a hand to her mouth for a moment, trying to suppress a sudden sob. “Everything she worked so hard for, a name, a brand… and none of it matters anymore. Some creep took it all away from her.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
After a quick lunch purchased from the street vendor cart at Jamison Square and consumed in the confines of Nick’s Land Cruiser, the detectives headed across town to the Bell Cafe to interview Caitlin Stoop, who’d served Luis Posada his last meal and was quite possibly the last person—other than his killer—to see him alive.
The cafe had a light breakfast and dinner crowd, with the bulk of its business coming through the doors between 11:00 a.m. and 2:00 p.m. While colorful chalkboard messages, flyers and menu inserts touted various breakfast and dinner specials in hopes of improving business at the bookends of the day, the cafe needed the midday crowd to stay afloat. Donna, the Bell Cafe manager, impressed this fact upon the detectives when she agreed to give Caitlin—one of her most efficient and affable servers—a ten-minute break ahead of schedule to answer their questions. Nick reminded her they were investigating a homicide, but promised not to take up much of Caitlin’s time.
Donna motioned Caitlin over, and told her in a quiet voice to show the detectives to the back booth where staff took their breaks. Caitlin—a young woman with blond hair pinned up, wearing a white blouse with a small name-tag and black slacks—nodded to her supervisor and led Nick and Hank to the back of the restaurant. Once they’d sat down, Nick explained why they had come to question her.
“I can’t believe Mr. Posada is really dead,” she said. “I mean, I knew him, saw him a couple times every week. Does his wife know?”
“His family has been notified,” Hank said.
She shook her head, somber. “I talked to the police a couple weeks back. Guess it was the day after he had lunch here that last time. I figured something was wrong, but I never suspected…”
“What can you tell us about him?” Nick asked.
Posada had been a regular at the cafe, and Caitlin had been his server on several occasions, often enough to pick up that he’d been a manager at Sanderson Landscaping. He’d worked his way up the ladder from part of a crew to a manager in a few years.
“He would say ‘I shoveled my way to success so I appreciate honest work,’” Caitlin told them. “So he’d always leave a big tip. He was a gentleman. Always polite.”
“He ate alone that day?”
“Yes.”
“Was that unusual?” Hank asked.
“He’d reserved a table for two, but said his lunch appointment cancelled,” she explained. “I didn’t question… but sometimes I got the feeling he wanted to eat alone and thought that might be weird or something?”
“Did he seem nervous?” Nick asked. “Upset about anything?”
“Said he was waiting to hear if they—his company, I mean—had won a bid on a big office campus job or something. Maybe it was a business park. Is there a difference? I don’t—anyway, I had the feeling it was a big deal for Sanderson, because of the size of the job. But that was just like him.”
“How so?” Nick asked.
“He was always thinking ahead to the next bid, the next big job,” she said. “That’s what motivated him. The next thing. The next challenge. Not what he’d accomplished yesterday. Like those investment commercials.”
Nick and Hank exchanged a look.
“You know—something about past performance doesn’t mean you’ll have that same success tomorrow. You know the ones I mean, right?”
Nick nodded. “Did he ever talk about rivals? Companies he lost bids to in the past?”
“Can’t recall,” she said. “So, probably no. I think I’d remember something like that, even if I forgot the name of the company.”
Figuring it was a longshot, but deciding he should ask anyway, Nick said, “Did he ever mention someone named Marie Chang?”
Caitlin looked puzzled. “No. Is
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
After a quick lunch purchased from the street vendor cart at Jamison Square and consumed in the confines of Nick’s Land Cruiser, the detectives headed across town to the Bell Cafe to interview Caitlin Stoop, who’d served Luis Posada his last meal and was quite possibly the last person—other than his killer—to see him alive.
The cafe had a light breakfast and dinner crowd, with the bulk of its business coming through the doors between 11:00 a.m. and 2:00 p.m. While colorful chalkboard messages, flyers and menu inserts touted various breakfast and dinner specials in hopes of improving business at the bookends of the day, the cafe needed the midday crowd to stay afloat. Donna, the Bell Cafe manager, impressed this fact upon the detectives when she agreed to give Caitlin—one of her most efficient and affable servers—a ten-minute break ahead of schedule to answer their questions. Nick reminded her they were investigating a homicide, but promised not to take up much of Caitlin’s time.
Donna motioned Caitlin over, and told her in a quiet voice to show the detectives to the back booth where staff took their breaks. Caitlin—a young woman with blond hair pinned up, wearing a white blouse with a small name-tag and black slacks—nodded to her supervisor and led Nick and Hank to the back of the restaurant. Once they’d sat down, Nick explained why they had come to question her.
“I can’t believe Mr. Posada is really dead,” she said. “I mean, I knew him, saw him a couple times every week. Does his wife know?”
“His family has been notified,” Hank said.
She shook her head, somber. “I talked to the police a couple weeks back. Guess it was the day after he had lunch here that last time. I figured something was wrong, but I never suspected…”
“What can you tell us about him?” Nick asked.
Posada had been a regular at the cafe, and Caitlin had been his server on several occasions, often enough to pick up that he’d been a manager at Sanderson Landscaping. He’d worked his way up the ladder from part of a crew to a manager in a few years.
“He would say ‘I shoveled my way to success so I appreciate honest work,’” Caitlin told them. “So he’d always leave a big tip. He was a gentleman. Always polite.”
“He ate alone that day?”
“Yes.”
“Was that unusual?” Hank asked.
“He’d reserved a table for two, but said his lunch appointment cancelled,” she explained. “I didn’t question… but sometimes I got the feeling he wanted to eat alone and thought that might be weird or something?”
“Did he seem nervous?” Nick asked. “Upset about anything?”
“Said he was waiting to hear if they—his company, I mean—had won a bid on a big office campus job or something. Maybe it was a business park. Is there a difference? I don’t—anyway, I had the feeling it was a big deal for Sanderson, because of the size of the job. But that was just like him.”
“How so?” Nick asked.
“He was always thinking ahead to the next bid, the next big job,” she said. “That’s what motivated him. The next thing. The next challenge. Not what he’d accomplished yesterday. Like those investment commercials.”
Nick and Hank exchanged a look.
“You know—something about past performance doesn’t mean you’ll have that same success tomorrow. You know the ones I mean, right?”
Nick nodded. “Did he ever talk about rivals? Companies he lost bids to in the past?”
“Can’t recall,” she said. “So, probably no. I think I’d remember something like that, even if I forgot the name of the company.”
Figuring it was a longshot, but deciding he should ask anyway, Nick said, “Did he ever mention someone named Marie Chang?”
Caitlin looked puzzled. “No. Is
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