“Did he ever come in with anyone else?”
“Sometimes. Different people.” The shrug again, but tighter now. “I don’t pay attention to who eats with who. I just cook the food.”
“Can you describe any of them? The people he came in with?”
“White guy, one time. Older. Maybe another Black guy, I don’t remember.” Liu shifted in his seat, his body language screaming that he wanted this conversation to be over. “I just cook the food,” he repeated.
“Did you ever talk to him?” I asked. “Learn his name?”
Liu looked at me for the first time, his dark eyes assessing. “No name. He don’t talk much. Just order, pay, leave.” A pause, and something softened in his expression. “Nice kid, though. Polite. Always say thank you.”
There it was. That word. Polite.
“Did he ever seem scared?” I asked. “Nervous? Like he was watching for someone?”
Liu’s laugh was short and humorless. “Lady, everyone in this neighborhood watches for someone. That’s just how it is around here.” He paused, his fingers still working the edge of his apron.
“When’s the last time you saw him?”
Liu thought about it. “Week ago, maybe. Maybe less.” His expression darkened. “He come in, order the kung pao, same as always. But he look…” He searched for the word. “Rough. Like he been in a fight. Black eye. Lip all swollen.”
“Did he say anything about what happened?”
“I ask if he okay. He just laugh.” Liu shook his head slowly. “Say something like, ‘you should see the other guy.’ I don’t ask more questions. Not my business.”
Jack closed his notebook. “You’ve been very helpful, Mr. Liu. If you think of anything else—anyone he came in with, anything he said—give me a call.” He slid a business card across the table.
Liu took it, looked at it, tucked it into his apron pocket. “I hope you find who did this.” His voice was quieter now, some of that wariness replaced by sadness. “Like I say—nice kid. Didn’t deserve to end up in no dumpster.”
The vape shop was called Cloud Nine, which struck me as either aspirational or deeply ironic given the general air of defeat that clung to everything in this strip mall. The door was propped open with a rubber doorstop shaped like a skull, and through the window I could see a woman behind the counter, leaning on her elbows and scrolling through her phone.
She looked up as we walked in—heavyset, with bleached blond hair escaping from a messy bun and tattoos covering both arms from wrist to shoulder. A skull wrapped in roses on the left. Something that might have been a mermaid or a fever dream on the right. Multiple piercings caught the fluorescent light—ears, nose, one eyebrow.
Her eyes went to Jack’s badge, and her expression shifted from bored to guarded in the space of a heartbeat.
“Let me guess,” she said, straightening up. “You’re not here for the mango pods.”
“I’m Sheriff Lawson. This is Dr. Graves.”
“Yeah.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “Saw the cop cars this morning when I came in. Figured something bad happened.”
“A body was found behind the old auto shop.”
Her eyebrows rose—surprise, but not shock. “No kidding. Someone I know?”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out.” Jack described the victim—height, build, shaved head.
Recognition sparked in her eyes before he’d finished. “Sounds like Dre.”
My pulse quickened. “Dre?”
“That’s what he went by. Don’t know if it’s short for Andre or Deandre or what.” She reached under the counter and pulled out a pack of cigarettes—the regular kind, not the vape products lining the walls behind her—and lit one with a practiced flick of a cheap lighter. “He came in with another guy once a week or so. The other guy is a regular—always buys the same vape cartridges. Dre would just grab a water from the cooler and wait. Don’t think he smoked or vaped. Too healthy for that.” She gestured vaguely at her midsection. “You could tell he worked out. A lot.”
“Tell us about the other guy,” Jack said.
“Older white dude. Maybe late forties, early fifties. Looked like he’d been through some things—broken nose, cauliflower ear, you know the type. Walked like his knees hurt.” She tapped ash into a plastic tray shaped like a human hand, fingers curled upward. “I figured he was a personal trainer. He had that vibe. He’d be talking the whole time—giving advice, critiquing. Dre would just nod and listen. Respectful, you know?”
“They ever mention a gym? Somewhere nearby they trained?”
