Prime Cuts

The rain wasn’t letting up … three days without a break, driving grime down the smokestacks to dump into the gutters, then into roads and alleys and sidewalks, onto rivulets and oily puddles, then clinging to the coats of rodents and cats and the hands of trash pickers and the heads of the sodden and sorry and spent. Onto everything, eventually, everywhere. Sergeant Benson watched it rake across the hood of his Dodge, refracting the light of rooftop signage into little bright winks. He was trailing a shuffling lump of a man, keeping pace from thirty yards back by simply rolling with the engine at idle. The figure — bent and thin-bearded, clutching the last of a thin coat — stumbled slightly as he turned the corner. Benson radioed in.

Got a gomer. Sierra Foxtrot, service alley off Chandler and Fourth.

Copy that. A second of static. You can come in after … we’ll make quota tomorrow. Better weather.

The sergeant waited with his lights off. Eight minutes later, a panel van with City Maintenance in block serif pulled up to the mouth of the alley. Two men in coveralls stepped out and gave a nod to the car. Benson lit a cigarette, checked his mirrors, and pulled out. The paperwork would take all of three minutes, tapped with two fingers on a carbon-backed sheet: vagrant arrested for public intoxication; processed; held; released sober the next morning on his own recognizance.

On the east side of town, days later with mild weather, Officer Dillard whistled his way along his third-shift beat. He preferred that the locals knew his whereabouts, to spare all concerned any awkward encounters. It also served as an easy filter, since those who hadn’t left by the time he arrived were likelier to be prospects. And so, after a creditable rendition of the Mayberry theme — nightstick light and sprightly on retaining wall brickwork — he noticed a woman drowsing slumped in a doorway. Maybe thirty … hard to say. He snapped his fingers to test her attention, but couldn’t reach whatever realm she inhabited.

Dillard smiled and knelt before her.

Pushing up and back at her shoulder with his stick: Ma’am, you can’t stay here.

She looked up just slightly, confused. Wasn’t doin’ nothin’...

Well, that’s just the problem, you see: loitering. C’mon, let’s get you somewhere inside.

He helped her to stand, steadied her, then aimed her toward the alley where he eased her back down on an upended bin. Then he trotted to the callbox around the corner at the alley’s far end and gave word to send down the van. She wouldn’t be missed. And a big-boned gal, once you stood her up straight — should be good for six hundred or more.

The woman appeared in Blake’s doorway at the agreed-upon time, but without the warning of a rustle or footstep: she could have materialized from the vapor off the radiator. This startled in part because she appeared as so much: tall and taut, smooth and pale as an aspen, with the sort of face that belonged in a silver screen silent, not the Cinemascope paintbox of day-to-day life.

Introductions … just ‘Blake’ will be fine … and a wave toward a serviceable chair.

Her name was Marjorie Kessler and she hesitated about the chair, then finally turned and positioned in a single firm motion. She perched there like a swami, black fabric flat and stern against decades-old oak, gloved hands pressed in her lap. The office smelled faintly — Blake realized — of stale coffee and occupied ashtrays. He regretted that, briefly. The blinds cut the light into strips across her face.

It has been eight days since I last saw my husband, Philippe.

Voice steady. She was quietly composed, like a lace cameo.

The police claim they can’t help, since it’s a simple disappearance. There’s nothing suspicious, they tell me: no trouble at home, no trouble at work, no ransom demand. No sign of violence. No odd bank business, before or after. His car is missing, but that’s part of the thinking that he just ran off.

She continued, removing the gloves, explaining that Philippe Kessler had been the executive chef at La Maison d’Or, a Michelin three-star destination uptown. A nine-month backlog for reservations; table minimums at four figures.

There’s no reason to think he became … distracted.

Her gaze remained steady.

I’m dead certain.

She opened her purse — calfskin, full-grain, tooled Italian — to draw out a small thin envelope.

Philippe was no trifler. He was serious and ambitious, full of energy and ideas, and we were building a model life together.

Blake took the envelope and lifted the flap. It would cover a quartet of tables at La Maison. Plus tips.

That’s only half, of course. The rest depends on establishing what happened to Philippe .

He slid the check into the desk’s top drawer.

You said no problems at work. Anything at all odd, unexpected, in the previous weeks?

The restaurant would sometimes host special events — private dinners, invitation only, for clients of exceptional discernment. It was Philippe’s idea. Very hush-hush and always after hours. At any rate, he took a phone call the night before he went missing. He sounded somewhat upset, and I assumed it had to do with one of those dinners. He said he had to get back to the restaurant. He came home fairly late, after I’d gone to bed — I heard him come in — and then he was gone again in the morning before I got up. That night was the last I saw him. And in a sense, I didn’t even see him

Any names attached to those diners? The specially invited crew?

No, but I wouldn’t share that if I knew. Philippe appreciated his guests’ trust in him; it would be a betrayal to reveal any names.

Any known problems within the trade? Grudges? People who’d want him out of the way?

He had rivals, of course, but no feuds, nothing personal. Restaurants are built on reputation, and real talent is generally acknowledged. Philippe was one of the best. La Maison d’Or wouldn’t be what it became without him.

A recent photo will help … and a few names from management and staff.

She nodded, reopened the purse, and produced a small photo. The man appeared thin for a life spent in kitchens, with a closely trimmed beard and intense eyes that were staring at something — a limp soufflé? — somewhere just past the edge of the frame. He didn’t look like the sort of man who would ditch his life … or this wife.

I’ll be in touch in a day or so, Mrs. Kessler.

She stood, refolding her gloves.

Find my husband, Mr. Blake. I need to know what has happened to him.

As she walked out, her heels clicked against the floorboards like a syncopated set of tack hammers. Odd that he didn’t hear the approach.

La Maison d’Or was a gleaming redoubt of brass and leaded glass, its presentation unblemished by a name on the door, on the exterior walls, or in the directory at the building’s lobby. Blake arrived half an hour before the first seating. The doors were open by that point and the maître d’ was in view. He ignored Blake at first, but then approached to address him when it was clear he wouldn’t leave.

Sir, can I help you? I am afraid we’re booked for more than eight months.

Blake smiled and flashed a badge. It was legitimate. Assigned to a detective long dead.

Not here for a meal. It’s regarding Philippe Kessler.

I’m afraid that’s not possible during dining hours. Perhaps if you returned after —

It’s not dinnertime yet. Why don’t you inform Marcel Devereaux that a detective is here to track down his chef? If he can’t spare a few minutes now, I can come back at eight and bark a few questions from here, over the heads of your guests.

Blake was led through the dining room — tables draped, places set, candles wicks neatly trimmed — and into a room at the back where Marcel Devereaux sat. He looked up sharply, confused and suspicious.

You are?

Blake. Just Blake, assigned from downtown. I’m working on the whereabouts of Philippe Kessler.

Devereaux shrugged. He was possibly in his fifties, sleek as a zoo otter, with manicured nails and a natty silk pocket square.

I don’t see what there is to investigate. Philippe walked without notice … that happens in this business. The pressure finally gets to them.

His wife doesn’t think that’s the deal.

Well, now she would say that, wouldn’t she? Pride. The shock of abandonment. I sympathize … it’s quite an insult.

When did you last see Kessler?

More than a week ago, as I’m sure you know. He finished the dinner service and left per usual. Didn’t return the next day, and then it turned out he couldn’t be found.

Actually, he returned that night. After hours — someone called.

Devereaux lifted an eyebrow. If he came that late, I wasn’t here.

Mind if I have a word with a few of the staff?

They’re preparing for our guests at this moment.

It won’t take long … just a question or two.

Devereaux sighed, checked his watch, then rapped a knuckle on the desk. He stood and led Blake to the kitchen.

It was larger than expected, full of brushed steel and white enamel under banks of industrial lighting. A division of labor had the crew at designated stations, chopping greens, stirring sauces, heating braisers, checking notes. Devereaux approached a cook — the closest — with his visitor in tow and stood just a few steps away.

Predictable results. Then another, the next-nearest, and just as useful.

The third staff member was a small woman, middle-aged and down-mouthed, attacking a pan with a steel wool tangle that looked like it would flay all her fingers. Blake cut between her and his minder and lowered his voice.

Devereaux, il parle français?

She smirked and shook her head, still scouring.

‘Devereaux’, c’est au moins son vrai nom?

With that she snorted and looked up, squinting.

Je sais pas, mais j'en doute.

Blake took a half-step closer and continued in French.

What did you make of Kessler? Good cook … good man?

Hah! A genius … especially with difficult meats … the lean, you know, and fresh game. He made d’Or a proper destination.

Get on all right with our friend Marcel?

She shrugged and flipped the coils of hot steel.

There had words, sometimes. Philippe had taken on special events … very private, after closing. Prepared and served by himself — très intimate — and so money, of course. Always the money.

She nudged the burner. Flickers of blue flared for a moment, fused, and then settled.

’Cuisine interdite’ he would call it. Forbidden why? Because silly late hour and stupid expensive? Ridiculous. ‘Forbidden’ cuts wrapped up in the same paper as chuck.

Thanks for the help. By the way, who’s your supplier?

For steak and such? Cardwell’s — their boutique. Consistent, save for lapin … somehow rabbit escapes them.

Cardwell’s Fine Meats was a broad stack of bricks, orange and red interlocked in a tight Flemish bond and contoured with elegant corbels. It was a renovated warehouse from the century’s turn, large enough for commercial carving while still offering — as either a nod toward heritage or as unintended parody — an old-fashioned, glass-fronted, walk-in butcher’s shop. The boutique’s entrance was at the building’s left corner. Blake waited curbside up the street until the morning’s first customers — domestic help, by the looks of most — had left the shop with their bundles and boxes.

He finally entered and looked around, noting the attention to detail: rustic textures played off against surgical polish — exposed brickwork surrounding swaths of brushed stainless steel and a fossilized hardwood floor. Hand-lettered chalkboards promoted dry-aged ribeye and pedigreed pork. Glass cases, deeply chilled, displayed beautifully arrayed cuts in ruddy hues of tissue and blood — ruddy ribeye, pink pork loin and blush-pale lamb, marbled nut-brown briskets and flanks — each with a discreet card noting lineage, terroir, and aging process. A separate case was devoted to charcuterie: prosciutto shaved thin enough to achieve translucence, fennel-flecked salami, pâtés in artisanal crocks.

The air brought competing scents: an iron-rich tang of blood, pine shavings sharp and resinous, and a reassuring note of ammonia. A bandsaw was humming out of view in the back, but then faded with a spiraling whine. Rhythms of a cleaver against a hardwood block — thwock, thwack, thock — continued somewhere on its own.

A bald, broad-shouldered man shelved a ledger behind the counter.

Good morning. What can I get you?

Blake smiled as he approached. You can bring me up to speed on some custom orders. For Chef Kessler at La Maison d’Or.

He produced the badge and tossed it onto the counter.

The man looked down, looked up, and assembled a smile. I’m afraid you’ve lost me. I’m familiar with La Maison, of course, but not this Chef Kassel, Kaiser?

Kessler. He relied on you folks for some special cuts … for special dinners, special guests.

The smile stayed fixed. Blake tapped the badge and leaned across the counter.

You know, the ’interdite’ cuts. Très chic … parlez-vous?

The smile then faded. We supply twenty-eight local restaurants and ship to eighty-three more. Every one of them, and all their patrons, are ‘special’ to us.

He placed his hands wide on his side of the counter and leaned forward, facing Blake. This discussion is over. I’ve got customers coming. They’ll need my attention.

Blake scooped up the badge and stepped back. Trying to find a taxpayer, bud. One of your better customers.

The butcher shrugged, his voice flat. People bail for all sorts of reasons. Some, you know … they just can’t stand the heat.

Once outside, Blake went for a simple straight walk around the block. A purposeful stride, hands loose and keys swinging from a finger, as if on the way to his car. Around the back of Cardwell’s he observed, without slowing, a double-bay loading dock being power-washed, the rubber-booted employee driving pink, frothy water toward a drain. There was a police cruiser parked at a careless, oblique angle just out of the blood-water’s range.

He kept moving, swinging the keys, minding his business.

Two nights later, in rumpled overalls with a toolbox and thermos, he was wedged into a corner of a third-story window, looking down at the back of Cardwell’s. There was little sound at that range, but not much was needed. A City Maintenance van made an appearance, along with a suit and two uniforms and a baffled civilian being guided by a grip at each elbow. Someone stepped from the door next to the loading bays and approached the suit; they parlayed for a moment while the man, wearing an apron, cocked his head and sized up the citizen. Then he led them all inside.

Blake had a Leica steadied against the window frame, with its barrel through the gap of a knocked-out pane. He squeezed off a slow sequence of shots. When all but one of them reappeared, he squeezed off another.

The night went on. At 4:00 he disappeared along the same way he came, with empty thermos and the toolbox reloaded.

He washed, lay down and slept until noon. Once up, he made coffee to take to the darkroom to work on the rolls. The following morning was devoted to loupe inspection and prints. By that evening he had a curated set that told a simple, savage story in 29 shots.

It was time to cal Marjorie Kessler. I have news.

He heard her coming this time. A different outfit, a different coat, and a subtle pearl choker. The seat was accepted with no hesitation.

What have you found?

A pair of ceramic mugs were positioned at the corner of the desk; he raised a hand and stepped back to a waist-high console against the wall. It held shelves, a stack of drawers, and had space on the top for a hotplate, carafe, and trivet. He started pouring hot water into a coffee press.

Good morning to you, too. Had a cup yet? Don’t answer, doesn’t matter … you really have to try this. All the way from Hawaii — Kona, I’m told. I get it special, when I can, from this droopy-eyed guy in the diamond district.

No thank you, I’m good.

No please, I’d like your opinion. You’re the one here with taste … you must know a thing or two about coffee. Tell me if I’m right to be impressed.

She suffered him to worry over the press for minute, looking at his watch for the steep and then slowly easing down the plunger. He finally filled her cup; she waved aside sugar. As she started to sip Blake moved a folder to the middle of the desk.

Those private dinners you mentioned? Pulled in ten grand a plate, best I can tell, maybe from the privilege of Philippe himself serving. Local supplier for the fine Ingredients, but they’re reluctant to take credit.

She gave a nod while staring at the folder.

So what do you think of that brew? The real deal?

She looked down at the cup and raised an eyebrow. Actually, yes. I’ve had Kona before, but you’re right, this truly is lovely. There’s a pleasant floral note and a bit of brightness. Good acidity. And even — I don’t know — a certain je ne sais quoi.

Glad to know I wasn’t kidding myself. Those meals, though — what are we talking about? What was the deal with ’cuisine interdite’?

She stared into her cup for a moment, tipped it forward and then back, and finally took a deep, slow sip that caused the brim to briefly cover her eyes. Her shoulders, as he watched, seemed to lower half an inch and relax.

Do you know what people will pay for forbidden experiences, Mr. Blake? The wealthy reach a point, after some years, when they’ve had everything. Done everything … been everywhere … indulged in every delight. Once you’ve exhausted all gratifications, the only thing left is … what to call it? … transgression … taboo.

She settled lower in her seat and swirled what was left. A certain gleam had settled into her eyes and her voice was now hushed, nearly reverent.

You should have seen what Philippe could do with correctly aged cuts: the marbling available from some alcoholics — exquisite when slow-braised. He developed a dry-aging technique for amphetamine-tainted tenderloin. Forty-five days. The enzymatic breakdown was … a revelation.

She went on, warming to the subject.

The irony is that the homeless — the addicts, the unhealthy that you’d assume were unpalatable — Philippe discovered they often had the most complex flavor profiles. Something about the compounds absorbed by their tissue.

She leaned forward to share a trade secret. He’d cure heroin-tainted livers in Hennessy. It was a chorus of flavors and textures … a warm, intoxicating symphony.

She looked away. He deserved a larger share. Much larger. For his gifts, and for the risks he kept taking.

You should have hired me to negotiate … I know forty different forms of persuasion. Instead, this. Why the digging and documentation?

Words had begun to slow, with fractional pauses creeping into her cadence: They need to pay for my Philippe. They don’t even know what they took … they stole an artist … a kind of a genius.

Blake reached for the folder, flipped it open, and started sliding prints across the desk.

Back bay of Cardwell’s, downtown. Delivery by way of a legit city van. Sad citizen between the uniforms. That’s the precinct lieutenant in the corner of the frame. Facility manager … he shouldn’t be hard to ID. Another transfer now, from fifty minutes later. The guy’s younger this time, but still needs help to stay upright. Different cops, same lieutenant. Nice guy once you get to know him. Great sense of humor.

Her head moved unsteadily across the photos.

Mrs. Kessler, these were taken four days ago. Philippe’s dinners go on without him, whether at La Maison or elsewhere. Nothing’s changed … his achievements endure. Isn’t that a consolation?

She stared at him vacantly, then at the wall behind him vacantly, then slowly dipped and kept going, flowing and folding into a tangle on the floor. He picked up her coffee cup, which still held an ounce and had started to dribble. Then he lifted her purse to the desk and found an envelope identical to the first one she gave him. Enclosed, a matching amount. He placed it with its sister in the drawer.

He returned to Mrs. Kessler and bent down to smooth her skirt, then tapped her cheek to confirm she still lived. Her head turned a few degrees, then drifted back. He checked the time and counted hours until dusk.

Sergeant Benson sat parked by the entrance to Saint Martha, considering a figure — a slim woman — lying stretched out across five steps. She couldn’t be comfortable, he noted, with sharp angles cutting in, which said something about the potency of whatever was in her system.

He called in his position, checked his mirrors, then stepped out to make an assessment. A working girl, clearly. Pretty decent looking, really, and reasonably healthy — no sores on her lips or any obvious lesions. Nicer clothes than usual, although wrinkled and stained, and a string of small pearls at her neck. They’d be plastic, of course, and all-in-all a sad try at glamor.

There was no purse. He patted her down and checked her coat pockets. Nothing. She moaned, stirred, and tried to rise from the steps. She didn’t get very far, but it was enough to send him back to the Dodge.

Sierra Foxtrot, steps of Saint Martha’s. Send the van.

Post office drop box on Tuesday morning of the following week. Large envelope, double-taped, holding 29 8×10 prints. Single sheet note, two paragraphs, numbered list, unsigned. Addressed to the editor-in-chief of the Examiner.

Likewise, to the Enquirer.

Also, the Mirror.

Blake returned to his office by way of Liebman’s. He claimed a booth and placed an order for their smoked pastrami. They went easy on the salt in the curing, which allowed the flavor of the beef to come through more clearly.