French Pressed by Cleo Coyle

accurately, a French knife. It’s one of the most commonly used tools in food preparation.”
    Salinas raised a bushy eyebrow. “And you know this because you’re a cook, like your daughter?”
    “I know my way around a professional kitchen,” I replied, “but I’m not a formally trained chef. I know a lot about knives simply because last Christmas I wanted to buy my daughter a very special chef’s knife as a present. And I wanted to find her a really good one.”
    Salinas opened his mouth.
    “And before you ask, this is not my daughter’s knife sticking out of the dead man.”
    “You’re sure?”
    “I’m not an idiot, Lieutenant. It’s obvious my daughter’s your prime suspect.”
    “The victim was a cook, right—”
    “An aspiring chef,” I corrected.
    “Yeah, well, he’s an expiring chef now,” Salinas cracked.
    The uniformed officer and the photographer both laughed. Even Dr. Neeravi smiled. Gallows humor, I thought. Mike Quinn told me it was common at crime scenes—helped relieve the tension. It failed to relieve mine.
    “This might be Vinny’s knife,” I suggested. “You could look around, find his kit, check to see if the chef’s knife’s missing.”
    “Thanks for the suggestion,” Salinas replied. “But you’re a little late.”
    “I don’t understand,” I replied.
    “We’re not idiots, either. We found the dead man’s chef kit on the table. All the knives are there.”
    “So you’re telling me that the killer brought the knife?” I asked.
    “That’s our theory,” Salinas answered. “At ten inches, that’s not an easy knife to hide. But it’s November. People are wearing long sleeves, big coats—” He gestured to my parka.
    “I didn’t kill him, either.”
    The lieutenant rolled his eyes, faced the doctor. “What about blood? Would the killer get hit with spray?”
    Dr. Neeravi nodded. “Blood would most definitely strike the killer. It’s like slicing a tomato—some juice is bound to squirt at you.”
    Another pleasant image… “Excuse me,” I interrupted. “But unless I’m completely wrong here, there’s no blood on Joy’s clothing.” I pointed to my daughter peeking out from the kitchen doorway. She’d remained silent and still through everything, sobbing silently and wiping her eyes. “She’s wearing a white turtleneck,” I pointed out. “Don’t you think splattered blood would have been a tad obvious?”
    “Take it easy,” Salinas told me. “There are indications the killer cleaned up after the deed. Towels in the sink, stuff like that. And she could have had a smock or coat, extra clothes and shoes, that she discarded before calling you and us.”
    “Well, I know my daughter, and I know she could never, not in a million years, do something as brutal as this. I think you know that, too. So I’d like to take her home now—”
    “Not yet,” the detective shot back.
    I stepped close. “Not even if I give you the name of a real suspect?” I whispered. “Someone who worked in close proximity with the victim and had a grudge against him?” I met Lieutenant Salinas’s gaze. “Not even if I give you someone who’s also been known to attack her fellow workers with a chef’s knife, and did exactly that earlier this evening? Because I witnessed it.”
    The room went completely silent. Salinas and the uniformed cop exchanged glances. Then the detective-lieutenant’s bushy eyebrows rose.
    “Damn, Ms. Cosi. I’m all ears.”

E IGHT
    D ESPITE my extremely helpful cooperation with the authorities, Lieutenant Salinas refused to release Joy from informal custody until almost three thirty in the morning. He grilled her, took fingerprints, and had a policewoman search Joy’s person and clothing for any clues he could find.
    After that, I put my foot down and demanded Salinas release Joy, which he did. To the detective’s credit, Salinas realized how hard it would be for Matt, Joy, and me to hail a taxi in this part of Queens in the middle of