Page 11 of Tied Over

“Ghost peppers,” he replied as if bespelled.

“Is that a good idea? It looks kinda dangerous.”

“No, it’s great.”

I glanced at Miro, checking to see if he looked concerned, and found him squinting, probably from the fumes getting in his eyes. I returned my gaze to Ian. “Aren’t ghost peppers the ones chefs have to wear respirators when they cook with them?”

“I’ve never heard that,” Ian said, “but Jameson Reyes did say it was one of the hottest things he’d ever eaten.”

“The Jameson Reyes?” I was stunned.

“Who’s Jameson Reyes?” both Miro and Washington asked.

“Who’s Jameson Reyes?” Ian and I answered, both horrified.

“I hate it when you do that,” Miro told us.

“He’s the guy on the Food Channel,” Ian explained. “The one who travels around the country, trying all the hottest stuff. He went on that show Hot Ones and was good until almost the very end. When he was here in Chicago, he hit Fuego and had this very burrito and said it was certified Jameson Reyes perfection.”

I shook my head. “Don’t do it, man.”

“No, do it,” Washington encouraged him. “I wanna see.”

The door opened, and Jack Dorsey, another investigator, came in and took the seat across from Washington.

“You’re already done eating?” Miro asked him, looking stunned.

“If you grew up with five brothers, you’d eat fast too.”

“That must’ve been more inhaling than—did you even chew?” Miro wanted to know.

Dorsey grunted and looked at Washington. “You’re gonna need to talk to me while you eat so we can get this done. I need information and—the fuck are you eating?” he asked Ian.

“The Diablo from Fuego. It’s my burrito. I always eat this burrito.”

“Yeah, but what’s with the fumes?”

“Small room,” Miro told him.

“You’re gonna fuckin’ die eating like that,” Dorsey assured him.

“I’ll die happy, then,” Ian replied, taking another bite.

“Shit,” Dorsey grumbled, then looked back at Washington. “Okay, so anyway, we’re gonna start the intake paperwork, but you won’t actually be considered enrolled in witness protection until your status has been verified.”

“What does that mean?”

“Because you have yet to name names and tell your story to the appropriate people,” I explained, “you don’t qualify. We know you will, but dates and times need to be precise, and until you have your meeting, you’re not in WITSEC.”

Washington nodded. “I get it.”

As Dorsey began asking questions and Washington answered, other people filed in. Crouse, grinning, took a seat on my right as Washington was on my left. Jago Mabe, a detective from Narcotics we dealt with a lot, was there along with his partner, Roberto Salazar, Berto to all of us. They both seemed tired, as CPD detectives constantly did, but without exception, Salazar always looked better than Mabe. It could have been his sartorial flair—the man always appeared impeccable in his suits—or that his hair, shaved close to his head, never looked like his partner’s, a mane in wild disarray. He’d told me that with his mother being Black and his father Cuban, he was genetically gifted to look good all the time. And while I couldn’t argue the fact that the man was handsome, in comparison to Mabe, he never had to put in much effort.

If you thought about a narcotics detective, someone from TV or movies, that was what Mabe looked like. On all the cop shows, the guy in jeans with a leather jacket, unshaven, with hair that was far too long, who smelled like cigarette smoke, and who, when he didn’t have his Aviators on, had them on top of his head—that was Mabe. He was a walking, talking gritty stereotype of a character in a seventies cop procedural come to life. I had liked him right away.

“You’re eating without us?” Mabe groused at the room.

“Fuck off,” Ian told him.