your new address and phone number are as soon as you move."

"I will. At least, staying in New York a little longer will give me a chance to sample more of the wonderful cooking."