Golden in Death (In Death 50)

Stains and splatters might have painted both aprons like crazed art, but the cook and prep surfaces were shining clean.

“We already prepping by nine,” Lamont said. “Getting our supplies for the day. You can check.”

“How about ten o’clock the night before?”

“I was at a meeting. Addicts Anonymous, at Blessed Redeemer Church—we use the basement. From about eight to about nine, nine-thirty. Then I had coffee and some pie with the kid I’m sponsoring. We left about eleven, I guess, to head home.”

“How long have you been clean?” Peabody asked him.

“Nine years, eight months, two weeks, and four days. I’m not going to give you the kid’s name, but I’ll give you the diner where we had coffee—and some pie. I’ll give you the waitress’s name. I’m a regular, Susan knows me. We were there until about eleven. It’s only a couple blocks from my place, and I walked home, went to bed. It’s the Bottomless Cup, on Franklin. Susan Franco waited on us.”

“What about you, Mr. Lamont?”

“Nobody calls me mister.” He rolled his enormous dark eyes at them as he stirred something in a huge pot. “Me? Night before last I’m with my girl, Consuela. Ten? We were naked and busy.” Now he grinned, but there was worry in those big eyes. “I’m a cook. Who’s gonna eat my food I go poison somebody?”

“It’s about me, Jacques. Kent’s the one who reported me for hurting Barry.”

“Long ago, cher. Under the bridge now.”

“Never all the way. I haven’t seen Kent for a couple of years. He came by the truck, that’s the last time I saw him. But it’s been close to nine years since I made my peace with him. I didn’t feel that way when I went inside, or when I got out, but I got to it. I used, a lot, back when I hurt my boy, his mother. I’ve done what I can to make peace with them, too, to make amends.”

“And you done good,” Jacques assured him.

“Still got a ways to go. Barry’s still a little unsure—can’t blame him—but we see each other every few weeks. Carly—his mom—she’s forgiven me, and I’m grateful to her. I came to be grateful to Kent. It took me longer.”

“My man goes to meetings like clockwork,” Lamont said. “He got me going to them. Me, I wouldn’t have Consuela I wasn’t clean.”

“How long for you?” Eve asked.

“Seven years. I went in for the junk, and stealing to buy the junk. My man here got out first, and he starts pushing at me to go to meetings. I want to get the truck, make some money. I’m a good cook, always was—my grand-mère, she taught me. I shamed her. Now she’s not shamed no more.”

“We’ve got a good thing going here, and we work hard to keep it that way,” Ringwold put in. “We wouldn’t have it if we hadn’t cleaned up. Maybe I wouldn’t have gotten clean if Kent hadn’t reported me. Maybe, and it’s kept me up at night more than once, I’d have done worse to Barry and Carly. I’m sorry about what happened to Kent. I know he was a good man—and he forgave me.”

She believed them—the alibis were too easy to check, and they’d have a hell of a lot to lose to kill a man over a fifteen-year-old grudge.

But she got all the contact information.

“You taste this.” Lamont scooped up some rice, coated it with red beans and sauce. “You see we don’t kill nobody when we can serve the best Cajun food in New York City.”

“I don’t—”

But Lamont pushed the plate at Eve, pushed forks on Peabody.

“Better eat some,” Ringwold said with a quick grin. “He’s real proud of his red beans and rice. His grandmother’s recipe.”

Peabody went first, took a forkful. “Okay. Okay. This is r

eally, seriously good.”

Because she had to respect a couple of ex-cons and recovering addicts who tried to walk the line, Eve took a forkful. Peabody was right.

“You’ve got a good thing going here. Don’t screw it up.”

“No way we doing that! I make my own hot sauce—gives this a kick, right? We get enough going, I’m gonna bottle it up, we gonna sell it and make ourselves millionaires. N’est-ce pas, cher?”

“Bet your ass.”

Since lines had formed before the partners opened the serving window, Eve figured they had a decent shot at it.