“Are you threatening me?” Cindy lunged forward, skinny body flexing like a viper preparing to strike. “I know why you are harassing me.”

“Neither Agent Heartman nor myself is attempting to harass you. All we’d like to do is have a look at where you do your butchering. That’s all.” Keith kept his tone calm, businesslike. “We can go get a warrant if you like, but all I need to do is look at your product.”

“Well, you can’t.” Cindy crossed her arms, raising her chin triumphantly. “I won’t let you because I don’t have to and you know it.”

Keith shrugged. “If that’s the way you want to play it, ma’am, then we will. I’ll be back with a warrant, a health inspector, and a representative from the state liquor board. I might bring an auditor just to get it all over with at once.” He turned and started toward the door. He needed to get out of this joint anyway. The smell of char-grilled meat was beginning to seriously nauseate him. He saw a slight motion out of the corner of his eye.

“Son of a bitch!” With a jangle of expensive bangles Bullock smashed her fist directly into his jaw. He staggered back a step, pain exploding through the side of his face. In a moment, Gunther had caught her right arm, but she still lashed out with her left, raking her nails across his neck.

“That is really uncalled for, ma’am,” Gunther said, tightly twisting her arm around her back and slapping one handcuff on. He caught hold of her left hand and managed to get it in the cuff, but Bullock bolted. Keith stuck out a foot and hooked her ankle. She went down, screaming and cursing, on the damp tiled floor. Gunther wasted no time; he cuffed her ankles, then brought them up and hogtied her.

The kitchen had gone silent as the whole kitchen crew gaped at the scene. The dishwasher seemed to be working hard to suppress a smile.

Gunther leaned down and said very loudly and very close to her ear, “You are under arrest for assaulting a federal officer.” Then, to Keith, he said, “You want to go have that look around now or wait till the police get here?”

“Yeah, sure.” His jaw throbbed. He glanced at the dishwasher. “Show me to the meat locker, kid.”

The dishwasher led the way back into the kitchen. They passed a busy line of grills. Flames and smoke leaped and billowed around the cooks as they tended the orders. Then they entered the back kitchen—a small, clean space whose walls were lined with steel prep tables and banks of shelves holding dry goods.

“The big one’s right there.” Tentatively the dishwasher pointed back toward a heavy door. “But there’s another smaller one for the really expensive steaks that’s padlocked.”

“Who’s got the key?”

“It’s a combo lock.” This came from a burly Black guy who had followed them from the line. Keith thought he might be the head grill man. “Ms. Bullock is the only one who knows it.”

“Of course it is.”

After a wait of approximately ten minutes, Portland Police Bureau arrived with a car to transport Ms. Bullock and a pair of bolt cutters for the padlock. Being a member of the strike force, Gunther could have probably performed a spell to open it, but there were far too many bystanders and it was just easy to use a human tool. By the time PPB carried Bullock away, the deep bruise on Keith’s jaw had begun to darken, but he refused to show any pain in front of the restaurant’s staff. There was still no way to tell where any of their allegiances lay.

Keith entered the meat locker. He already felt ill. Very quickly he found himself fighting to avoid retching. Two naked bodies hung suspended upside down from chains, throats cut, blood collecting in buckets on the floor.

To the left, on a stainless steel rack, were more remains. This one had been skinned, cut apart at the joints, and separated into several metal hotel pans, but Keith recognized the anatomy immediately.

Gunther’s cookie search had led them straight to the abattoir. Plainly, the butchering had taken place here. For all his commentary about humans not abandoning their carnal pleasures easily, Keith would have never seriously thought that Bullock’s wife would have the sheer stupidity to continue her Thyestean feasting after her husband had been caught. Yet, here she was.

Keith stepped back outside for some air. Gunther waited outside.

“From your face I gather that you’ve found something?”

“Have a look for yourself,” Keith suggested.

Gunther held up a demurring hand. “I trust you. What do you want to do now?”

Keith scanned the faces of the kitchen staff and of the servers who were looking anxiously on. It would be impossible for all of members of staff to be innocent. Cindy Bullock’s manicure made it clear that she never picked up a kitchen knife.

“Put a uniform on this door, clear the dining room, and call for a paddy wagon. We’re detaining and questioning all staff. We’ll also need to find the names of any not on shift tonight and have PPB bring them down to the station. Particularly the butchers. Someone with skills skinned those carcasses. I’m thinking we’re looking for one front of the house person and one or two members of kitchen staff who were in on it with Ms. Bullock.”

Gunther gave a slight salute and departed the back kitchen. Keith walked up to the line but didn’t walk through. Each and every one of those five guys had at least one knife. Plus, they’d be more cooperative if he respected both their territory and hierarchy. He held up his badge. “My name is Keith Curry. I’m a federal agent. Who is the person in charge here?”

Unsurprisingly, it was the Black guy who had spoken first. His name turned out to be Baratunde and he was the chef. He outweighed Keith by at least forty pounds but seemed overall even tempered. “I need to ask you to shut this down and bring your people out to the dining room to be interviewed.”

“What about the tickets?” He indicated the unmade orders with a wave of his tongs.

Keith shook his head. “Shut it down. For tonight, anyway. We’re already clearing the customers. This is a crime scene.”

The other man nodded slowly. Behind him, Keith could see one of the cooks texting someone. “And I’m going to ask to hold your phones for the time being, starting with his.”

Baratunde whipped his head around to fix the young cook with a glare. “Damn it, Jesse. Bring that here. Haven’t you got any sense?”

Jesse cowered as he handed over the phone. “I was just texting my girlfriend to say I’d be late, chef.”

“Your woman can wait.”

Keith found it sentimentally amusing that as an agent he inspired less fear than the chef.

Baratunde collected the phones into a square plastic refrigerator insert. As he handed them to Keith, he said, “Jesse’s just a dumb kid, sir. He wasn’t trying to disrespect you.”

“Sure, I understand.” He waved the chef into the back kitchen where they could have relative privacy.

“I’m going to ask you straight out. Have you ever been in this locker?”

“No, sir. It’s Ms. Bullock’s private refrigerator. No staff is allowed in there.”

Keith leaned back against a stainless steel prep table. “You and I both know that somebody must be allowed in. Ms. Bullock is not cooking for herself.”

This drew a slight smile from Baratunde.

“Not my staff.” The chef’s tone was final. “None of my boys have ever stepped foot in there.”

“Who then?”

“There’s a private catering company that uses this space on Monday nights when the restaurant is closed. Forbidden Pleasures, I think they’re called.”

Of course, Keith thought. “Do they share all this equipment?”

The chef nodded. “It’s part of their rental contract. They clean up fine, but they’re hell on the knives.”

“Do you have contact information for this company?”

“No, sir. We’re not allowed on the property on Mondays. Not even me.”

“Did you ever think that maybe Ms. Bullock was hiding something?”