Chapter 3 - The Apron That Wasn't Mine
“Dennis didn't just fire me,” I said. “He helped someone pretend to be me.”
Vincent remained seated while I paced around my kitchen, trying to make sense of the security record.
The initials were unmistakable.
D.R.
Dennis Reynolds had been my manager for almost two years.
He knew I was struggling after my mother's death. He knew I sometimes skipped lunch to save money. He had watched me work double shifts without complaining.
And all that time, I had believed the worst thing about him was his cruelty.
Now I wasn't so sure.
“Can you prove he authorized that second identity?” I asked.
“The access system records his credentials. That proves his authorization was used, not necessarily who used it.”
I stopped pacing.
“You sound like you're defending him.”
“I'm trying not to mistake suspicion for evidence.”
I hated that he was right.
Vincent closed his phone.
“Tell me about your uniform.”
“What about it?”
“Was there anything distinctive?”
I thought for a moment.
Then I remembered.
“Two weeks before your dinner, I caught my apron on a storage-room hook. I tore a little piece near the pocket.”
“Did you repair it?”
“With blue thread. It was all I had at home.”
“Where did you keep the apron?”
“In my locker.”
“And who had access?”
“Dennis had a master key.”
Vincent stood.
“We need to speak with Marisol.”
I looked at the clock.
It was nearly nine.
“She works the late shift.”
“Then we'll ask her when she's finished.”
I shook my head.
“No. I won't have you marching into that restaurant with armed men and frightening everyone.”
He studied me.
“You think that's what I intended?”
“I don't know what men like you intend.”
The silence that followed was uncomfortable.
Finally, Vincent nodded.
“Fair enough.”
He asked one of his bodyguards to remain downstairs and offered to take me in a single car instead of the three SUVs.
I agreed only after insisting that I could leave whenever I wanted.
Before we went downstairs, I grabbed my mother's blue cardigan from the back of a chair.
It was a little worn at the cuffs, but it still smelled faintly of the lavender soap she liked.
Vincent noticed the silver bird brooch attached to it.
“Your mother's?”
I nodded.
“She called it her lucky bird.”
I fastened the cardigan and followed him out.
Twenty minutes later, we were sitting inside a small diner two blocks from The Grand Bell.
Marisol arrived just after ten.
She was fifty-eight, with silver beginning to show in her dark hair and hands roughened by years of carrying heavy trays.
The moment she saw me, her face crumpled.
“Oh, honey.”
She embraced me so tightly that I almost cried.
“I tried calling you,” she whispered. “Dennis told us you weren't allowed to speak with anyone from the restaurant.”
I stepped back.
“He said that?”
“He threatened to fire anybody who helped you find another job.”
Vincent pushed a chair out for her.
Marisol recognized him immediately.
For a moment, fear flashed across her face.
But he introduced himself quietly and asked whether she would be willing to answer some questions.
When I showed her the photograph of the mysterious waitress, she went still.
“I saw her.”
My heart jumped.
“Where?”
“In the laundry room. Before dinner service.”
“Did you speak to her?”
“I thought she was a new employee. She had her back to me, and she was taking an apron from the clean-linen shelf.”
Marisol frowned.
“But something bothered me.”
“What?”
“She was wearing gloves.”
Vincent leaned forward.
“Why was that unusual?”
“Because we weren't handling food in there. And when I asked her who she was, she didn't answer. She just walked away.”
Marisol's fingers tightened around her coffee cup.
“Later, I told Dennis there was a strange woman in the employee area.”
“What did he say?” I asked.
“He told me to mind my own business.”
I closed my eyes.
All week, I had imagined Dennis making those calls to restaurant owners because he was embarrassed.
But he had known there was an unfamiliar woman in the staff area before Vincent became ill.
“Marisol, did you see anyone else near the private service entrance?”
She hesitated.
Then she glanced toward Vincent.
“Someone from your security team.”
Vincent's expression changed.
“Describe him.”
“Tall. Broad shoulders. Dark beard. He wore a black suit and had a small scar near his left eyebrow.”
I knew that man.
He was the bodyguard who had grabbed my shoulder when Vincent was struggling to breathe.
The same bodyguard who had stood outside my apartment an hour earlier.
Vincent took out his phone and showed Marisol a photograph.
She nodded.
“That's him.”
“Are you absolutely certain?” Vincent asked.
“I served him water while he waited near Dennis's office.”
Vincent stared at the photograph.
“Gabriel Torres.”
His voice had changed.
Marisol shifted nervously.
“Have I said something wrong?”
“No,” he replied. “You may have said something extremely important.”
Outside, rain slid down the diner windows.
I looked between them.
“Gabriel came rushing into the dining room after I called the ambulance. I saw him enter with the other bodyguard.”
Vincent nodded slowly.
“That's what I believed, too.”
He explained that Gabriel had served as his head of personal security for seven years.
Gabriel had protected him through business disputes, violent threats, and more than one attempt on his life.
Vincent trusted him more than almost anyone.
Or he had.
Marisol reached into her handbag.
“I almost forgot. I brought this.”
She placed a folded sheet of paper on the table.
It was a copy of the staff assignment schedule.
Someone had written a note beside my name.
PRIVATE SERVICE — 9:00 P.M.
“Dennis changed the schedule after you were fired,” Marisol said. “He told everyone you'd been assigned to table four.”
“But I wasn't.”
“I know, honey.”
She pointed at the bottom of the page.
“I found the original tucked behind the kitchen noticeboard. I copied it before he threw it away.”
The original showed my actual assignment: dining-room desserts.
Vincent studied both entries.
Then his eyes settled on a handwritten notation beneath the false schedule.
G.T. — SERVICE ENTRANCE, 8:45.
Gabriel Torres.
Vincent didn't speak for several seconds.
Finally, he rose.
“Gabriel told me he arrived at The Grand Bell at 9:19.”
I felt my stomach tighten.
“Then where was he for those thirty-four minutes?”
May you like
Vincent looked toward the rain-darkened street.
“That's exactly what he's going to explain.”
