Chapter 3 - The Envelope at Three
The scarred guard from the diner crossed the street while I was still holding a wet rag. I had spent three days convincing myself that Dante Caruso would forget a waitress who didn't know how to keep her mouth shut. Apparently, forgetting wasn't part of the Caruso family business.
Tommy emerged from his office before the man reached the entrance. He straightened his tie, which was impressive considering he hadn't worn one in six years. "Mr. Caruso sent you?" he asked.
The guard glanced at me. "I'd like to speak with Miss Murphy. Outside, if she prefers."
"She works for me," Tommy said.
"I can answer for myself." I dropped the rag into the sink. "And I prefer to stay where the cameras work."
The guard's mouth moved at one corner. He introduced himself as Nico Ferraro and placed a white envelope on the counter without opening it. Inside was a printed letter from Caruso Holdings offering me five thousand dollars as compensation for an uncomfortable encounter. An attached page required my signature acknowledging that the incident had been resolved and that I would make no further claims.
I read the page twice. "He caught me when somebody knocked me over. What claim am I supposed to have?"
"I'm delivering it, not asking you to accept it."
"Tell him I don't want the money." I pushed the envelope back. "And tell him I don't need somebody following me."
Nico held my gaze. "You noticed the vehicle."
"A black SUV followed me home at walking speed. My landlord's cat noticed it."
For the first time, he looked uncomfortable. "I'll pass that along."
Tommy snatched the envelope when Nico turned toward the door. "Five thousand? Clare, you can't afford to be proud."
"I can afford to know what I'm signing."
He released the paper, but a moment later I saw him photographing the letter with his phone. His fingers moved quickly. He looked over his shoulder before pressing send.
I might have forgotten it if Marcus hadn't beckoned me into the kitchen. He had an invoice spread beside the bread warmer and a pencil tucked behind one ear. "Look at this," he whispered.
I read the item at the center of the page. Commercial espresso system, delivery and installation: $18,400. The invoice bore the diner's address and a signature that looked like Tommy's.
"We don't have an espresso machine," I said.
"Never have. That's why I remember what you said to Caruso. We have two coffee pots, both older than you."
"Maybe Tommy ordered one."
Marcus turned the invoice over. On the back, a collection notice claimed that the diner was overdue on equipment payments. It threatened to place a lien on the business. The invoice was dated six weeks earlier. Nobody had delivered anything, certainly not a stainless-steel machine weighing hundreds of pounds.
"Where did you get it?"
"Under the register. Tommy told me to throw out the week's paperwork. I was looking for our produce bill. The tomatoes still haven't been paid for."
My shift ended at four. I had planned to spend the afternoon applying for other jobs, but I found myself writing down the invoice number instead. At five, I called the number printed at the top. An automated voice announced that Sterling Food Equipment was no longer accepting calls. Its mailing address was a suite in a Midtown building. A quick public directory showed that suite housed twenty-seven companies.
I returned to the diner at six. Tommy stood at the back door arguing with a man in a gray coat. Their conversation ended the moment I appeared. The stranger carried a rolled architectural drawing and a leather folder bearing a blue logo: Harbor Meridian.
"Forgot my scarf," I said.
I didn't own a scarf. Luckily, Tommy didn't know that.
The stranger nodded at me, then walked into the alley. Tommy watched until he was gone. "You shouldn't come back after your shift without calling."
"It's a diner, not a missile silo."
"It's about to be neither," he muttered.
I stopped. "What does that mean?"
"Nothing. Go home."
There was a notice taped behind the employee time clock the next morning: STAFF MEETING. MONDAY, EIGHT A.M. ALL SHIFTS. It gave no reason. Our elderly owner, Mrs. Delgado, had been recovering from a hip operation for weeks. Her granddaughter June handled payroll from a small office in Queens. I had met June twice; she wore canvas sneakers with her business suits and always remembered my name.
I called her. She sounded surprised to hear about the meeting. More surprised when I mentioned a new espresso machine. "I haven't authorized equipment purchases," she said. "Send me a photograph."
I sent three. After several minutes she called back. "Clare, that signature isn't my grandmother's. And I'm looking at a notice saying we agreed to sell the property."
The room seemed to tilt. "Sell it to whom?"
"A company called Harbor Meridian. I'm trying to find out. Did Tommy mention an offer?"
"He said nothing. There was a man here with a drawing."
June asked me to save anything I could legitimately access, without going through locked drawers or putting myself in danger. She would call an attorney and come down the following morning. Her voice stayed steady until she said, "My grandmother opened that place with my grandfather forty-one years ago. Somebody cannot just take it while she's in rehabilitation."
By the time I hung up, the diner was filling for dinner. I put the invoice back where Marcus had found it and started serving table seven. Tommy watched me through the pass-through window. On my break, he told me the new ownership could afford raises if I stayed cooperative.
"New ownership?" I repeated.
He blinked. "It's only a possibility."
"June says nobody agreed to sell."
His face flattened. "You went behind my back."
"I called the owner of the place where I work."
The order printer rattled, saving him from an answer. Later, when he left to meet his gray-coated friend, Marcus pulled up our computerized time clock. Somebody had clocked in with my employee code at 2:17 that morning, well after I'd left. The record showed that my code opened the rear storage room and approved a delivery.
"Maybe a glitch," Marcus said, although neither of us believed it.
"I was asleep," I told him.
May you like
A few seconds later my phone buzzed. An unknown number had sent a photograph of the espresso invoice, with my name typed beneath it. The message read: STOP ASKING QUESTIONS. YOU SIGNED FOR IT.
I stared at the screen until Marcus took the coffee pot gently out of my hand. Someone had used my name to purchase equipment that didn't exist. Someone was trying to sell the diner without its owner's permission. And somehow, between an insult about espresso and a hundred-dollar tip, I'd found myself in the middle of both.
