Eats to Die For! by Michael Mallory

“I’d have thought you would have learned that from your mother.”
    Had that been out loud ? my mind screamed a second later. Had I really thrown a Yo mama! into the face of a policeman who already wanted to kill me, and would probably get away with it if he did? What was wrong with me?
    Maybe you’re getting sick and tired of being pushed around , Bogie said forcefully. Great; that will be a great comfort as my head is being beaten into cranberry sauce.
    I swear at that moment Mendoza’s eyes turned crimson, like a horror movie special effect. He was not simply close now, he was doing that chest-bump intimidation move where you try and force the other guy to back up.
    He didn’t have to force. I backed up.
    â€œI should take you in right now,” he growled.
    â€œOn what grounds?” Willford was asking.
    Mendoza’s fists clenched. “Resisting arrest.”
    â€œBut sergeant—”
    â€œFine, take me in,” I told Mendoza. “I have a feeling I’d be safer down at the station than I am here with you. And while I’m there I can tell your captain what a charming and pleasant conversation we’ve been having.”
    I genuinely thought Mendoza was going to hit me, maybe even pull out his gun and shoot me. But Detective Willford once more stepped in and deflected the pending violence.
    â€œMaybe you should tell us about your relationship with the dead woman, sir,” he said in an even voice.
    I used the opportunity to turn and move away from Mendoza without making it look like a retreat.
    â€œWell, like I told you, there really wasn’t any relationship. I only met her one time. I barely knew her at all.”
    â€œThen why did you have her phone number?” Mendez snapped.
    â€œI found it online. She was a dancer, and her resume and contact info is all there for anyone to see. I didn’t even know her last name until I found it on the Net. How did she die, detective? I’m assuming foul play is suspected or else you two wouldn’t be investigating.”
    â€œYeah, foul play is suspected,” Mendoza said in a sing-song, mocking voice. “And I’ve got an assumption of my own.”
    â€œActually, Mr. Beauchamp, it’s going to take an autopsy to determine the exact cause of death,” Willford broke in. Either he was naturally polite or I was the birdie in a game of Good Cop/Bad Cop.
    â€œI see. So she wasn’t shot, stabbed or strangled.”
    The two detectives exchanged a glance, and Willford asked, “How did you know she wasn’t shot, stabbed or strangled?”
    â€œHow else?” Mendoza said. “Because he did it. He’s just confessed.”
    I directed my response to the younger, more reasonable detective.
    â€œI haven’t confessed to anything except having a sense of logic. Had Regina been shot or stabbed or strangled it would have been obvious, you would have seen it right away. An autopsy wouldn’t be required to determine cause of death.”
    â€œUnless she’d been all three,” Mendoza spat, “and we’d need the autopsy to find out which of those assaults proved fatal. Ever think of that, Einstein?”
    I hadn’t.
    â€œWas that the case?” I asked.
    Since neither answered immediately, I had to assume that it was not.
    Willford broke the silence by asking, “Care to tell us where you met the victim, sir?”
    â€œIt was at a Burger Heaven, the one they just opened on Ventura Boulevard in Sherman Oaks. She’d been hired to choreograph a bunch of people playing hamburger ingredients out on the street.”
    â€œYou want to give met that again?” Mendoza said.
    I explained the restaurant promotion as best I could, but even as I heard my words coming back it sounded pretty dopey.
    Finally, I said: “Look, you know those people you see on street corners who flip around a big arrow-shaped sign to announce the opening of a new