Ultimately, Cassel didn't get to enjoy the roast duck he'd been craving. A Chinese takeout restaurant from Chinatown once again provided him with his late-night snack, but Jack promised to make it for him sometime later.
The Wolfe brothers' farm raises a flock of Cherry Valley ducks, a cross between Peking and Ellisbury ducks, developed by a British company called Cherry Valley Farm.
These ducks have a higher lean content and grow faster than traditional Peking ducks. These days, most of the roast duck people in Serbia eat is actually made with Cherry Valley duck.
Barbecued pork wrapped in lettuce and crepes is a classic shawarma, and the pork knuckle rice is as popular as ever. Cassel, who didn't get to try the roast duck, devoured a roasted pigeon with relish.
Esposito, arriving late, stepped out of the elevator, inhaling the aroma of roasted meat that permeated the office, and instinctively clutched his rumbling stomach.
"Where have you been?" Beckett asked casually, chewing on a burrito while reading documents.
"Drinking coffee." Esposito took the beef dumplings from Jack, put them under his nose, and took a deep breath.
Kevin, already wiping his mouth with a tissue, was surprised by his answer. "All afternoon and half the evening drinking coffee?"
Esposito glared at him. "I found the cafe that Dr. Monroe frequents almost every day. It's right next to the Faircloth Hotel.
I showed the hotel manager her photo, and I learned that our victim comes to the hotel almost every Monday through Friday night and stays in a long-term rental suite."
Jack felt that things were getting more and more interesting. The Faircloth Hotel was not a cheap motel. Even a long-term rental suite would cost over $50,000 per month.
"No, the person renting the suite isn't a doctor, but Cesar Calderon." Esposito opened his computer and pulled up a file.
At the name, Cassel leaped up from his seat as if on springs. "Is that Calderón?"
"Do you know him?" Jack, startled by the guy, tossed him a pack of wet wipes, signaling him to wipe his greasy paws.
"Calderón was a famous Colombian drug lord from the 1990s, nicknamed 'The Devil.' While not as famous as 'Medellin' or 'Shorty Guzmán,' he was definitely notorious.
I've looked up some information about him for research, and I heard that after paying a large sum to escape the Colombian authorities' wanted list, he's been living in seclusion in New York."
Cassel's expression could only be described as beaming, his face brimming with gossip.
"A beautiful doctor and a drug lord meeting late at night, a healing angel and a crime-mongering devil spending the night together."
Someone's high spirits persisted until the next morning. As the three of them entered the elevator to the Fairclos Hotel's upper-floor suite, Cassel was still chattering non-stop.
"A well-known criminal living in a hidden suite in a high-end hotel, very Al Capone-style."
Jack resisted the urge to kick him out of the elevator and pressed the button for the 26th floor. He asked the long-legged beauty beside him, who was also speechless, "What do you think of this story about the doctor and the drug lord?"
"I don't know, but injecting air into the victim's neck doesn't seem like a drug lord's murder method." Beckett looked thoughtful.
Cassel raised a finger and said mysteriously, "Unless Calderon is deliberately trying to cover up his tracks and shift suspicion to the hospital staff to prevent the body from being discovered."
"Bad review, the plot is too convoluted." Jack's relentless disdain made Castle's face fall, and he looked pitifully at the beautiful detective.
Beckett suppressed a laugh and forced himself to ignore Castle's annoyed expression. "I just don't understand why a respected doctor would be willing to get involved with a notorious drug lord."
"That's part of the explanation," Castle boasted again. "Women don't love bad men unless they're bad."
Neither Jack nor Beckett objected to this.
The elevator door dinged open, and the three of them, one in front and two behind, exited into the hallway. Jack glanced down at the carpet; it was a dark red.
The upscale hotel, costing $1,600 a night, was decorated in a luxurious style, dominated by gold and red, giving it the air of a palace.
Castle continued to indulge in his creative inspiration. "'Devil' César Calderón, a supervillain, who knows what kind of world we're about to step into,"
he narrated in an aria, even politely pressing the doorbell for Beckett before continuing.
"A twisted, corrupt, and evil world."
"Would you like me to lend you a pistol for courage?" Jack successfully interrupted the man's rambling by lifting his coat to reveal his Sig Sauer sidearm.
Just then, the door opened, and a plain-looking Latino man in his forties appeared. He glanced at everyone with a wary look, his gaze fixed on the sidearm and police badge at Jack's waist.
Caesar Calderón, who must have been in his sixties, clearly didn't fit the description in the profile, so Jack introduced himself.
"Hello, sir. I'm Agent Jack Tavola. This is Detective Kate Beckett of the NYPD, and Richard Cassel. We're here to speak with Caesar Calderón."
The middle-aged Latino man, his guard down, forced a smile. "I'm sorry, but I think you've got the wrong room. I've never heard of a Caesar."
If his smile had been more genuine, Jack might have taken it at face value and taken another look at the room number, or perhaps suspected the hotel manager had given him the wrong information.
However, someone has never had much patience for drug dealers. If it weren't for the fact that he was just playing a crime-solving game with Cassel and trying to relax, even if that "devil" Caesar Calderon was now living legally in New York, he wouldn't mind visiting him at another time and under a different identity.
Just as Jack's face darkened and he narrowed his eyes dangerously, about to attack, a male voice with a heavy Spanish accent came from the room behind the middle-aged Latino man.
"Richard Cassel? Is that the famous writer, Richard Cassel?"
The voice was slightly weak, indicating that the speaker was not in good health, but it also had the tone of someone who had been in a superior position for a long time, like someone accustomed to giving orders.
"Let them in, Manolo, let them in."
Cassel's smug smile was harder to suppress than AK, his expression exactly like a commander who had dodged a bullet by shaking his head and successfully returned as a king.
(End of this chapter)