Colton 911: Undercover Heat
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Anna J. Stewart
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16.9K
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16
Chapter 1
Controlling fire came as easily to Tatum Colton as breathing.
The arc of the flame, the quick flash of pristine blue giving way to brilliant orange as it brushed its heat in time with a quick wrist flick of the sauté pan in her hand. Warmth caressed her arms through the white chef’s jacket she wore. The familiar beads of sweat coated her forehead as she moved from the stove to the workstation, where she plated the butter-rich pasta and fresh asparagus. A quick swipe of the towel tucked into the apron string around her waist, and the plate was set on the service table.
“Spring primavera up!” She glanced at the order screen, already mentally sorting out the ingredients as one of her chefs took the prepared bowl to the garnishing station before service. “Simon, how’re we doing on the special orders for table nine?”
“Finishing now, Chef.” Simon “Chester” Chesterton, one of her newest line chefs, worked magic with the vegan offerings at True, Tatum’s restaurant. True was a lifelong dream of hers, and just last year, only their third since opening, she’d earned a James Beard nomination. The framed certificate hung on the press wall of the kitchen where they celebrated the accomplishments of all their staff. The nomination hadn’t been her achievement alone. It was theirs. This year she was determined to take even bigger leaps and make the restaurant a food haven destination in the North Center neighborhood of Chicago.
The white-noise roar of the gas grills and burners, along with the scraping of a pizza peel as it slid freshly kneaded dough topped with imported cheeses and meats made in-house into the custom-built oven, soothed whatever nerves she might have had when it came to feeding her full house. Garlic, roasted spices, and the ever-present promise of a delicious, perfect European-inspired meal hung in the air and invigorated her. Her team moved fluidly and effortlessly through the kitchen as wait and cleaning staff bustled in and out of Sunday dinner service.
The employees at True had helped bring her vision to life. They were the blood that kept the heart of True beating. This place was her life. She’d put everything—all her finances, all her energy, all her focus into making it what it was becoming. And it had repaid her in kind by giving her a place of refuge and solace these past few weeks.
Grief and anger mingled low in her belly as tears of frustration and loss burned behind her smoke-filled eyes. If she didn’t have this place she’d have been lost in the weeks since her father and uncle had been killed. No, she reminded herself as sternly as her sister Simone would have. They hadn’t just been killed; they’d been murdered.
A murder the police still didn’t seem to have a decent lead on.
One minute here, the next minute gone.
She grabbed a clean pan, dropped a fresh serving of pasta into the simmering water on the back of the multi-burner stove and got back to work.
“Tatum?” Susan Ford, Tatum’s assistant front-of-house manager, dodged two of her line chefs. “There’s a customer at the bar requesting to speak with you.”
Tatum glanced up at the clock. “I’m not scheduled for my round of greetings for another forty minutes. Who is it?”
Susan shook her head, the unfamiliar expression of befuddlement clear on her face. Normally Susan was unflappable. “He didn’t give me his name, just said he needed to speak with the owner as soon as possible.”
Meaning Susan didn’t know who the man was. And given Susan knew just about everyone in the food industry—from critics to owners to busboys—Tatum continued cooking. “Tell him I’ll be out as soon as I can. And give him a drink on the house.”
“He’s not drinking.”
Tatum’s eyebrows arched, but she didn’t comment. For all she knew, the man could be in recovery. “All right, then, a free appetizer. Provided you’re certain he’s not a salesman looking to hit us up on a buy.”
“Definitely no salesman vibe with this guy.” The grin on Susan’s face had Tatum biting back a smile of her own. “He is seriously h-o-t hot. Just so you know ahead of time.”
“Noted for future reference.” Tatum chuckled and reached for the bowl of fresh tomatoes one of her prep chefs had placed nearby. Adding a stop at the bar to her mental list of the usual table rounds, Tatum refocused and worked her way through the continuous run of orders.
Whoever the man was, he was just going to have to wait.
Detective Cruz Medina of the Chicago Police Department nursed his club soda with lime in what had to be a glass made from actual clear-cut crystal. From his seat at the bar, he admired the pristine, oversize cubes mingling about the sparkling liquid. The interplay of clear lines and vibrant colors was reflected in the decor of True, Tatum Colton’s upscale, trendy and somewhat pricey restaurant.
Glass and silver fused with displays of lush greenery that brought in a feel of the outside. Clearly a renovated warehouse, he thought, as he surveyed the high ceilings and walls covered in geometric greens and gold that added to the relaxed atmosphere currently on display in the packed house.
Normally he’d have turned down the hostess’s offer of a free appetizer while he waited. He was more a pizza and wings kind of guy, but that was because of convenience and a lack of time. After perusing the menu she handed him, he figured he may as well experience what the other half did, and ordered the fried calamari and lemon garlic aioli.
If his normal attire of slacks and loose-fitting T-shirt were out of place, he wasn’t made to feel that way. The bartending staff was polite and welcoming, as were the servers who moved as if they had wings on their feet. Their uniforms looked surprisingly comfortable. Dark slacks, white shirts under tasteful floral ones in the same natural tones as the decor. Deep-pocketed aprons held everything from small tablet computers for order taking, and biodegradable straws upon request, to packets of crayons for the few tables where children were handed their own miniature coloring books.
As far as Cruz could tell, True ran smoothly, effortlessly and without drama.
Which made it the perfect cover for illegal activity.
He sipped his soda, shifted around on his stool and scanned the crowd behind him in the mirrored shelves of the bar. He had yet to decide on what tactic he was going to take when it came to talking to owner Tatum Colton. It wasn’t going to be an easy conversation, however he approached it. Also, the timing could be better. Given everything the Colton family was going through right now, with the still unsolved killing of Ms. Colton’s father and her uncle, this wasn’t the best time to present her with his suspicions about her business. But he had a case to solve, and every day he didn’t, more addicts stayed on the street and more people became victims of overdose. More families suffered.
The murder of twin brothers Alfred and Ernest Colton had rocked Chicago to its foundation. There were plenty of wealthy residents in the city who wielded their power and finances like weapons, but not the Coltons, and certainly not the brothers. While Cruz had never met either man personally, he was acquainted with plenty of people who had, and their impressions went a long way in telling Cruz what kind of people they really were. The Colton brothers had been good people. Solid people.
And their loss was felt well beyond the borders of their family and friends.
Still... Cruz couldn’t turn his cop brain off long enough to avoid considering if Tatum Colton was involved with the drug trade in the city, and whether she was somehow responsible for her loved ones’ deaths. The idea sounded as ridiculous as it had the first time it slipped through his mind, but it still left a thread, however thin, of doubt. Until they were cleared, he didn’t consider anyone free of suspicion.
Right now the Coltons were a grieving family, and while Cruz didn’t want to pile on to an already difficult situation, he had an investigation to finish. An investigation that had already cost people he cared about far too much.
“Ms. Colton should be out in a few minutes.” The elegant-looking hostess who had set him up at the bar returned with his appetizer. She was tall, on the curvy side, and wore her copper-highlighted red hair plank straight down her back. “Are you certain it’s something I can’t help you with?”
“I’m certain, thank you.” He offered his most charming and understanding smile to the pretty young woman before glancing at her name tag. “I know she’s busy.”
“Busy is her eternal state,” Susan said with a friendly laugh. “She’ll be checking in on her dinner guests first, but she knows you’re here. Is there anything else I can get you?”
“No, thanks,” Cruz said. “I think I’ve got enough to feed a small army.” One thing was for certain, he thought, as he focused on the plate brimming with golden, crispy-fried goodness in front of him. True fed to impress. He was not a fan of those “art meals” where the presentation looked as if it took a special design degree to construct. The portions here weren’t stylishly scant, but bountiful and appealing and served on heavy, substantial, pristine white plates which made the food the star of the show. The restaurant’s dedication to fresh, farm-to-table provisions was more than evident and a testament to why this place had helped revitalize a once forgotten area of the city.
One taste set his taste buds to singing. Any longing he’d had for a cheese-laden cardboard box delivery vanished as he ate. Enjoyed. And watched.
Curiosity, Tatum had to admit, got the better of her by the time she took her front-of-house break. Break was such a misnomer. She wouldn’t stop until after she got home well after midnight. Most nights she wasn’t in bed until after two. While her happy place was in front of the stove, with a knife in her hand, or creating new recipes, she knew that interacting with her customers was just as important as the food she served them.
“Showtime,” she whispered as she let down her hair, changed into a clean jacket and headed out the swinging doors into the main dining room. Faces familiar and new moved in and out of focus as she greeted those who chose to spend time in her creation, feeding both their bodies and their souls with her food. The feedback on the meals was valuable of course, but this was also a way for Tatum to check and make sure everyone was having a good time and to put a face behind the experience. She wanted them all to feel as if they were at home.
When she had worked her way to the tables by the front door, she glanced at Susan, who inclined her head toward the bar. Tatum gave a short nod, and letting her gaze drift to the upper platform, scanned the line of stools and their occupants with practiced ease.
She’d have noticed the man even if he hadn’t requested a conversation. Who was she kidding? She resisted the urge to pat her suddenly warm cheeks. She’d have noticed him if he’d been standing in the middle of a crowd.
In Tatum’s experience, there were men who commanded attention. There were men who captured a woman’s gaze as ferociously as a hunter caught his prey. And then there were men like the one sitting at her bar: the kind of man who turned a woman’s normally locked-down, practical mind toward spinning images of very intimate, almost erotic encounters.
She shook her head as if trying to dislodge the thoughts. Not an easy task, considering those dark, fathomless eyes had found her as if she’d been a beacon he’d instantly honed in on.
Tatum let out a long, slow breath, bade good evening to the last group of guests and made her way toward the bar.
Everything around her faded into silence. He lowered his feet to the floor, stood to his full six-foot height and had her inching her chin up to meet his eyes. Shaggy dark hair brushed against his shoulders. His brown skin was accented by a neatly trimmed beard and mustache that outlined full, rounded lips and camouflaged a jawline indicating not only stubbornness, but determination. His body was trim, streamlined and inappropriately tempting beneath his dark slacks and shirt, which showed off biceps that spoke of an attention both to fitness and a woman’s intimate desires.
He was, Tatum thought in the moment before he took her hand, a man who could make a woman forget everything about her life before he walked into it.
“Ms. Colton?” His voice was as smooth as the imported cognac she kept in stock for her most discerning customers. “Cruz Medina. I appreciate you taking some time. I know how busy you are.”
“Always happy to speak with one of my customers.” She motioned for him to take his seat, then slid in between him and the empty stool beside him. Resting her arm on the edge of the bar, she gave him her full attention. “I see you chose the calamari. Did you enjoy it?”
“I haven’t had better since I was in San Francisco,” he said, his eyes twinkling with something akin to mischief. No doubt he was well aware of the effect he had on women. Or, Tatum thought, her specifically. “I appreciate the service and the experience.”
“That’s what we are here for.” Pride had her steeling her shoulders. “Is there something I can help you with, Mr. Medina?”
“There is.” He wiped his mouth, pushed his empty plate away and reached into his back pocket. When he flipped open his wallet, Tatum found herself looking down at a shiny gold badge. Her heart did an odd ka-thump in her chest as the breath left her lungs. “It’s Detective Medina, actually. I’m here to ask you about the drugs being run through your restaurant.”
