Chapter 5 - The Chef's Bargain
Across town, in the brightly lit interrogation room of the precinct, Executive Chef Hector Vance sat nervously tapping his fingers against the stainless-steel table. His chef's jacket, usually pristine, was stained with spilled red wine from the chaos of the reception hall.
The door swung open, and Detective Miller walked in, tossing a thick manila folder onto the table before taking a seat.
"Well, Chef Hector," Miller said, leaning back and crossing his arms. "You're having a wonderful evening. Let's recap: we have kitchen security footage of you slipping a white powder into the bride's champagne flute. We have a bank routing number showing a deposit of seven million dollars originating from an account controlled by Beatrice Vance. And we have your bartender ready to testify that you specifically ordered that glass reserved for Clara Sterling."
Hector swallowed hard, his throat dry as sandpaper. "I... I want a lawyer."
"You can have three lawyers," Miller replied evenly. "But right now, accessories to premeditated murder facing first-degree conspiracy charges typically get life without parole. Unless, of course, they decide to cooperate and explain the full scope of the operation before the prosecutor signs the indictment."
Hector looked down at his trembling hands. The seven million dollars sitting in his offshore account felt remarkably heavy right now—so heavy it was about to drag him straight to the bottom of the ocean.
"I didn't want to do it," Hector whispered, his voice trembling.
"People rarely do. But they do it anyway when the zeros on the check get big enough. Talk to me, Hector. Who else was involved?"
"Just Beatrice," Hector confessed, his defenses entirely crumbling. "She approached me three months ago. She said Clara was blocking a major corporate merger that would triple the Vance family holdings. She said Clara needed to 'disappear' quietly before she could consolidate full voting power of Sterling Logistics at the annual shareholder meeting next month."
"And the poison?"
"A fast-acting neurotoxin," Hector admitted, squeezing his eyes shut in shame. "Asymptomatic for twenty minutes, mimics a sudden, fatal cardiac arrest. Medical examiners wouldn't have flagged it unless they specifically ran a heavy-metal and alkaloid screen—which Beatrice assured me nobody would order for a healthy thirty-two-year-old bride who 'collapsed of natural causes' on her wedding night."
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Detective Miller pulled a digital audio recorder from his pocket, pressing stop. He looked at the chef with a cold, unimpressed stare.
"Well, Hector, your honesty is touching. Unfortunately for you, conspiracy to commit murder still carries a mandatory minimum sentence. But at least you'll have plenty of time to practice your culinary skills in the prison cafeteria."
