I look up to see the group home's janitor and long-time employee, Cedric. He’s worked here almost as long as I’ve been alive. I’m sure he’s seen and heard plenty—the stories he could tell. When the light bulb goes on in my brain, I realize my cop instincts aren’t completely shot.
“No,” I say, my tone friendly. “I’m here to talk to you, actually.”
“Me?” he exclaims, placing a hand on his chest.
“Yes, sir. Do you have a minute?”
“I was just about to go to lunch,” he says, lifting a lunch bag as proof.
“Let me take you to lunch,” I suggest. “You can have whatever’s in that bag tomorrow.”
“I’m not one to turn down a free meal,” he says with a chuckle. “Let me walk back inside and put this in the fridge. I’ll be right back.”
Ten minutes later, he's sitting across from me at a burger joint down the street, sipping a cold lemonade while we wait for the healthiest thing on the menu—pastrami sandwiches and fries.
"So, what can I do you for, Mr. Callahan?"
"Call me Cal, Cedric," I say. "We've known each other long enough to be on a first-name basis, don't you think?"
"I’ve known your wife for almost fifteen years, and the only name she'll allow me to call her is Ms. Fletcher."
"Ex-wife," I correct.
"That's right," he says. "I heard about your divorce. I'm sorry about that."
"No worries," I say. "Listen, Cedric, I need to talk to you about a resident from ten years ago."
"Phew! Ten years ago?" he replies. "That's a lot of kids between then and now."
"Elle is unforgettable."
"Elle?" he says, rubbing his chin with his thumb and forefinger. "I don’t recall the name."
"How about Dani Hartman?"
The shift in his demeanor is instantaneous, and very telling. He remembers her.
"Is this off the record?"
"I'm not a cop anymore, if that’s what you mean."
"Neither was the last person who came by asking questions," he says.
My gaze snaps to his.
"Someone’s been asking about Dani?"
He nods. "Yes."
I spot our waitress approaching with our orders. She sets the plates down, and I thank her with a quick nod. Cedric’s already taken a massive bite of his sandwich.
"Sorry," he says pausing before taking another bite. "I only get an hour for lunch."
I let him eat, pushing the conversation to pause.
But me? I’ve completely lost my appetite.
After the last bite and the final sip of his drink, Cedric wipes his mouth with a napkin and sucks on his teeth a few times. Then he leans back, full and content.
