Chapter Six
Mulder/Scully Apartment, New York, New York
April 7th, 2000, 7:45 p.m.
"Wow. It's a very nice place," Mulder told himself as he let himself into the penthouse. He stepped into the foyer and set his keys onto a wooden table and marveled at the spacious abode. The living room had a cathedral ceiling with a set of French sliding doors leading out to an open balcony. A huge screened TV was about five feet away from a six by six fireplace. Behind the love seat, sofa, and leather reclining chair was a bar. It even had a shiny brass railing and four swiveling mounted stools in front of it.
An enticing odor drew him past the bar into the kitchen where Scully stood peeling an onion beside a covered Dutch oven on the range in an apron. "Just where in the hell have you been, Mulder?" she demanded.
"Wait a minute. On April 7th, I show a charge being made to one Acapella restaurant located on Hudson Street for $75," Agent Short broke into Mulder's storytelling. "I did a bit of research, and it's not a take-out type of restaurant. Let's elaborate and tell the truth the next time, Mr. Mulder. Remember, I hold it right in front of me."
"Oh. You're right. I'm sorry--I must have forgotten. We ate out the first night." He shrugged as Short eyed him suspiciously. "It was for research. I kind of didn't do all that well by myself the first time critiquing."
"Well, go on."
Acapella, New York, New York
April 7th, 2000, 10:08 p.m.
"I'm glad you could make it, Scully," Mulder got up from his chair as his partner arrived. The khaki rain coat she wore was draped across most of her front, and she refused to take it off as a waiter came behind her to try to take it.
"No, no, it's okay. I'm cold, I'll leave it on," Scully waived him off.
"Mulder, what's the matter with you? This is a five star restaurant!" she scolded him in a hushed tone. "Had I known its reputation, I wouldn't have even come in here!"
"I'm sorry, did I do something wrong? Is it not fancy enough?" He sat back down warily after she finally did and soughed into her hands.
"No. I came straight from an autopsy bay not half an hour ago, and what I'm wearing doesn't even begin to match the dress code of formal!"
"Oh. I forgot...I apologize, Scully. We could go back to the apartment if you want, but I thought we could do some learning here."
"We? We could do some learning? I know about the finer restaurants, Mulder. It's you that needs the education."
"Okay. Perhaps we could start off with some wine. I know how much you like Shiraz," Mulder offered her his glass, and she shook her head.
"I do, but I don't think that you want the scent of formaldehyde and latex to fill your nostrils every time you go to drink from your glass, because that's what I smell like right now."
"It'd be an interesting new type of wine."
"Very funny. You didn't order a whole bottle, did you?"
"Well, what does one do as a food critic, in that situation, Agent Scully?" He wiggled an eyebrow.
"You didn't answer my question."
Mulder signaled only to his glass and set it back down onto the table. "To be fair, Agent, you should answer mine."
"One usually orders something complimentary to the wine he/she's chosen."
"Would you mind expounding upon that, Scully?"
"In our case, when you drink red wine in an Italian restaurant, you order either a heavy type of meat such as beef or something with a marinara sauce. White wine accompanies a light meat like fish or an alfredo sauce. Of course, these are just normal things that food critics do--it's not absolutely necessary, but if you want to appear to be credible, I'd recommend doing so." She began to devote her complete focus to the menu when the waiter appeared.
"Ah, the Signora has arrived. Should I bring out a second glass, Signor?"
"Please do," Scully spoke for herself. "We're not ready to order yet."
"Yes, ma'am," he bowed his head slightly and took off in the opposite direction from whence he came.
"So, do you think I chose a good place to eat?" Mulder inquired warily, and Scully reverted her eyes back to the menu.
"At these prices, it'd better be. Who's paying for this, anyway?"
"Ritter seemed to be treating you better compared to the last time you two worked together," he observed. Mulder noted her peeved reaction to his elusion of her question by the brief twitching of her closed lower jaw. But then she seemed to be comfortable with his evasion--if she was not, he could only imagine the horrible torture in store for him later on.
"Yes, I noticed that, too. I suppose he finally learned that humility is the correct way to move up the ladder with senior agents instead of smug attitudes."
"Scully, what's farfalle?"
"Hmm...what?" She was pre-disposed in thought and snapped out of it as Mulder repeated his inquiry.
"Farfalle, what is it?"
"Oh, it's the little bow-tied pasta. What're you thinking of getting?"
"The chicken parmigian looks nice. The bow-ties come with it or whatever Angel hair or vermicelli is."
"Very thinly sliced spaghetti."
"Right--that'd make sense. You know, Scully, it never ceases to amaze me as to how readily available your stomach can be right after finishing an autopsy."
"Mmm...sometimes I can be thinking about food right in the middle of one, too," she agreed.
"How do you do it?"
"Do what?"
"Eat right after slicing open someone's chest."
"I guess you haven't been noticing me that often, Mulder. I never get to eat immediately afterwards--I'm usually chasing after a monster or filling out paperwork or cleaning this disgusting preservative off of myself," Scully paused from scanning the menu to glance at her fingernails and then went back to her reading. "I even had to forego dinner a few times in between victims, if you remember."
"I do and, before we say anything else, let me thank you for it."
"You're welcome," she finally said after a moment of silence. "There is one thing that I still do hate about doing post mortem exams, though."
"What?"
"Formaldehyde and latex. I can never use enough soap to get the stench off of me. Maybe that's why I haven't had a date in years," she mumbled the last sentence to herself.
"So how did they go--the exams?"
"Oh, just fine and dandy. I had both the procedural and special as per your request toxicology scans run on both DiConstanzo and D'Angelo."
"What'd you find?"
"Don't know yet. The results aren't in--and I gave the lab technician my cell phone number. So don't give me that look, Mulder."
"What? What'd I do?" The waiter came back with Scully's wine and placed a loaf of bread atop a cutting board before the both of them. He drizzled a bottle of olive oil above a bowl of spices and proceeded to cut a few slices of bread from the loaf. The man finished his work and opened a leather folder.
"Signora, what would you like this evening?"
"Signorita, if you don't mind," Scully corrected him. "And I'll have the pasta primevera."
"Ah, so sorry, Signorita. And Signor?"
"The chicken parmigiana--with the farfalle, please."
"Good choice, Signor. Would you like a little more Shiraz?"
"I'd better not. I have to drive back. Thanks, though." As the server left, Mulder tapped the table in front of Scully as she began to sample her wine. "What's this?" he motioned to the appetizer.
"You dip the bread in the sauce and eat it. You've never had this before?"
"All I thought they served in Italian restaurants was garlic bread." As she swished the wine around the front of her mouth, she couldn't help but give him a closed mouthed grin.
"Well, you'll find that with most Italian-American restaurants because most Americans expect that nowadays. At least we've moved out of the "spaghetti must always come with meatballs" phase."
"It doesn't?"
"Oh, Mulder, you're incorrigible." She took a piece of bread and joined him. "So, how did the coffee house critique go?"
"So well that I had to convince the owner that I wasn't working today," he shrank back into his seat slightly and filled his mouth with the bread.
"I think from now on, it'd be a sagacious idea if we stayed together for those."
"Scully, I'm not going to debate with you on that one." Mulder drained his water goblet until it was halfway empty and prepared himself to tell her the rest of the day's bad news. "Scully, I...-"
"Yes?"
Damn, she's making full eye contact with me. I can't do this yet.
"I was wondering if you found anything else weird with your autopsy."
"Hmm...nothing actually weird as you and I would define it. She died of being flattened against the grille of a semi, and he died from the truck's impact on the street signal. They both had full stomachs. Uh, but that's nothing out of the ordinary."
"Why's that?"
"Well, they did die around lunch time."
"How about what they ate?"
"What?"
"What did they eat?"
"Um...he had...I think some pizza and mozzarella sticks. Not to mention the extra dipping sauce that came with it. She...oh...this one's difficult." She stopped eating her bread for a moment, sat back in her chair, and tapped her fingernails on the armrests.
"What's so hard about figuring out what a Rockette eats? Probably some type of salad and yoghurt with bee pollen. That could be it," he snapped his fingers. "See what I told you about bee pollen?"
"No, no, Mulder, it was a salad. I'm just trying to recollect the ingredients and match them up with my current knowledge of salads. She was a smoker, too..."
"Scully, I hate to tell you this, but the Lone Gunmen already took the initiative and printed our photos with our names in a few cuisine magazines."
"Culinary newsletters," she corrected him. "That's all right. You said they were going to do that, didn't you?"
"Yeah, but..." he swallowed a lump of saliva down his throat and pushed her wine glass towards her. "They kind of already picked out the names without asking us."
"Well, let's hear them," Scully rolled her eyes and quaffed some more of her wine.
"At least yours isn't quite so embarrassing as mine."
"Something worse than Fox Mulder? Do tell."
"Yours is Valerie Scullet. I'm not exactly sure why they picked-"
"An object of the kitchen is named the skillet. You use it to fry, flambee, or sautee things. And yours?"
"I'm not exactly comfortable with that."
"Mulder, either you tell me what yours is or so help me God, this chilled fork is going to be used like one in an ancient Egyptian embalming ceremony." She picked the instrument up and aimed it dangerously near his nose. How could he refuse such an offer?
"Okay--it's Andy Muldron. But the worst part is that I like to use my nickname in my columns apparently."
"And that would be?"
"Randy Andy," he mumbled and covered his face with his palms.
"I guess they tried to conjure up names for how they best remember us. But I don't exactly remember if and when there was ever was a time I cooked for the Lone Gunmen." Their food arrived shortly afterwards. "What's the plan for tomorrow, Randy Andy?"
"First of all, please don't call me that in public. Secondly, I thought we'd look up some restaurants in the Times tonight and hit them in the morning for two reasons. One is for our undercover work."
"And the other?" Scully stopped twirling the pasta around her fork to make eye contact with him.
"I've always wanted to have some eggs Benedict. When would be a better time?"
"Hmm...I totally agree. You mean an Egg McMuffin isn't good enough for you, Muldron?"