“Hello, Sterling. I am Detective Mason, thank you for sitting down with me today. Let’s get right into it. I understand they call you ‘the Baker’.”
Mason set down a glass of water in front of his subject at the table and met his eyes. He made sure the other was watching as he hit the ‘stop’ button on the recording device and nonchalantly sat in the chair opposite of his detainee.
The Baker snorted at him.
“What’s so funny?”
“Do all your witnesses fall for that trick, you turning off a tape recorder?”
The detective shrugged. “It was worth a shot.” It really was. Never know when a witness could pop just with a little theatrics.
“I’ll help you take out a bit of guesswork for you here, then.” The Baker’s thumb knuckle rapped against the metal table with obnoxious confidence. “I know there’s at least two other devices rigged in the walls here for recording. Your little theater magic may work on bank robbers…” He reached into his coat pocket, producing a toothpick which he stuck between his teeth and continued on. “… but I’m not a bank robber. I’m a partner of luxury heist enterprises.” There was a self satisfied twitch of the pick at the corners of his mouth. Not quite a smile, but perhaps a smug grimace.
Detective Mason grinned and leaned forward with an eager glint in his eye. “As a reminder, I have the privilege of extending to you total anonymity.”
“So I’ve been told.” The Baker’s tapping persisted. The digit was one bone short, making it an oddly incomplete stub of a thumb and only adding to the curiosity of the man’s absentminded tic. Mason’s dossier was filled with observations of the man, like the one about the toothpicks, too. For someone apparently so interested in everything high class, Sterling Oates had strange little oddities that told a different story.
“So… how exactly did you pull off that heist?”
The tapping slowed, and the Baker’s mouth really did turn into a smile then. “Do you like cheese, son?”
“Cheese?” A signature topic for the Baker, according to the notes.
“You heard me.” The tapping resumed.
“Sure, sure, I like cheese.” The detective answered. The dossier had warned that Oates would probably talk about food. No one was ever sure if it was some kind of riddle or what, but the man loved food, and all that took was one look at him. Sterling Oates was… robust. One of the reasons why he couldn’t possibly have pulled off the grab at the museum by himself.
“I bet you’re a Swiss kind of guy.” It wasn’t a question.
Mason spread his hands up in resignation. “Guilty as charged.” This was going to take a while. Every fatcat liked his ego pet before giving up some information. Gotta play the game.
“Me, I’m more of a ragusano man.” He dug in his teeth for a moment with the pick and gave a satisfied grunt as he examined the pick and stuck it back into his mouth. “With a beautiful salami on a fresh ciabatta roll? Mmph.” His eyes rolled in appreciation at the thought, apparently. “Come into my shop on a Wednesday and I’ll serve it to you myself.”
Mason’s stomach protested to think of the same thing. Lunch was too far away and the witness was already planning Second Breakfast. He opened the dossier on the table and flicked out a print to Oates. “You know these guys?”
Oates pushed one of his chins forward, eyeing the photo with feigned disinterest. “Meunster guy, Cheddar guy, Colby Jack guy, and Lactose Intolerant guy.” He shrugged noncommittally. “I’ve seen ‘em.”
Mason flicked out another print, this one showing the guards waving in a catering truckload of suspects. “How’d you get past security?”
“I fed them.”
“Without credentials?”
“It’s all about the food. No one does well on an empty stomach, kid.”
“You’re telling me that’s how you’re involved? You feed them.” Mason repeated, letting the annoyance creep into his voice as he stood.
“Everyone needs to eat!” A couple of the Baker’s chins quivered.
Mason pushed another photo towards him. This one was a little tougher to fit into the puzzle. “We know this was stolen from the museum. What’s in the crate?” The wooden box in the photo was carried by Meunster, and Colby Jack guy.
“I don’t ask questions, Spook. I bake things, I feed people. Asking questions isn’t what I’m hired for.”
“Come on, Sterling, we both know that’s not true.”
The Baker sighed. “It’s Serbian. Imported. Very rare…. “ Perhaps Mason was finally going to get a real answer afterall. “… Pule. Donkey’s milk made ambrosia.” The Baker sighed another obnoxiously satisfied sigh.
The detective blinked. “You’re talking about cheese again.” … this was not the answer he was hoping for.
“But of course! You think I have any interest in old museum junk? You know how hard it is to import this stuff?” He snapped back at Mason. “It takes nearly seven gallons of milk to make 2 pounds of cheese!”
“You’re telling me you broke into National Gallery for cheese.”
It was the Baker’s turn to spread his hands in defeat. “Look buddy, I don’t know what you want from me. I feed people. Sometimes it’s the best food they’ve ever eaten, sometimes it’s laced with drugs to make them go nighty-night. Sometimes people just bring me along for the ride because I bring heist snacks.”
As if to illustrate his point he produced a deli sandwich wrapped in butcher paper from his jacket pocket. Despite his revulsion, Mason’s stomach once again reminded him how far away lunch was. The Baker’s revelation could nearly be believed, if he was now mowing down as a form of stress eating. It wasn’t the worst theory.
Mason pulled his chair out so he could straddle it backwards and settled onto it, crossing his forearms casually. “Ok, Sterling. Tell me why this cheese.”
Sterling Oates, the Baker of London laughed heartily. Mason’s confusion deepened as the man’s hooting laughter shook his belly and tears started to sprout from the corner of his eyes. Several moments passed as the roaring amusement continued… Mason wondered if he had missed something in the dossier… maybe his witness was a little cracked.
After long last the guffaws came under control. “Oh, Squirt, if I know one thing in this life, it’s ‘happy wife, happy life’.” He wiggled his stump of a thumb at Mason, and the detective raised his brow quizzically, now at a complete loss.
The Baker gave another hoot of amusement and leaned forward confidingly. “I’ll do a lot of things to keep the Missus happy, you see.”
Maybe it was time to add a note about the witness’s stability. “What’s this got to do with donkey cheese?” “It’s pule,” the Baker corrected. He wiped away some moisture from his eyes, suppressing another wave of chuckles. “You see… my wife has cravings.”