CHAPTER 8

 

It turned out that Vincent had arrived to work just in time to beat the rush. When he returned from delivering that single order, he found Jin knee deep in a giant order of twelve entrees, and as he began prepping them for her to cook, three more big orders came in. They were so busy that she didn’t even have the time to tease him about his new “love interest,” although he was sure she’d make up for that later.

The next two hours were a blur of cooking and driving, punctuated by a nice call from Lara. As soon as Vincent hung up the phone, he slammed his hand on the steering wheel in annoyance. He should have told her he got off work at 9:30, so he’d have a chance to run home and take a shower. He didn’t want to show up to see her while smelling like egg rolls, but now he was committed. Not that they were going on a date or anything. Hunting down prospective murderers wasn’t exactly the kind of activity that required impeccable personal hygiene. But he wanted Lara to like him. The more he thought about it, the more he realized he wanted it a lot.

The restaurant was still jamming when he returned from his latest round of deliveries. Maybe he’d luck out and end up with a delivery somewhere near his place right at the end of the night. When that happened, Jin usually told him to go straight home rather than driving back to the restaurant only to kick off for the night. Sometimes, he returned to work anyway to help her with closing duties, but one of the other prep cooks had showed up—late, but with a good excuse about having to take his daughter to the emergency room because she’d stuffed beads up her nose. So she had help, and he wouldn’t feel too guilty about knocking off a little early if the opportunity presented itself.

He walked toward the door, holding it open for a paunchy guy in nondescript work clothes. The guy gave him a friendly nod, and Vincent returned it.

“Do you have an order in?” he asked as the guy passed him. “Or do you need to put on in?” The guy gave him a questioning look, and he hastened to explain. “I work here. Just returning from a delivery.”

“Oh.” The guy thrust out his hand, taking Vincent by surprise. “The name’s George Papadopoulos. And you are?”

“Uh…my name’s Vincent. Let me see if we have an order under Papadop…I’m sorry. Can you spell that, please?” Vincent asked, hurrying around the counter.

“I didn’t order anything. Actually, I was hoping to talk to you.”

No one had ever come to the restaurant asking to talk to Vincent before. Actually, that wasn’t true. Plenty of people had come into the restaurant, but usually they were yelling by the time they got there. For some reason, people would pay for delivery and then think nothing of driving into the restaurant to scream about broken fortune cookies and missing soy sauce packets. Why they didn’t just pick up their orders in the first place was a mystery to Vincent.

Although this guy was much calmer than the usual, Vincent still struggled to keep from sighing aloud as he said, “Did you have a problem with an order, sir?”

“No.” The man frowned, his brows drawing down. “I told you, I don’t have an order in the system.”

“A previous delivery, I mean. Is there a problem?”

“No, no problem. I’ve never eaten here before. Is it good?”

George whatever-his-last-name-was thumbed through the stack of menus at the counter. He seemed quite content to stand there and have a conversation, but Vincent was out of patience. He had things to do, and if this guy wasn’t going to order anything, he needed to get back to them. Sometimes people thought that just since he only worked at a little Chinese takeout, that his job was meaningless. But he took some pride in doing it right, and the fact that this fellow thought he had nothing better to do insulted him.

“I particularly recommend the mu shu pork,” said Vincent. “If you’d like to place an order, just ring the bell. In the meantime, I’ve got to get back to work. Food to cook. Deliveries to make.”

“I don’t think you understand,” said George, fishing in his pocket. Vincent almost turned his back on him and went into the kitchen, but George might follow him in there and disturb everyone else. Jin would not be pleased. Maybe if he took whatever ridiculous pamphlet George was handing out today and promised to buy whatever he was selling, then he would leave. It was worth a try.

But then George produced a badge. Vincent leaned over to read the script on it, hoping it was some kind of costume junk piece. But it wasn’t. It said in bold letters: “Las Vegas Municipal Police Department.”

Vincent cocked his head curiously, trying to remain calm. The cops had been in here a few times. Once, when vandals had spray painted all kinds of horrible stuff on the outside walls and windows. Another time, when they were looking for someone who had robbed a Cash and Go down the street. This would be the same. They had no reason to look for a guy who happened to touch people before they had heart attacks, but he felt guilty all the same. Hopefully he didn’t look it.

“What’s up, officer?” he said.

“Detective. Detective Papadopoulos. I was hoping to ask Vincent some questions. You’re the only Vincent who works here, aren’t you?”

As he spoke, the detective shoved his badge back in his pocket and then fished out a small neon yellow notebook and a golf pencil. He licked the tip of the pencil and looked at Vincent intently.

“Yeah, that’s me. What’s going on?” he asked again.

“Can you give me your last name, Vincent?”

“First, tell me what’s going on.”

“I wanted to ask you a few questions, that’s all. You don’t mind me asking a few questions, do you?”

“Well, no, but…” Vincent tried to come up with some kind of excuse, just to put this off so he could think. He was starting to feel flutters of panic in his belly, and he needed the time to regain his composure. “I’m supposed to be working,” he finished lamely. “I’ve got a few deliveries to make, and I don’t want their food to get cold.”

“Sure, sure. I promise this will only take a minute,” said the detective. “Your last name?”

“Malone.”

Detective Papadopoulos wrote that down and then fixed Vincent with a keen look. His eyes seemed to bore into Vincent, like he already knew everything about him. Things that Vincent didn’t know, even. Like, who he was, and what the voice really wanted from him. This guy wouldn’t miss anything. Vincent had to be careful.

“Well, Mr. Malone, I’m here to ask you about Maurice Levante.”

Vincent blinked. That name was familiar. One of his recent targets. It had been one of the easiest ones he’d ever had. Maurice ordered a delivery from the restaurant, and when Vincent gave him his food, he made sure to touch Maurice’s hand. Maurice fell over dead, and Vincent shut the door behind him when he left. He hadn’t touched anything but the door and Maurice himself. And the food, of course, but he had a right to touch that. All he had to do was claim that he’d delivered the food, and be surprised when this detective told him Maurice was dead. That would be easy.

“The name’s familiar,” he said slowly, “But I’m not sure where from. One of our repeat customers, maybe?” He pretended to consider this. “Oh, no, I remember! He’s the weird guy who orders only appetizers and never tips. I remember him.”

All of those things were true. Vincent didn’t know what kind of horrible things Maurice was into, and he didn’t want to. He’d honestly been creeped out by Maurice Levante.

“When’s the last time you delivered to him?” asked the detective.

“I’d have to look it up in the computer. A couple of weeks ago, maybe? Why?”

“Maurice Levante was found dead in his apartment yesterday. And today, they found some disturbing images on his computer. Stuff having to do with kids.”

Vincent shuddered. “That’s horrible. But I don’t understand what it has to do with me.”

“Maybe nothing,” said the detective, leaning on the counter and watching his expression. “But maybe something. You see, Levante died from a heart attack. He was lying on the floor in front of his door with a takeout box. The receipt had your name on it as the delivery person.”

“Oh.” Vincent thought this over, speaking slowly. “So you want to talk to the last guy who saw him alive? I don’t really remember anything, but I’ll answer any questions you have.”

“See, here’s where it gets funny. Maurice Levante had just seen his doctor the day before he died, and his ticker was in perfect health. It doesn’t really make sense that he’d fall over dead the next day.”

The detective paused there, and Vincent felt like he should say something, so he came out with, “Bodies are a funny thing, I guess.”

“Maybe so. Or maybe someone found out what he was doing to those kids and decided to send Levante to his maker. Maybe that someone spiked his food. Or injected him with something that caused the heart attack. If that were the case, suspicion would naturally fall on the last guy who saw him.”

“Oh, I didn’t do that,” said Vincent. “I don’t know the guy. I mean, I’m kind of glad he’s not hurting any kids any more, but…well, I didn’t do anything to him. I just delivered the food and left.”

The detective stared at him for an uncomfortably long time, and Vincent didn’t know what to do. He felt the intense urge to fill up the silence with all of the reasons he couldn’t have done what the detective was suggesting, but he kept his mouth shut with effort. The least he said, the better.

Jin’s voice saved him. It floated out from the kitchen. “Hey, jackass! Quit daydreaming about that girl and get back here and help me.”

“I’ve got company, Jin! Be there in a second!” he answered.

But that comment only served to summon her. She came out of the kitchen, drying her hands on a towel. “Sorry, sir,” she said, grinning. “Jackass is a term of endearment around here.”

“I understand,” said the detective gravely. “I’m just going to ask Vincent a couple of questions, and he’s free to go.”

“What do you mean?” asked Jin, looking from one man to the other.

“After I made a delivery, the guy I delivered to died. The detective is just asking some questions,” Vincent explained. “I’m sure it’s all routine.”

But Jin’s face went immediately pale. “Oh, that’s bad luck. A lot of bad luck…” she said.

Vincent put an arm around her. He wasn’t sure whether he was trying to support her or himself. His knees felt weak. He’d spent years waiting for the cops to come, to somehow know that he’d done something to all of those people, and now it was finally happening, and he didn’t know what to do. He’d planned out all of these responses and felt so secure, but in the moment, he felt entirely vulnerable and transparent. The detective knew something was up. Of course he did. It was only a matter of time before he managed to pin it on Vincent.

After all, Vincent realized, this whole thing could be pinned on him. What if his body produced some kind of substance that poisoned his targets on contact? That was weird, but not any weirder than killing people with a touch. His touch had to do something to them. Detective Papadopoulos could nail the whole thing on him without entirely understanding how he did it, and Vincent couldn’t honestly claim his innocence.

“How long has Vincent been working here, ma’am?” asked the detective. “And could I have your name?”

“You cannot possibly think Vincent had something to do with this,” said Jin faintly. “That is ridiculous. He is a good boy.”

“That remains to be seen, ma’am. I’m just doing my job. Can you answer the questions?”

“No, I will not. Not until you tell me why you’re asking.”

“Like I told Vincent, this is just routine. We believe that he was the last one to see Mr. Levante alive, and so we’re trying to establish the chain of events.”

“So you do not think that Vincent did anything wrong?”

The detective hesitated, and that was enough of an answer. Jin’s mouth firmed. She pulled away from Vincent’s comforting arm and stood tall—or as tall as she could. She wasn’t particularly blessed in the height department. Still, her expression of stern authority gave her a presence she normally lacked. She was the queen here, and she would not let her boy down.

“That is enough,” she said. Normally, her accent was nonexistent, although she’d spent the first eight years of her life in China. But now, fear brought it out again, twisting the letters into unfamiliar shapes. “You will leave my place of business. Vincent has to work now, and he is a good boy. He is not a killer, and you should know better. You…you…”

She trailed off, her mouth twitching. It was like she was inchoate with anger, unable to find any words to describe the extremity of her feelings. Vincent couldn’t help but feel touched at the depth of her caring. She really would go to bat for him over anything. This must be what having a mother felt like. He just wished that her faith in him wasn’t misplaced.

Although he’d put Maurice Levante out of commission. Levante wouldn’t hurt any more kids, and if he hadn’t killed Levante, the cops might have never found out what he was doing. So maybe her faith in him was placed correctly after all.

He waited for her to continue. Jin had a gift for words, especially when she was insulting people. She’d tear this cop up one side and down the other, and he wouldn’t know what hit him. Vincent had to restrain a smile when he thought about it.

But it didn’t happen. Instead of one of her patented rants, Jin clutched at her stomach, winced, and fell over.

“Jin!” Vincent exclaimed, falling to his knees by her side. “Jin, are you okay?”

The detective came around the counter as he was trying desperately to figure out what he should do. The portly man already had his cell phone out and was dialing.

“Looks like a heart attack,” he said, not unkindly. “I’ve got 911. Can you do CPR?”

Vincent nodded numbly and tried to compose himself enough to begin. He could do this. Of course he could. And Jin would be okay. She had to be.

“A lot of people seem to have heart attacks around you, Mr. Malone,” observed the detective mildly, and then the 911 operator answered, pulling his attention elsewhere.

Although this particular heart attack wasn’t directly Vincent’s fault, he felt guilty anyway. He brushed angrily at his wet eyes and began chest compressions.