Chapter 14 – Brooks
Chapter Fourteen
brOOKS
T he apartment complex where Felipe Wilson lives looks fancier than a sommelier at a steak house where you cook your own steak should be able to afford. I double-check the address the head chef at his restaurant gave me to make sure I’m at the right place.
The doorman isn’t sure of me.
“Brooks Neal of The Plate. I’m here to discuss a business deal with Mr. Wilson.” What kind of Felipe has the last name Wilson? Nothing about this guy adds up.
“He has a no visitors notice.”
“You married?” A glance at his left hand suggests he is.
“Yes.”
“Got an anniversary coming up?”
“Not for six months or so. Missus and I had a Christmas wedding so it’d be easy for me to remember.” He taps the side of his head.
“Smart.” I tap my fingers against my leg. The doorman doesn’t appear bribable. How else can I get into this building? What would Graham do? There’s no door closed for him. I return my attention to the doorman. “Is there a leasing office?”
”Yes.” There’s a wary note in his voice.
“I’m not trying to get you fired. You’re just doing your job, but I’m interested in a place here. Can you direct me to the person who’s in charge of that?”
“Just to get into Mr. Wilson’s apartment?” He arches an eyebrow.
“I have a recipe to share,” I reply, but the doorman’s no dummy.
He shakes his head but directs me to the management office.
There, the reception is different. I’m not only taken to see an empty apartment, but the manager, a fifty-year-old with two kids and a wife who likes to shop at designer stores, is more than happy to trade information about Felipe Wilson in exchange for a reservation at The Plate.
He also buys the story that Slater didn’t cheat. Or at least he pretends to believe it.
Wilson is not Spanish or Hispanic but some medley of European, mostly French, the manager thinks. He heard that Wilson had been able to put a down payment on a two-bedroom here. Word is that he is struggling and a couple months behind on his payments.
“Any reason why he’d be behind?” I ask as we walk toward Wilson’s place on the third floor. My mind starts conjuring up a bunch of different criminal scenarios. He defrauded someone in a fake wine selling scheme. He fleeced an old woman out of a money market account. Did Slater give him cash?
“He’s one of those influencers. Had a big rise in his followings and got endorsement money from some different wineries, but from what I’ve seen, his engagements have been way down since that initial big rise, which only came his way because he was dating that food critic, Slater Braxton, but his content isn’t as interesting.
” The manager shrugs and points to the apartment we’ve stopped in front of.
“Here you go. Let him know that we don’t like defaulters here. It’s not good for the image.”
“Will do.” I nod as if I’m some kind of bill collector.
“Congrats on your engagement.” The manager is lingering when he needs to be gone.
“Thanks.”
The man shifts from foot to foot and then finally pulls out a pen and a piece of paper. “Can you sign this? My wife will die.”
“Sure.” I’m standing in front of Wilson’s door. Giving an autograph is a small price. “What’s her name?”
“Angie. She’s a big fan. I wish I had your cookbook with me. She’s never made anything out of it, but she’s sure paged through it.”
“Bring it to the restaurant,” I say as I scrawl my name across the page. “I’ll sign it when you guys come by for dinner.”
“Really?”
“I don’t lie.” I give him a piercing look so he understands that I’m talking about more than a signed book. Slater is not a cheater, and if I have to go around this city and tell each and every person that, I will.
The manager nods in understanding and skips down the hall with the paper tucked into his pocket.
Immediately I start banging on the door. Wilson doesn’t answer on the first knock or the second one, but I can stand here all day if I need to, making a ruckus, embarrassing him in front of his neighbors. Finally, the door is wrenched open.
“Wha—“ he starts to say before I barge in, my hand on his throat.
I kick the door shut and back Wilson up against the wall. “Nod if you know who I am.”
Wilson nods.
“I don’t like what you’re saying about Slater on the internet. Make it stop.”
He spreads his hands from his sides as if to signal he’s helpless. He makes some gurgling sounds which I can’t interpret, so I ease up on his windpipe.
“Fuck man, what the hell? Do I look like I control what’s being said? It’s the fucking internet.”
I reapply the pressure. “You started it. You can put it out.”
He gasps out some words that I can’t make out and claws at my wrist. Disgusted, I release him. There are better ways to threaten this punk.
“Where are you going?” He scampers after me as I move toward the kitchen.
His place is one of those open plans, and the cooking space is clean and uncluttered.
The island is a different story. There are dozens of bottles, most of them empty.
A funnel and tube lies next to a red concoction in a pitcher.
Wine glasses are scattered throughout. A round donut-shaped light is clamped on one end of the counter, and a tripod without a camera is placed to the left.
His knife block appears as if it was just unwrapped from a home goods store a day ago.
I pull out the large chef’s knife and run my finger across the surface. Dull but serviceable for my needs.
I turn the tip down and drag it across the quartz counter top.
“You’re scratching my counter,” he cries, slapping his hands to his cheeks.
“Brother, I’m going to be scratching more than the counter in about two seconds if you don’t get on your phone and start fixing the problem.”