Chapter 4: Meat for the Gods

"Price, you know how hard it is to tell kraft paper from brown cloth? And you took it? Who does that?"

"Don’t be so cocky, daring to stir up trouble on the boss’s head."

Wallace was a Northerner, but used a Chicago accent to seem friendly. Gave me a headache. I took the box from him.

At the bottom, under the brown velvet, was a narrow strip of kraft paper.

On it: ‘Pembroke and Dorsey bone china, please accept.’ Looks like their heads had been found. The Weed Puller could make bone china.

The Weed Puller’s image grew clearer. My mood got heavier. The case was heading where I didn’t want it to go.

Wallace handed me a cigarette. Asked about the case. Hinted I should catch the Weed Puller. Fast. Bring him in, or kill him. Just get rid of him.

Wallace was blunt. Violent. Had no idea what we were up against.

First step—find out what they ate. And who the third guest was.

Sent Tyler to get Martin and the chef. Bring them in for coffee.

Martin said the chef was gone. Dismissed. Nowhere to be found.

In the interrogation room, Martin stared at his shoes. Eyes darting.

Took a long drag. Burned it to the butt. Snuffed it out on the table.

"So, Martin, you packed your bags?"

Tyler said if we’d been later, Martin would’ve run.

Martin wiped sweat from his forehead. Forced a smile. ‘My mother’s sick. Just going home to visit.’

Gut said he was hiding something.

"Martin, let’s cut the crap. Tell the truth. Every word." I tapped the whip on the table.

Martin nodded. Sweat pouring again.

"Martin, did Pembroke’s second guest show up that night?"

"No one came, Detective. That’s the truth. A servant said the other guest had urgent business. Pembroke wasn’t happy."

Did Martin really not know? Or was he scared? Was the third guest a business partner, or the Weed Puller? I’d have to check.

Next question.

"Martin, what is ‘Steamed Yaya Meat’?"

Pointed at the menu.

Martin forced a smile. "Detective Price, you ate this dish at Lexington Grill a month ago."

A month ago, Wallace dragged me to a dinner at Lexington. Pembroke hosted. New dish, he said. Unique in Chicago.

I remembered the yaya meat. Tender. Sweet. Unlike anything I’d had. I had seconds.

I asked the name. Got a few looks. Didn’t ask again.

At those dinners, nobody asked questions. Didn’t want to look stupid.

"Cut the crap. What’s it really made of? Don’t give me venison. Tell me the truth." I raised my voice.

"You sure you want to know, Detective?" Martin hesitated.

"Is it gator meat?" I sneered.

Not falling for it. I’m not a fool.

"Yaya meat—as in ‘yaya,’ the sound a child makes when learning to talk."

"What do you mean? Cold sweat on my back."

"Detective Price, have you heard of ‘dish people’?"

"What people?" My face twitched.

"In bad years, the rich keep people at home. For guests. Slaughtered and cooked like chickens. Usually kids or women—meat’s more tender."

No need to ask about the other dishes. ‘Child Worshipping Buddha.’ ‘Heart of an Infant.’ ‘Three Feet Never Old Soup.’ The ingredients were obvious.

I vomited. Wished I could spit blood. Pulled my gun. Cocked it. Kicked over the chair. Stepped on Martin. Pressed the gun to his head.

"I’ll kill you black-hearted beasts."

Gun glinted in the light. My eyes bloodshot.

Martin wet himself. Collapsed like mud.

"Detective, it wasn’t me. It was all Pembroke and Dorsey..."

The guard rushed in. Pulled me back.

"Boss, calm down. Not worth it for a small fry like him."

No wonder about the cages. Lexington, Pembroke, Dorsey—all had them.

No wonder the Weed Puller cut open their stomachs and took away all the food.

No wonder he killed those two rich and powerful diners so cruelly.

So that’s it.

Back at the office, Hannah was already waiting.

Rubbed my temples. Slumped into my chair.

"Hannah, tell Chief Wallace I don’t want to follow this case anymore. Let him find someone else."

I’m one of the few who can sketch a suspect from clues. That’s why Wallace wanted me on this. The victims were officials. The brass wanted the Weed Puller, no matter what.

But now, I almost want to thank him. Strange, huh?

"Price, have you been taking your medicine lately?" Hannah stared at me.

"I’ve been taking it for five years. Can’t I take a break?"

"No." Hannah was firm.

"I promised the Colonel I’d keep an eye on you. Neither of us wants to let him down, right?"