Devour

By David Temple

Master Chef Michael Rogan owns a world-renowned restaurant, is married to his college sweetheart, and has a daughter beginning college. His life is as picturesque as their mountaintop retreat overlooking the Golden Gate Bridge.

That is until Frederick Dalton, an old Army buddy turned Warden at San Quentin, drifts in from the past with an odd request. He will release Michael’s estranged father—serving time on Death Row for the murder of his wife 30 years ago—in exchange for one small favor. Michael declines.
Michael’s life is once again disrupted when his estranged brother Scott arrives unexpectedly looking for a job. Michael reluctantly agrees and things soon head sideways. Scott is found dead in the restaurant’s freezer, with a knife in his chest. Police want to believe Michael’s alibi, but the facts say otherwise.

Charged with murder, and facing his father’s same nightmarish confinement, Michael must face his worst nightmare before choosing how far he will go to regain his freedom.

• Language: English
• Publisher: David Temple
• Release date: Nov 5, 2020
• ISBN: 9781733091367

David Temple

David Temple has worked as a Morning Radio Host, an actor in TV & Film, and has had decades of experience as an international voiceover artist. His first book, Discovering Grace, was turned into the award-winning independent film, Chasing Grace, where it lives on Netflix, AmazonPrime, Pureflix, and in over 100 countries. The Carter Matheson Series features a retired special ops assassin who works to keep his family, friends and country out of harms way. The series includes: Lucky Strikes and Behind The 8 Ball. The third book, Knuckle Down, has recently been re-released after a major overhaul. David's latest character is Detective Pat Norelli, a rookie detective with beauty, brains and a determination to solve any case. The Poser is available now, and the sequel, The Impostor, is coming early 2021. David lives in San Diego with wife Tammy. Want to learn more and stay in touch, visit: DavidTempleBooks.com.

Book preview

Prologue

Michael whimpered in the dark, his shifting voice sputtered partial cries as he tried to man up. Man up now or you never will, his father’s voice echoed in his head. Touching his cheek, he could feel it had already begun swelling—the heat under the skin simmering like the hatred in his heart.

CRASH!

On the other side of the closet door, another dish shattered into pieces, followed by another terrifying scream. His mother sounded as though she were being beaten within an inch of her life—because she likely was.

A warm trickle crept into his mouth. He wiped his nose with his shirtsleeve, instinctively looking down, expecting to see bright red. But that was impossible because there were no lights in the confined space—nothing but woolen coats smelling of tobacco and moth balls, boots soaked with the fragrance of earth, spent rags consumed with the smell of grease, and slickers sticking to his back because of rising heat.

THUD!

His heart began to race. Imagining the worse, Michael began to panic. Instantly, panic bubbled into rage, and without caring what happened next, his fury exploded into a scream. It was a blood-curdling scream rising from the core of suppression. Eyes squeezed shut, Michael saw lights behind his lids as he continued screaming.

Shut the hell up in there or I’ll give you something to yell about!

But Michael did not stop screaming. Instead, he ignored the pulsating pain in his ribcage, sucked in the deepest breath possible, and released a scream so horrifying he frightened himself—his head shook, shoulders tightened, and his throat: raw.

Suddenly, the door whipped open. The motion was so swift and powerful the coats hanging above his head flew in the direction of the escaping door. Wire hangers spun on the wooden bar above his head before crashing to the floor. The light temporarily blinded him as he imagined an incoming fury putting an end to his screaming.

But it did not. And he would not.

In fact, his screaming continued as though it were the last noise he would make, one the neighbors would never forget. Aware of more impending punishment, he impulsively raised his left arm, guarding his face a split second before a crushing blow connected with bone.

SNAP! like a dead tree limb.

The pain was unimaginable. Even with eyes wide open, Michael could not see anything. The pulverizing force told his body to shut down, kicking into protection mode. A breathy gasp filled the air for a fraction of a second, followed by a strange silence. Then he fell backwards—his head hitting the back wall before he crumbled onto the floor and into a sobbing heap.

Now, maybe you’ll shut the hell up!

When the door slammed shut, it took several seconds before he sensed his throbbing arm. Sliding his opposite hand down his wounded arm, Michael caught his finger on something sharp and wet protruding from the skin—his last meal bubbled in his throat. Slumping forward, he desperately wanted to man up.

But he could not. And he did not.

Instead, tears began dripping into his lap just as the front door swung open, slamming the wall behind it and bringing a mirror crashing to the floor. Next came his mother’s screaming voice, You hateful bastard!

Then, a gunshot—BANG!

A scuffle, a scream, another gunshot—BANG!

Suddenly, someone fell against the closet door and slowly slid toward the floor as a thin scream pierced the momentary silence.

Exhausted, Michael gently laid his face on the cool wooden floor. In the narrow gap at the bottom of the door, a pool of blood began oozing toward his peeking eye.

He did not know what happened because his vision faded to black.

Part I

First Meal

1

Morning Fog

Thirty years later—

---

The rhythmic hum of tires on a metal bridge was lulling Michael to sleep. Between the sparse traffic, the soft buzz from a post-work cocktail, and twelve straight hours of being on his feet, Michael’s body was weary and his mind frazzled. Looking to the horizon on his left, there was nothing but blackness. To his right, city lights created a fragmented sparkle on the glass thanks to a light drizzle. In minutes, he would pass through Sausalito, cross a slice of Richardson Bay, and weave his way through several townships before landing home.

He pulled up to his house and entered quietly. Once inside, he slid off his shoes and ambled to the bar where a second drink would remove the madness of the day. Sinking into an oversized sofa, Michael sipped a twenty-year old scotch, an instant recipe relaxing his exhausted body and quieting his troubled mind. His last conscious image as he drifted asleep was the same one haunting him most every night: a tiny dark space of enormous blinding pain.

A loud crash suddenly jarred Michael awake. Sitting up, Michael took a moment before he realized it was a truck outside. Trash day, he thought, blocking his eyes from the morning light and stretching his stiff body from another night on the couch. His mouth was dry, his head pounded, and his throbbing hand found no relief. He was about to drift back off when his watch pulsated and a bleary eye read 5:55. Slowly making his way down the hall, he anticipated the one thing that could even hope to launch his day: a hot shower.

Early morning fog drifted in slow motion over the hills of the Banana Belt atop the Marin Headlands. It floated toward the red strands of steel supporting the iconic Golden Gate Bridge and slowly evaporated as it fell into the cold water below. Boats of all sizes and shapes moved eagerly about; some left for the open Pacific while others returned to their City by the Bay. Atop the hills of neighboring Tiburon—a town north of the city and east of the bridge—a chilly breeze blew through open windows as early morning sun tried warming the hillside. Every morning—come fog or come sun—the remarkable beauty cast a spell on the Rogan’s home and their waking community.

This Monday was no different.

Pancetta and garlic sizzled in a buttered saucepan while Michael hovered over the Wolf range that grounded the island in the middle of the great room. He deftly sliced heirloom tomatoes and shiitake mushrooms with his prized Henckel knife as daughter Natalie, wearing workout gear and an ever-present smile, entered the room and kissed his cheek, her bright blue eyes sparkling in the early morning light.

Morning, Daddy.

Morning, Angel, he replied, slapping a high-five as she took a seat atop the barstool across from him.

Easy on the garlic, Pops, she said playfully. Don’t wanna scare the boys away. Thumbing to the women’s sports section, she peeked over the San Francisco Chronicle. But feel free to add all the goat cheese your heart desires.

Anything for my little girl, he said over his shoulder, adding extra cheese and a light sprinkling of herbs to the scrambled eggs.

"Uh, young woman?" she said from behind the paper.

Yes, of course.

Turning to the sink, he took several pills from his pocket and washed them down with a glass of water. He did not as much hide the pill-popping as he tried not to make a deal about it.

Next, he topped off his favorite morning ritual by stuffing a handful of veggies into the Vitamix blender. Even though he knew Natalie would order a second breakfast on their way into the city, Michael loved spoiling his only child. Standing nearly six feet tall at just shy of seventeen, Natalie was a force to be reckoned with both on the basketball and volleyball courts.

Daddy? she shouted over the loud blender.

Michael held up a finger and mouthed, Just a second.

Less than a minute and a dozen decibels later, the blender stopped. Testing a sip, he nodded before passing it over the counter.

Yes, Nattie?

Pain bad today? She sipped, flashing a thumbs-up.

His expression gave him away. Reaching across the counter to wipe her green mustache, he said, You know how it goes. Same old damp chill.

Uh huh. Thus the pills, she smirked, folding and setting aside the paper.

Spreading out a linen placemat, he wiped a small drip from the edge of the plate, then positioned it in front of her.

"Just a little something to get ahead of it."

Just keeping an eye on you, she said, digging in with reckless abandon. I mean let’s face it, she added, mid-mouthful, Before long, who’ll be around to mother you?

He frowned a smirk, nodding his coffee toward her.

Thanks, but I’ll get some later, she shrugged, sliding her finger across the plate to capture the last bit of soft cheese. And I’m joking. Kinda.

That’s a new record, he grinned at the empty plate. When’s the last time you ate?

Tilting her head, she squeezed a dimple deep into her cheek. Really?

Taking her things to the sink, he asked over his shoulder, Want a juice to go?

What do you think, they said simultaneously—as only two connected-at-the-hip could.

Standing at the broad expanse of windows, she stretched her long limbs and took in the 270-degree view.

Never get tired of seeing that bridge.

Ditto.

The front yard was in the middle of renovations and torn up in preparation for a new pool.

Pops, you sure you still want—

"For the last time, yes, he interrupted. It’ll be perfect for burning stress after work. Plus, think of how it would help your training."

Okay, okay, she said, holding up both hands. Just remember, training’s not going to last much longer.

As a stellar student, Natalie would graduate a year ahead of most classmates her age. Early on, Michael saw her exceptional abilities to learn and absorb at twice the speed of those around her. He wanted her to get an early start because it was apparent she would advance more rapidly than most. And she did, time and again—not only in her studies but also in sports. She continued eyeballing the space long debated over. A pool with jacuzzi had won over a volleyball court and would be finished before long.

Maybe you and Mom would rather—

Would rather what? Kathryn asked, entering the room—her long silk robe floating behind her as she walked barefoot across the room—stopping to kiss her daughter’s cheek. What are you two conspiring against me now? she asked, grinning.

Talking about the volleyball court Dad said he wanted to… she trailed off, looking to him for support.

Grinning, he shook his head, "Pool and jacuzzi. Just think how nice it’ll be when you come home to a relaxing swim before dinner."

Or a hot soak before bedtime, Kathryn added.

Natalie smiled, knowing it was what they both wanted and deserved. Besides, between the courts at school, and either the indoor court at North Beach or the outdoor court at Mission Bay, she had more than enough opportunities to practice.

You’re right, she said, raising her arms in surrender.

I knew you’d see it our way, he winked.

"Hey, what if we put a volleyball net inside the pool?"

Michael and Kathryn laughed. Now, that’s a good compromise, she said, approaching Michael. Putting together both palms, she bowed. "May I please have some of your world famous French roast, Mr. Barista?"

What’ll you trade for it? he grinned.

She opened her robe. Perhaps this would be of interest?

Mom! Natalie shouted, rolling her eyes before leaving the room.

Pouring a cup, he nodded toward her robe. Nice trade.

She gave a cordial smile as Natalie shouted from down the hall, Pops, I’ll be ready in 5. You best hustle!

They both shrugged.

Kathryn Grace was her given name, but when her modeling career took off two decades ago, photographers gave her the nickname Katie G. and it stuck. Many years and one child later, she rarely modeled, preferring commercials and occasional guest appearances on New York soaps instead. Lately, Kathryn was spending more time commuting between San Francisco and Los Angeles with film roles—a much easier jaunt than to NYC.

Michael watched her sipping coffee in her favorite chaise by the window and thought she was as beautiful as the day they met over twenty years ago. Even though they spent more time apart from one another these days and had hit their share of bumps along the way, he still felt close to her. Whether she felt the same was anyone’s guess. His mind flashed back to their early days and how after his short stint in the Army, they had spent their early years hustling their respective dreams in Manhattan. Michael bartended in Midtown taverns by day and juggled apprentice work in Upper East Side restaurants by night while Kathryn modeled all over town both day and night, juggling occasional acting gigs way off Broadway.

You okay? Michael asked.

Huh? Yeah, she said, snapping back to the present. Just tired. Been a helluva week. Between that gig in New York and the shoot at the Apple campus yesterday... she yawned and stretched. Let’s just say the old gray mare ain’t what she used to be.

He crossed the room and kissed her forehead. First of all, Babe, you’re no gray mare. Secondly, why don’t you slow down? Relax more? Reservations are a mile long and a month out. The restaurant’s doing well.

She looked away, thinking quietly.

What?

She faked a smile. Nothing.

Babe, he squatted down to look her in the eyes, I know that nothing meant something. What’s bothering you?

She sighed, You were in really late last night. Later than most.

Not really. They’re all late these days. Grueling is more like it.

Nothing.

Taking a sip, she glanced out the window. Sorry. I know it’s your passion. It’s just that…

Just what, he asked, looking down the hall for Natalie.

Let’s get away. Soon. Just you and me.

When you get back from your trip, he smiled. Promise.

Right, she tried another smile. Like you promised Natalie you’d see her play basketball. In middle school. Then in high school. But you were too busy. Then volleyball in high school. And again…

Frowning, he stood. She pulled his sleeve for him to face her.

Babe, you know this is my life and—

"That’s just it. Cooking is your life. Not Natalie. Not me."

Wait, that’s not fair.

You’re right. It isn’t. For any of us. And who… she paused, then shook her head.

What? Go ahead and finish, he sighed, looking down the hall again.

No, you’ve got to get ready.

I am. What is it?

How many years did you miss seeing her play? She held up a hand to stop him before he could answer. "I’ll tell you. None. No, you went to one. Well, to be fair, you went once when she was very young, then once when it was clear she was going to be an elite athlete."

"Hon, I’m sorry. It’s just…mine is more than a full-time job. This is what it takes to be the best."

Now her smile seemed nearly authentic. "I know, Babe. And you’re right. I don’t mean to jam you up the first day of a new week—especially with your, no, our girl facing such a momentous time. Sorry."

No, you’re right. On some of it. And no need to be sorry. I should be sorry. I’ll do better.

Right, she nodded, taking his left hand. It was cold. She turned it over and frowned, running a fingertip along a scar that ran from the heel of his palm to the crook of his arm. It was barely apparent thanks to a full sleeve of tattoos. The deep scar had been artfully crafted into the spine of a dragon with the tip of the tail ending at his palm. It was intricate and multi-colored: the perfect camouflage.

How’s it feeling today?

Gently pulling away, he turned his attention to the clouds being split open with streaks of sun. Pretty much SOP. Cold, numb, and with a mind of its own, he said, crossing the room for his car keys. But it still works, and no one’s the wiser. Right?

Right, she forced a smile as Natalie came bounding into the room.

Okay, my happy family, let’s get on down the road.

After a flurry of kisses and high-fives, dad and daughter were out the door and off to the city.

2

Two Peas

Michael’s Tesla weaved through the streets of Tiburon, Belvedere, and finally onto Highway 101 toward San Francisco. The morning was crisp, the sky clear, and the day ahead bright. All was at peace with the world—at least on the surface. Natalie removed her Beats headphones and began stirring a familiar pot.

What was that all about?

Huh? he said, apparently lost in thought.

She tossed a chin over her shoulder.

Nothing. Just your mother and me talking about…stuff.

"Uh huh. What sort of stuff?"

Just how excited we are about your graduation.

She squinted. Right.

Smearing a broad smile across his face, he said, Well, we are.

Okay, she said, before putting her headphones back on. In two seconds, she took them back off and turned in her seat. "Pops, don’t you think it’s about time you told me the real story about your hand?"

He kept his eyes on the road, punctuating her inquiry with a smirk. "Where’d that come from?"

Remember when I turned 16 and you told me I could have any two things I wanted?

Yeah.

And I said a trip to Europe before college and a convertible Mini Cooper?

He coughed dramatically.

Yeah, yeah. That’s exactly what you did then.

I’m joking, but it’s just a lot—

No, it’s not about that, she frowned. "You wanna know what I really wanted?"

He raised an eyebrow. I’m afraid to ask.

"Don’t be. Besides Europe? The real explanation."

Suddenly, the only sound inside the car was music coming from her headphones and an occasional lane reflector bumping underneath the tires.

I told you, my brother and I were in Boy Scouts chopping wood. I was holding a limb and he wanted to form it into a stake. To this day, I don’t know why I was holding it, but anyway, he slipped. And his hatchet cut my arm.

She stared out the window, silent.

This was not the first time she had asked. In fact, he had lost count. And he could not decide if she knew differently or was testing him. Either way, he felt it best to just go with this story. He looked from the road to her several times before saying, Nattie? What’s on your mind? And what’s the fascination with my arm?

She shifted back to face him and with a dramatic sigh said, Here’s why. And don’t forget the exit. I need an extra—

Breakfast, he nods, And lunch. Or two.

Hey, I burn a lotta calories in practice. And you’re not getting off the hook, she said, pointing toward an upcoming exit sign.

"Not trying to get off the hook, just trying to understand why it’s so important, and why you think it’s otherwise."

Approaching Marin City, he took Exit 445A to Bridgeway, heading south into the charming town of Sausalito.

Here’s the thing, she began by grabbing his arm. And don’t take this the wrong way because you know I love you more than anything.

He relished these moments. His love for her was full, and he would do anything to keep her safe and happy.

But you’re not a very good liar, she said with a scrunched face.

He whipped his head toward her and shouted, What?

Really? she winced, I think they heard you in Stinson Beach."

Sorry.

"Not to offend you, but I guess I inherited your—how shall I say—lack of trust?"

What?

Skepticism in mankind?

What?

Your cynic mindset?

Shaking his head, he barked, "What?"

Laughing, she delivered a perfect impersonation of Samuel Jackson from Pulp Fiction. "Say what again. Say what again! I dare you, I double dare you, motherfucker. Say what one more goddamn time!"

Now, they were laughing hysterically as Michael coughed, "I would quote your Mother and say language… he whined mockingly, But that’s just too funny."

They were still chuckling when he pulled into the parking lot of Cibo, a hip coffeehouse that served espresso drinks and local fare. Natalie fist-bumped her dad and headed inside where Michael knew Natalie would order the usual: a triple Americano with avocado toast plus a turkey panini for lunch.

He watched her run in, then flipped through email on his phone. She was heading back out before he had swiped five times, and just as he looked up, Michael saw a young man who looked like a surfer holding the door for her. She paused, and with a hearty blush and a smile, thanked him.

Michael reached to the Yeti cooler in the back seat and opened it for her. It was a favorite container, one he used on those rare weekend getaways to Muir, Stinson, or Lake Tahoe. Opening the car door, she took a last glance back toward the store before putting the food in the waiting chest.

Cute guy, huh? Michael asked with a mile-wide smile.

Yeah, kinda, she grinned, getting in and buckling up. Then, as they pulled out onto the 101, she added, "Like, hella gorgeous!"

I like how he held the door for you. A real gentleman, he grinned. Not many of those around these days.

Must’ve had a father like you, she said, blowing steam from her coffee. Ya know, to teach him such things.

Reaching over to squeeze her knee, he whispered, Thanks, Nattie.

Just don’t think that lets you off the hook.

Letting out a deep breath, he shook his head and merged into traffic as she turned to watch the passing landscape. He needed to be patient. Like her mother, Natalie did not like to be pushed.

Dad, what do you want more than anything else in life? Maybe something you don’t have right now?

He smiled. I have everything I need.

Do you?

Swiveling his head—one eye on traffic, the other on her—Michael kept looking at his squinting and precocious co-pilot until she made the expression she always did when gearing up for hearty discussion. I do, Nat. For the most part, anyway.

She managed an acknowledging nod. "But can we dig just a little deeper? I mean, it’s me after all. I’m not going to attack you. I’m not going to judge you. I just…"

You just what?

I just want you to know you can trust me. And Mom. And pretty much anyone else you know, she smiled.

He matched her smile because he knew she was just trying to help. I, uh, never really trusted anyone. After my Mom died, anyway. Not Scott, and certainly not Dad. Not much of anyone, well, until your mother came along.

Natalie couldn’t help but smile, knowing this was big for him.

"All I’ve ever wanted was to be the best. I mean really make it. Have the restaurants, the TV and Radio shows, the best-selling books. I want it all. But I want it for you and your mother, so you both have all the things you’ve ever dreamed of."

As much as he tried, Michael couldn’t keep a tear from pooling in his eye. He quickly wiped it away.

Aw, Daddy, what is it?

Shaking his head, he whispered, Something in my eye. Probably dust.

She giggled.

"Dad, you do know that all I really want…all I’ve ever wanted…was your love and attention. Nothing more."

I know, he whispered.

Do you?

He smacked her leg. "There you go again with the Do yous. Have you been seeing a shrink? Taking extra psych classes at school?"

Her dimple appeared. "I read. A lot."

Checking the time, he nodded.

Just one more thing and I’ll stop the interrogation, she grinned. "How much more do you need or want…before it will be enough. I mean, how many restaurants have you been a part of launching and want to launch? How many shows and books will you have to create until you…really make it?"

Good question.

Right. But how many until you feel fulfilled or satisfied, or whatever the hell the magical word is that’ll make you feel, I don’t know, accomplished?

He wrinkled his brow for a long minute—chewing his inside cheek before he let a sly grin slide across his face—"Just one more."

Parking her coffee in the center console, Natalie shook her head. Of course, then slipped on her headphones and cranked a tune. "Okay, smarty pants, I tried. Now excuse me while I get in the flow."

He nodded in affirmation. She nodded in rhythm.

3

Long Play

The drive—minus the bumper-to-bumper traffic—was peaceful. Michael enjoyed getting lost in the space of time, especially before being inundated with the noise of traffic and the city. He never tired of seeing the stately bridge. Whether her bright red color was laced with fog or sun glow, he felt the same excitement now as he did the first time he saw her.

His mind flashed back to their wedding day on East Hampton. A year later, an opportunity arose for Kathryn in L.A. with a huge magazine contract that would also get Michael one step closer to his dream of running a restaurant full time.

He had watched several restaurateurs rise to spectacular fame in the world of food. One such visionary was Wolfgang Puck who had moved from Austria to the States when only 24 years old. Less than nine years later, Wolfgang would open Spago in LA. It was 1982 and the big Hollywood players were spending money on three priorities: homes, food, and cocaine—not necessarily in that order. And Michael knew what Wolfgang knew: food was the way to a person’s heart and that circuitous path meant spending lots of money. Reading the signs, Michael merged his life’s passion into a roadmap and began setting his course.

They first landed in Studio City where Kathryn would be near the studios and he could find jobs in the valley. In short order, the money from her jobs increased with each photo shoot while his increased with each catered private party. Soon, they were moving from the valley to the beach.

Living in Malibu took most of what they earned to match the lifestyle, but the connections they made were top shelf. The downside was they were both working obscene hours, and with those hours came increased pressure to perform. With the intoxication of the attention, they were soon in over their heads—in more ways than one.

It was not long before Kathryn was doing one drug to endure relentless shoots and another to shut down. With endless