Sophie was shocked by the scene in Jacob's apartment. Through there, the bed, the wide, soft bed where they had enjoyed - how many? - maybe a dozen nights of entwined limbs and pumping fluids and desperate little deaths. And here, the couch before the beautiful window. How many bottles of expensive vintage? How many interesting conversations, flirty glances, hands held? Now, splashes of blood and so many cops with hard eyes and harder mouths.
'Through here, ma'am, the kitchen.'
Sophie was greeted by the lead investigating detective and the commissioner, who'd been to her restaurant a couple of times with the congressman. The commissioner smiled in greeting but stayed quiet, allowed the investigation to progress unimpeded by her presence. She just wanted results, damn it.
'So we’re not sure whether the perpetrator is a chef or a doctor-stroke-surgeon. If he's neither, we need to cast our net wider. For now, we'd like you to tell us if you think the guy's a trained chef.'
'Okay. I'll tell you what I can.'
The detective held out a transparent evidence bag with a stock cube inside.
'The owner of the apartment says that this isn't his.'
'Yes, I know the brand. Catering only, far as I know. Good quality. We use them in my restaurant.'
At the station, Jacob sat in an interview room, with its two-way mirrors, grimy surfaces and memories of lies and pain and fear.
An air conditioning unit hummed by the window while a fat fly buzzed by the fluorescent light and all Jacob wanted was darkness and quiet and someone to hold him.
He felt like shit. Then his attorney arrived. This perked him up a little.
'Jacob. My god, look at you.'
'Matt.'
'What the fuck is going on?'
'I really don't know what the big deal is.'
'The big deal? Are you shitting me? The big deal? You know that girl who was butchered and cooked in your apartment?'
'Figuratively speaking, yeah.'
'Well, that was the congressman's fucking daughter, Jacob. The Speaker of the House.'
Jacob's guts, punished already by the narcotics and shock hormones that had been coursing through his system for many hours now, gave up then.
'I need to use the bathroom.'
After a few minutes, he was glad to be back in his plastic chair; it's not nice having a cop stand outside the cubicle while your colon squeezes out all the evil-smelling bad stuff.
'Did you do it?' asked Matt, his pin-striped suit and shiny shoes and waxed hair reminding Jacob that he was a very good lawyer.
'God no. I was out all night with a girl from the office. I strolled home this morning without a care in the world and then, wham, here I am.'
The lawyer smiled.
'Speaking of Whaam!, any sign of another Lichtenstein for my collection?'
This is good. He wants to talk pop art.
'I presume you saw that Ohhh . . . Alright . . . went for forty-two million plus, yesterday? I've lost track, was that yesterday?'
'Yep,' said the lawyer, writing with a Mont Blanc pen on onionskin paper.
'I was at the auction but passed once it reached the twenty.'
'Yeah. A new record. Not good from my collection's point of view. We may have to focus on Warhol.'
'I think that's wise. There's a shitload of his stuff still out there.'
'What about the Madoff auction? Anything good?'
'A lot of junk. So, Matt. Tell me. How am I?'
'You're good, Jacob. Don't worry. Once they get the paperwork sorted, you're out of here. There's nothing to hold you on. No witness account. No forensics. Nothing. The fact that the crime went down in your apartment while you were out is, actually, irrelevant. You're going to have to tell them who has keys, though. No sign of a break in.'
'Okay. I can do that short list now.'
Matt pushed the notepad across the table, his pen on top.
'Shoot.'
'And my phone?'
'They're sifting through that now. You'll get it back on the way out. Anything to hide in there?'
'Shit. I don't know. I don't think so.'
'Did you call the congressman's daughter last night?'
'No.'
'Then you're okay.'
So Jacob wrote the names of people who had keys to his apartment while Matt talked about Ohhh . . . Alright . . . and who might have bought it.
'Forty-two point six million. I'd retire if I sold that, Jacob. I'm not kidding. So where were you last night?'
'I'd rather not say.'
'You'd rather not say?'
'Fifth amendment,' said Jacob, holding up his right hand solemnly.
'Jesus Christ, Jacob. That's not much use to me,' said Matt, standing. 'Assuming nothing sticks about the congressman's daughter - her name is Catherine by the way - assuming that, there's a risk some little fuck of an assistant DA will push for an obstruction charge, under contempt. Five years in the hole.'
The remaining colour fled from Jacob's face. He swallowed painfully. God, I need a drink.
'Five years?'
'Sorry kid. Look. Let me get you a cup of coffee while you think about it. That sound good?'
Sophie scrutinised everything about the kitchen. The way the pots and dishes were stacked in the sink. The way the finished dish was presented, edge wiped, silver laid on napkin. The way the components of the dish had been cut and combined. Finally she dipped her little finger into the sauce.
'Jesus, no!' cried the detective. 'That's got human flesh in it.'
'It's been properly cooked,' said Sophie. 'It's just meat.'
So she tasted it, let the flavours dance on her tongue, earthy, rich, salty, with a subtle tang. The cops blanched, even the commissioner.
'Yes. A professional chef,' she said. 'This is a near-perfect Irish stew. If not a chef, then someone who works in a restaurant or food preparation environment.'
Then she told them her thoughts about the Eastern taste for eating fish that was still alive.
'So could we be talking about a sushi chef? Somebody Chinese, maybe?'
'These live dishes are illegal in New York though I'm sure you could get a Ying Yang Fish down on Canal Street if you pick the right place. But this stew would be an odd choice for a Chinese or Japanese chef. The flavours are too different and this stew is too good. The palates are, in my opinion, incompatible. I would lean towards the notion that this is a Western chef who's aware of world cuisine, maybe wants to impress with his knowledge.'
'Looking for affirmation?' said the commissioner. 'Pretty common trait among psychos.'
The investigators had a quick discussion while Sophie enjoyed the lingering flavours in her mouth, using her tongue to search out every last molecule.
'One more question, miss. The gilded finger that was delivered to the congressman? Why was it wrapped in gold leaf?'
'That was fairly common back in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, typically on roasted meats. I assume the nobles did it simply because they could.'
'Would the gold have been eaten?'
'That I don't know. There's one man who could tell you, though. He's an expert on the period.'
'Let me guess,' said the commissioner.
Sophie smiled.
The commissioner impressed the team with the urgency of the case one last time, then she left and the lead detective asked Sophie to hang on while he called the station to pass on the gilding question for Jacob and the team bagged up the key evidence from the kitchen so she could double-check everything, take a look in the cupboards, like the one where she would find the coffee to bring to Jacob's bed.
Matt returned with two polystyrene cups of machine coffee. It tasted of chemicals and detergent, but at least it was hot, somehow comforting.
'Well?' he asked.
'Let's talk some more.'
'Good. You're far too pretty for prison,’ he smiled. ‘Listen, a cop needs to talk to you about gilded food or something.'
'Okay. First, sit down a second. Have you ever heard of a private club on Central Park West at a place called Vierte Corporation?'