Killer Gourmet by G.A. McKevett Page B

of his clothing.
    â€œI don’t know why we have to talk,” he said to Dirk. “We already talked last night. I told you all I know. I know nothing.”
    â€œSo you said before.” Dirk pulled out the chair between Savannah and Manuel and sat down. He leaned back a bit and clasped his hands behind his head. Immediately, Savannah recognized the gesture. It was his pseudocasual pose, the one he used when he was the most stressed.
    Detective Sergeant Coulter took his interrogations very seriously. Almost as seriously as food and sex—but not quite.
    Dirk made no effort to conceal the fact that he was studying every aspect of Manuel Cervantes’s appearance and demeanor. His eyes raked his possible suspect from head to toe, leaving nothing unscrutinized.
    Fully aware of the attention he was being paid, Manuel squirmed on his chair and tightened his arms across his chest.
    â€œHere’s the thing,” Dirk continued. “Something told me in my gut that you had a few more things to say to me. I think we have some unfinished business, you and me.”
    â€œLike what?” the young man asked.
    â€œThat’s what we’re here to find out.” Dirk took his notebook from his pocket along with a ballpoint pen. He flipped it open and with great deliberation made quite a show of reading his previous notes.
    Many times Savannah had watched him do this with a blank piece of paper. The thoughtful frown, the occasional nod, and more disturbing, the deeply troubled scowl while slowly shaking his head at something mysterious that seemed to bother him on a deep, soulful level.
    â€œYou told me last night that the three of you—you, Carlos, and that Francia gal—were in the alley together. You said that none of you left the others’ sight. Not even for a minute.”
    Manuel uncrossed his arms and grabbed the sides of the seat he was sitting upon with both hands. Savannah looked closely and saw that he was, indeed, quite literally “white-knuckling” it.
    She could certainly understand why Dirk was suspicious. An interrogator might not always know the exact truth, but there were some pretty clear, telltale signs that indicated you’re being lied to.
    Three of the most common indications are excessive fidgeting, avoiding eye contact, and more sweat on one’s brow than could be blamed on the stuffy, overheated little room.
    Manuel was exhibiting all three and more. His hands were shaking, and his deeply tanned face had taken on a pale, gray pallor.
    â€œYou might as well tell me the truth,” Dirk said. “Because I know for a fact that you weren’t all three out there together the whole time the chef was getting murdered. And you acting like you were—that just makes me all the more suspicious. Understand?”
    Savannah never fail to be amazed by the ease with which Dirk could tell bold-faced lies to potential perpetrators. For a guy who stammered and stuttered when questioned about a broken water glass at home, for a fellow who turned red in the face when trying to hide any secret—even those completely innocent ones concerning birthday and Christmas gifts—Dirk could lie his bo-hunkus off on the job without the slightest twitch to give him away.
    â€œI don’t know what you mean,” Manuel told him with less than convincing sincerity. “The chef, he was alive when we left the kitchen. He was eating the leftover food, like he always does. We went into the alley, around toward the side of the building. We smoked our cigarettes. When we came back inside, he was dead.”
    â€œExcept that you weren’t all three out there the whole time,” Dirk said. “Either you’re covering for someone else, or they’re covering for you. Which is it?”
    Frantically, Manuel glanced around the room, then stared down at the floor, as though he wished it would open up and swallow him. “I know nothing. That is all I can