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this.”
    â€œWhat?”
    He closed his eyes, and as if reading from a book he said, “The sous is responsible for the kitchen when the chef’s not around. Saucier, in charge of sauces. Very important. Chef de partie, demi chef de partie, both important. Commis? Commis, they’re the cooks. Very important.”
    â€œWhat? This is what you learned in culinary school? Something you had to memorize?”
    â€œIt’s a movie quote, Skip. What did you think? We’ve watched it probably five times. You seriously can’t remember?”
    â€œWe’re trying to figure out who killed this girl and you want me to remember some movie quote that—”
    â€œ
Ratatouille
. You’ve got to remember that movie.”
    The Disney cartoon from 2007. “You spent how many years studying cooking, and the best you can come up with is a quote from a rat-infested Disney movie?”
    James couldn’t remember what he had for breakfast this morning, but he could remember a movie quote from five or six, or twenty or thirty years ago.
    â€œNot just any Disney movie, amigo. The best.”
    Sophia Bouvier may have been right. James did lack maturity.
    â€œWhat are we going to be doing? Let’s say you tell me you think the dishwasher had it out for Amanda. Em and I run a check. We visit his home, the bar he frequents after work, we talk to his friends. That’s what we’re doing.”
    â€œWhile I’m sweating my ass off in the hot, stuffy kitchen, doing everybody else’s job under the guise of training for a position.”
    â€œThree grand, James. Three grand per week.”
    â€œYeah.” He let out a long, slow breath. “All right, pardner. We’ll take it. God knows we could use that kind of money.” My partner closed his eyes for a second, folding his hands, obviouslya little concerned about the position. Then, turning his head toward the counter, he made a connection.
    A shy smile from the girl and a grin from James.
    â€œBe right back.”
    Walking up to the server, he talked in hushed tones. I turned and watched the traffic flow outside, South Beach vehicles with exotic emblems. Porsche, Ferrari, Rolls-Royce, and Bentley. I wondered what we were getting ourselves into. I was placing my best friend and roommate into a situation that could get him killed. What the hell, we’d done it before.
    He walked back and I stood up.
    â€œReady?”
    â€œReady.” The corners of his mouth turned up. “Got her number, so we’re good to go.”

CHAPTER FIVE

    Breakfast outdoors at South Beach’s News Café was an experience. James, Em, and I, working on an expense account plus the three grand a week, dined on omelets with smoked salmon, cream cheese, and onions, a Quiche Lorraine, and a vegetable quiche.
    â€œBacon, cheese, onion, light cream—”
    â€œJames.” I nodded toward the sidewalk. A heavyset older couple walked by, the man in a Speedo bathing suit and his jiggling wife in a see-through cover-up. Nothing apparently underneath.
    â€œI would use a little cayenne pepper and—”
    â€œJames, let us enjoy the food,” Emily said.
    â€œYou should know what you’re eating, Em.”
    â€œAll I know is, I’m enjoying a free meal. Save the chef spiel for work, okay? Leave it alone.”
    They fought like little kids.
    â€œCheck this out.” James reached down and picked up a plastic bag. Setting it on the table, he reached inside, pulling out a dark, polished wooden box. He opened it and held it up for us to see inside.
    â€œA knife,” I said.
    Removing the shiny knife, he carefully placed it in the center of the table.
    â€œNot just a knife. A Wüsthof nine-inch chef’s knife. Forged from a single piece of carbon steel that will cut through veggies and meat like butter.” He held it up, the sun glinting off the blade. “This was a gift from Michael Trump, head chef