Chapter 8 - THE WORKERS KNEW THE RULES.
Officer Nathan Brooks had not disappeared in the dramatic way headlines used the word.
His car was gone.
His phone was off.
His wife said he had packed a small overnight bag.
No blood.
No signs of struggle.
No evidence anybody had forced him anywhere.
Detective Ortiz made Alexander repeat those facts back to her.
“He left voluntarily as far as we know.”
“As far as we know.”
“Do not turn him into a kidnapped witness in your head.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m considering possibilities.”
“Consider fewer.”
Alexander almost smiled.
Brooks’s sudden absence bothered him anyway.
Especially because the officer’s missing statement might have contained Chloe’s first account of the kitchen confrontation.
Ortiz was handling Brooks.
Alexander focused on Bellamy Event Services.
The workers had information.
They also had more to lose than the people sitting in Hawthorne’s boardroom.
That became obvious when Marisol Diaz agreed to meet him.
She chose a diner fifteen minutes outside town.
Not campus.
Not her home.
A diner.
She arrived wearing a winter coat over nursing scrubs.
Alexander was surprised.
“You work at a hospital?”
“Weekdays.”
“And catering?”
“Weekends.”
“Why both?”
Marisol looked at him as if the question answered itself.
“Rent.”
Alexander nodded.
She stirred coffee she was not drinking.
“My husband does construction. Winter is slow. My daughter starts community college next fall.”
She looked down.
“Everything costs money.”
There it was again.
The quiet machinery behind silence.
Not cowardice.
Math.
“How’s your hand?”
She held up two fingers.
A thin cut had been closed with adhesive strips.
“Fine.”
“Did Grant Heller knock the cart?”
Marisol’s eyes shifted toward the window.
“I don’t know.”
“Did you see him?”
“I was carrying plates.”
“What did you feel?”
“The cart moved.”
“Could’ve been accidental?”
“Yes.”
Alexander respected her caution.
“Did Chloe see?”
“Yes.”
“What did she say?”
“That he kicked it.”
“Did Bryce say anything?”
Marisol laughed softly.
Not because anything was funny.
“You know.”
“I want to hear what you heard.”
“He said I should clean faster.”
“Anything else?”
She looked at her coffee.
“He asked if Bellamy hired people who understood English.”
Alexander stayed silent.
“Do you understand English?”
Her eyes lifted.
“I’ve lived in Connecticut twenty-three years.”
“Did he know that?”
“He didn’t care.”
Alexander felt heat rise through him.
“Then what?”
“Chloe told him to stop.”
“How?”
“She said, ‘She understands you. She just wishes she didn’t.’”
Alexander looked down despite himself.
That sounded exactly like Chloe.
Marisol smiled faintly.
“She was brave.”
“Is.”
Marisol nodded.
“Is.”
“What happened next?”
“Bryce said Chloe was embarrassing herself.”
“And?”
“He asked why a scholarship girl was acting like she owned the place.”
Alexander’s eyes hardened.
“He knew she was on scholarship?”
“Everyone knows.”
“How?”
Marisol shrugged.
“Rich kids know things.”
Alexander did not like that answer because he suspected it was more accurate than it sounded.
“What did Chloe do?”
“Pulled out phone.”
“Recorded?”
“Yes.”
“What exactly?”
“Me. Broken plates. Bryce. Grant.”
“Did Bryce touch her?”
“In kitchen? No.”
“Grant?”
“No.”
“Threats?”
Marisol hesitated.
“Bryce said her scholarship could disappear.”
Alexander went still.
“Exact words?”
“He said, ‘You really want to lose sixty grand a year over somebody who clears tables?’”
Alexander stared at her.
“Did anyone else hear?”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
“Eli. Melissa. Officer Brooks.”
That name changed the room.
“Nathan Brooks heard it?”
“He came in right after.”
“What did he do?”
“Asked Chloe what happened.”
“Did she tell him?”
“Yes.”
“Did he write it down?”
“Yes.”
Alexander leaned forward.
“You saw him write?”
“Yes.”
“Notebook?”
“Small black pad.”
“What happened to it?”
“I don’t know.”
Alexander looked toward the diner counter.
A waitress poured coffee for an older couple.
Ordinary America continuing around something ugly.
“Did Brooks speak to Bryce?”
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
Marisol’s mouth tightened.
“Bryce laughed.”
“At Brooks?”
“He said his father would call.”
“Did he?”
“I don’t know.”
“What happened after?”
“Brooks took Bryce into hallway.”
“And Chloe?”
“She went to changing room.”
“Phone?”
“She had it.”
“Then?”
Marisol stared at Alexander.
“Melissa came in.”
“What did she say?”
“She told everybody not to discuss the incident with guests.”
“Why?”
“Founders’ Night.”
“Presentation.”
Marisol gave him a tired look.
“You heard that word already?”
“Yes.”
She nodded.
“They like that word.”
Alexander sat back.
“Why agree to meet me?”
Marisol looked surprised.
“Because Chloe got hurt.”
“You could have talked to police.”
“I did.”
“When?”
“This morning.”
Alexander nodded.
Good.
“What changed?”
Marisol rubbed the rim of her coffee cup.
“My manager cut my Saturday shift.”
Alexander stopped.
“Today?”
“Yesterday.”
“Reason?”
“Scheduling needs.”
“You think retaliation?”
“I think I lost eight hours.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
She looked at him.
“No.”
Again, facts and interpretations.
Alexander hated how useful that discipline was.
“How much is eight hours?”
“After tips?”
“Yes.”
“Maybe a hundred forty dollars.”
A hundred forty.
Conrad Vale had given forty-one million dollars to Hawthorne.
Marisol was afraid because she might lose a hundred forty dollars.
That was class power distilled to numbers.
Not yachts.
Not chandeliers.
A shift.
“Can you afford that?”
“No.”
Alexander’s first instinct was immediate.
“I can cover—”
She raised a hand.
“No.”
“Marisol.”
“No.”
He stopped.
“I’m not asking for charity.”
“I wasn’t offering charity.”
“Then what?”
Alexander thought.
“Protection.”
She gave him a sad smile.
“That’s what powerful men always call money.”
The sentence hit him harder than she intended.
Alexander leaned back.
“You’re right.”
Marisol watched him.
He corrected himself.
“What do you need?”
“For Chloe to be okay.”
“Beyond that.”
“My hours.”
“That’s Bellamy.”
“Yes.”
“And if they don’t restore them?”
“I find another job.”
“That simple?”
“No.”
She looked at her coffee.
“But simple and easy aren’t the same.”
Alexander respected her instantly.
His phone vibrated.
Detective Ortiz.
FOUND BROOKS.
Alexander called.
“Where?”
“Motel outside New Haven.”
“Voluntary?”
“Yes.”
“Why leave?”
“Scared.”
“Of Vale?”
“He hasn’t said.”
Alexander glanced at Marisol.
“Did he have his notebook?”
Ortiz went silent.
“What?”
“He says somebody took it.”
“When?”
“Founders’ Night.”
“Who?”
“He won’t tell me over the phone.”
Alexander stood.
“I’m coming.”
“No.”
“Detective—”
“No.”
“Lena.”
“That still means no.”
Alexander paused.
It was the first time he had used her first name.
Ortiz continued.
“I’ll call after formal interview.”
Alexander sat again.
Marisol watched him.
“Brooks?”
“Yes.”
“He okay?”
“Apparently.”
She looked relieved.
Then she reached into her purse.
“I forgot.”
She removed a folded piece of paper.
“What’s that?”
“Chloe gave it to me.”
“When?”
“Before she left.”
Alexander unfolded it.
It was not a note.
It was a photocopy of a Bellamy staffing sheet.
Employee names.
Hourly rates.
Assignments.
Next to several names Chloe had written numbers.
Marisol.
Eli.
Two other workers.
Beside the numbers were small calculations.
Alexander frowned.
“What is this?”
Marisol lowered her voice.
“Chloe thought Bellamy was taking tips.”
Alexander looked at her.
“From workers?”
“She said the math didn’t match.”
He studied the page.
At the bottom Chloe had written a sentence.
ASK WHY VALE TABLE TIPS NEVER REACH STAFF.
Alexander looked up.
“What does this have to do with the attack?”
Marisol shook her head.
“I don’t know.”
Then she pointed at one name printed at the bottom of the staffing sheet.
Event sponsor liaison.
CONRAD VALE.
May you like
Alexander stared at it.
The kitchen humiliation might not have been the only thing Chloe had been recording that night.
