William Bernhardt - Death Row

Ben whistled.

“We’re expected to do our best to keep these secrets out of the hands of kites. Which is why we have the tight security.”

“We’ve come a long way since Betty Crocker, huh?”

“Oh, not really. Flavor additives go way back. Remember, when Columbus and most of the other early explorers took off, they were searching for spices. Making food taste good was big business even then. We’re doing the same thing they did, except with chromatographs, spectrometers, and vapor analyzers.”

“Is this the kind of work Ray Goldman did? And Frank Faulkner?”

“Frank was a flavorist. He specialized in developing new food flavor formulae. He was one of the best. Sort of a cross between a chemist and a poet. There was talk that he might start his own lab. Before the tragedy. He did some breakthrough work on mouthfeel.”

“Mouthfeel?”

“Oh yeah. Very important. Mouthfeel is the combination of chemicals and textures in the mouth that determine how a processed food is perceived by the consumer.”

“Can that be controlled?”

“You betcha. Mouthfeel men use starches, gums, fats, and emulsifiers to alter the texture of foods.”

Ben considered. “Did you know anyone who might have had a grudge against Frank?”

He shook his head. “It’s like I told the police all those years ago. The murder came as a complete surprise to me. To all of us.”

“What about his personal life? Any skeletons there?”

“Not that I ever heard about. Frank seemed like the model of a family man. So many kids-but he loved them. You could tell that whenever he mentioned them. He’d been very successful and made a lot of money, and he liked to shower it on his family.”

“What about Ray? Any gossip there?”

“Not that I recall. But I didn’t hang with him much. You should talk to Chris Hubbard. He’d know more. They were pretty close.”

Ben pushed out of his chair. “Okay. Is he a flavorist?”

“Sort of. He works in the biological additives department.”

“Biological additives? Do I want to know about this?”

Reynolds walked him to the door, smiling thinly. “Probably not.”

Mike entered the exercise room without knocking.

“We need to talk. Now.”

Sergeant Baxter was seated on the floor, legs crossed, hands pressed against her knees, eyes closed. She did not look up. She did not answer.

“Did you hear me? We need to talk!”

Baxter opened one eye. “Leave me alone. I’m on my break.”

“That didn’t stop you from barging in on my coffee klatch and it’s not going to stop me from interrupting your-” He stopped short. “What the hell are you doing anyway?”

She opened the other eye and sighed. “I’m meditating. Was, at any rate.” She pushed onto her knees and dusted off her backside.

“You meditate?”

“Every day. Keeps me centered. Keeps me from losing control.”

“So that’s how you do it.”

She gave him a withering look. “You should try it sometime, Morelli. You could use a little tranquillity in your life.”

“Actually, I used to meditate. Regularly.”

“A big ol’ macho brute like yourself?”

It was Mike’s turn to wither. “Used to.” Without thinking, he took her elbow and helped her up. Baxter appeared surprised but did not resist. “I was into the hatha yoga thing. And Zen meditation. Back in college.”

“How did you ever get started on that?”

“Oh, it wasn’t me really, it was-” He shook his head. “Someone else.”

“But you stopped.”

“Yeah. I had to make some major life changes a while back. I guess that’s one of the things that fell by the wayside. Hadn’t even thought about it for years. Shame, really. I always rather enjoyed that.”

Baxter folded her arms guardedly across her chest. “I’ll probably regret this, but… if you’d like, I could show you a few positions.”

Mike considered for a moment, then shook himself out of it. What was he thinking? “We need to talk.”

“You’ve said that three times now. Instead of talking about how we need to talk, why don’t you just say what’s on your mind?”

Good point. “We have to work together.”

“Just now figuring that out?”

“God knows I’ve tried everything possible to avoid it, but it remains true. You may not like it. I don’t like it. But we still have to do it.”

She cocked an eyebrow. “So what do you suggest?”

“I suggest we behave like professionals. No more big scenes in the kitchen.”

“I can live with that. If you think you can restrain that tongue of yours.”

Control, he told himself. Control.

“That means you’ve got to cool it with the nasty reports. Partners don’t do that to one another.”

“Blackwell tore it up. And he told me that… that you didn’t say anything. About what happened the other day. What you overheard. I… uh… appreciate that.”

Baxter couldn’t have looked more surprised if he had proposed marriage.

Mike continued. “We both know you could’ve gotten me into a hell of a lot of hot water. And it must’ve been tempting, especially after my report. But you didn’t.” He paused. “Thank you.”

She waved her hand. “De nada.”

Mike suddenly felt ungodly uncomfortable. Why was it so much easier to deal with this woman when they were yelling at each other? “We’re going to have to find a workable compromise.”

“Sounds good.”

“Even if I don’t necessarily think this investigation is… meritorious.”

“What a diplomat you’ve become.”

“Even so, I’ll do my best to see it through in a professional manner. At the same time, I expect you to respect the fact that I’m the superior officer here. I have mucho years in homicide. I know what I’m doing.”

“Granted.” She looked at him warily. “As long as you don’t try to send me for coffee or anything.”

“No problem. I brew my own.”

Baxter smiled, just a little. She picked up her coat and holster from the hook behind the door. “Mind if I ask what brought about this remarkable conversion experience? Did you see a light on the road to Damascus?”

“More or less. Blackwell read me the riot act.”

“And?”

“And he told me to bury the bickering. He wants you to succeed here. And he wants me to help make it happen.”

“I see. So I’m sort of like your charity project or something.”

Mike fought back the irritation. “The only charity I’m working for is me. I’m not trying to be a great guy. I’m trying not to lose my job.”

Her face hardened a bit. “I see. Basically, it’s just more looking out for number one.”

“Basically, yeah. You have a problem with that?”

“No,” she said as she adjusted her holster. “I just-” She shook her head. “Never mind.”

Mike pulled a crumpled scrap of paper out of his pocket. “I found the doctor.”

“The shrink?”

“No. The other one. The doctor Sheila told us about. If you can call him that.”

“What kind of doctor is he?”

“I don’t think I can explain it. You’ll have to see for yourself.”

“How did you find him? Sheila didn’t even remember his name.”

“I’ve been a cop for fifteen years. That’s how.”

“Right, right.” She extended her hand. “Peace?”

He shook. “Peace. Hatchet buried.”

“Good.”

Mike started toward the door. “Well,” he said, trying to sound optimistic, “perhaps my lawyer friend was right. Maybe this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

“Don’t push it, Morelli.”

“Right.”

“Fungal cultures?”

The man behind the thick glasses blinked. “That’s right.”