Page 14 of So Bleak

"And you're not going to dwell on them because they don't know your job, you do." She frowned at him, and he said, "Sorry, I'm not going to coddle you right now. Emotions suck. We all have them. Yours suck, especially right now, but that's the nature of the beast. We have a job to do and getting pessimistic about it less than two hours in isn't going to help us."

She took a deep breath. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. Do better.”

“Screw you!”

“There you go. Be angry with me. That brings out your competitive streak and makes you work even harder.”

She rolled her eyes and turned the subject back to the case. “Okay, so who are we going to see right now?”

“Chef Antonio Russo. The police interviewed him already and determined he wasn’t a suspect, but they still haven’t confirmed what killed Crestwood or if it got into her through the food.”

She frowned. “They still don’t know?”

He shook his head. "Sodium channel blocker, but it doesn't look like anything they've seen before. I don't quite follow the science-ese, but the molecules are constructed differently. They're thinking synthetic, but they haven't found a match among known chemists, pharmaceutical companies or research labs yet. That could take months, maybe even years, if they have to go global."

“So we can write off finding a smoking gun.”

“More like we have a smoking gun, but we’re cavemen who’ve never seen an axe before, let alone a gun. We know this fire stick killed two of our tribes people, but we don’t know how.”

“I love that your analogy makes us stupid.”

“Not stupid. Uneducated.”

“Yeah, that’s not better.”

“Sure it is. Because we're inquisitive, we won't stop asking questions until we find answers."

“Whatever works for you.”

They pulled into the parking lot of the restaurant. Cucina Toscana had its own plot in Queen Village. The neighborhood was slightly less ritzy than Rittenhouse Square but far trendier. Ironically, Sushi Amaterasu was the trendier restaurant while Cucina Toscana was as old-school as they came. The staff all wore white shirts with black bowties and the tables were all set with white cloths, candles and wine glasses. The music was soft classical, and the overall ambience was one of traditional upper-class gentility.

Then there was the kitchen. Faith had gone through a phase where she watched most of the reality cooking shows on tv, but she had always dismissed the rowdy atmosphere portrayed in those shows as made for tv and not reflective of real life.

She couldn’t speak for all restaurants, but the kitchen at Cucina Toscana looked to be lifted straight out of a Cooking Channel show. Cooks in white frocks rushed around in what looked to Faith to be an utterly disorderly fashion, shouting at each other in Italian and English, mostly in swear words and colorfully raunchy epithets. She heard tinkling and crashing and more swearing as pots and spoons and plates and even a few knives sailed through the air toward the sinks and across counters.

There had to be some method to their madness because the counters rapidly piled with food as the cooks prepared for the dinner service beginning in just over an hour. Faith just couldn’t see what that method might be.

A man about the same size and shape as Chef Ito but with Roman features and a hat that added a full ten inches to his slight frame glanced at the two agents and frowned. He said something in Italian to his sous chefs and stormed over to them.

“What? What is it?” he snapped. “I talk to the police already, eh? I told them I don’t know what happened. That woman, Crestwood. She made a lot of enemies. But I don’t need to worry about it, eh, because my food is perfect! Six critics come here, they say my food is perfect. I have Michelin Star on the wall in my office, and if Crestwood hadn’t died in my dining room, I’d have a second in a month, eh?”

“Chef Russo, I presume?” Faith asked drily.

“Yes, that’s me. What do you need now? I have a dinner service to run.”

He lifted his arms dramatically as he spoke, and Faith got the impression that most of this was an act for the benefit of his brigade, who were watching the interaction with something between amusement and irritation.

“Why don’t we speak in your office, Chef Russo?” she suggested.

He lifted his arms again and rolled his eyes. “Come on, I have a kitchen to manage. Who’s going to run the brigade, huh?”

“It should only take a few minutes. You’ll be back on your way to earning another Michelin star in no time.”

Russo sighed heavily and threw his arms in the air a third time. "Va bene, allora, immagino che qualsiasi cosa tu stia facendo sia più importante. Dimentica i miei poveri commensali e i miei cuochi laboriosi."

He stomped past them out of the kitchen, continuing to rant. Faith exchanged a look with Michael, then followed him. Turk trotted next to her, his nose to the ground.

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