by David Dagley
Cale walked into the Outcast Café and greeted the woman behind the counter, “Hello. Do you have a pay phone here?”
“Yeah, in the back there by the restrooms,” she said, continuing to wipe down the counter and expecting Cale to sit.
“Thanks. Do you mind if I sit in a booth?” Cale asked.
“Are you eating or just having coffee?”
Cale ordered, “Cheeseburger, fries, root beer, and an Earl Grey with half-and-half and sugar.”
The lady looked up and smiled, “Have a seat. I'll find you. Would you like a full pot, or is one cup going to do it for you?”
“Oh, uh, a full pot would be great, thanks,” responded Cale. He walked towards the back of the coffee shop. He found a booth in view of the entire coffee shop and placed his stuff there. Reaching into his pocket, he found his notepad and a pen as he walked to the phone booth and sat down to write the number of the pay phone. He moved back to his booth and called Victoria on his cell phone. “Victoria, hi, how's it going?”
“Good. Quiet. Not too many people bothering us today. Are you still at the museum?”
“I just finished up with Mr. Madison. Now I'm in the Outcast Café having an early dinner and going over the guard's revised report, while I wait for one of the gals who worked the other night. I want to ask her a couple of questions.”
“Did you get everything you wanted from the museum?”
“I think so. I'm going to go straight home after this and get cracking on these disks and miscellaneous other stuff. That way I'll be free to help you tomorrow.”
“Cale, don't bother, really. I'm reading, and it's kind of slow right now since you got Martin out of here. You should put your nose to it while the trail is fresh and we aren't crazy busy. I'll ask for help when I need it. I know where you work. I'll see you tomorrow.”
“Yeah, good. Thanks.” Cale ended the call and turned his attention to the woman behind the counter. He walked over and showed his identification. “Miss, I'm Detective Dixon. My partner was given a schedule of the people who work here. Would you do me a favor and call Joanna Holmes for me, and ask her if she could come in early. I'd like to ask her some questions about the other night. I would really appreciate it.”
“Sure. I can try. What's you name again?” she said, squinting at Cale's wallet.
“Dixon. Detective Dixon,” he said as he moved his identification closer to her.
She walked off to use the phone in the office, and Cale returned to his booth to read the guard's report. He drew up a time line and began taking notes.
The waitress approached with a pot of Earl Grey and a small pitcher of cream. She placed the pot and the pitcher at the edge of Cale's paperwork, “This half is cream, right off the top,” she said and smiled warmly.
Cale returned the smile and responded, “That's the right half. Thanks.”
“Joanna said she's on her way; she's got some other errands to run in town, so she'll be here first then do her other stuff. I hope that's all right.”
“No problem. I've got homework and dinner coming, so this is perfect. Thanks for your help,” Cale said politely.
“You're welcome.” The waitress moved off to help other customers in the café.
Cale unloaded his papers and recorder on the table and began to sift them into order. He turned on the recorder, rewound it to the beginning of the guard's account of what happened, and looked at the guard's second report, hoping all the gaps were filled.
A few minutes ticked off before the kitchen bell rang and the waitress responded, picking up Cale's plate and bringing it to him.
Cale turned off the recorder and moved his paperwork well out of the way so the waitress had a place to put his plate. She asked, “Would you like Dijon mustard or regular?”
“Dijon mustard and a glass of water, please.”
The waitress returned with ketchup, mayonnaise, Dijon mustard in a condiment carrier, a glass of water, and Cale's bill and placed them on the table, “There you are, and here's your check. If there's anything else, just call me. My name is Stephanie.”
“Thanks again, Stephanie. Actually, I do have a couple questions for you, if you don't mind me asking.”
“What's up?” she asked, putting her hands on her hips.
“Have you ever worked the late shift?”
Stephanie shook her head and replied, “No. I've got two boys to take care of, so the owner has never asked me to deal with it.”
“I see. Do you know if it's very busy in the wee hours?”
“You know how it is; restaurant business varies. It depends on the weather, evening events, and all sorts of things. The receipts are still here, though.”
Cale looked at her blankly.
“So if you count the receipts and the number of plates served, you can get a pretty good idea of the business on a particular night. Plus, customers are a blur until you look at their check again. The checks are time stamped and individual,” Stephanie explained.
“What do you mean when you say ‘individual’?”
Stephanie pointed at the table, “Cheeseburger, root beer, pot of Earl Grey. I doubt that anybody else this evening or in the next week will order that combination, and even if they did, I would be able to remember vaguely what you looked like, where you sat, and how big of a tip you gave me.” Stephanie flirted a hint at Cale. “Do you want to see the checks from a particular night or something?”
“That could be a big help. How about two nights ago? How about two and three nights ago?”
“Not a problem. Let me just see to these other customers real quick, and I'll bring them to you.”
“Take your time.” Cale turned on Martin's recorder again and listened to the remainder of guard's story while looking at the time line notes he had just jotted down. He picked up his burger and listened while he ate. While the recorder told Mr. Peck's story, the front door periodically opened, and a bell would chime. Cale glanced up every time to see who and how many people came and went.
When the recording ended, Cale recorded his own message, “This is detective Cale Dixon, interviewing the late-night waitress Joanna Holmes at the Outcast Café, next to the Cho Estate Museum. The date is November nineteenth, one day after the murder.” He left the recorder on the table. Cale heard the bell at the front door and glanced up again. He watched a young woman come in and go behind the counter. Stephanie said hello to her, and they spoke quietly together. Stephanie slyly pointed in Cale's direction. The woman took off her coat as she walked down the row of bar stools and greeted some of the regulars on her way towards Cale. She wore blue jeans, a white, collared blouse with a lime–green, V-neck, button-down sweater buttoned only at the bottom. “Are you Detective Dixon?”
Cale half stood up, “Hi, yes. I hope it's not too much of an inconvenience to talk before work?”
“No, it's fine. Do you mind if I eat something while we talk?” she asked.
“No, not at all, please.”
Joanna placed her coat on the bench across from Cale, “I'm just going to put in my order.”
Cale nodded.
Stephanie came over with the checks from the previous two nights, “Here's two and three nights ago. Do you really think the murderer was here?”
Cale winced a smile, “I have no idea, Stephanie. I guess it's possible.”
“Creepy.”
Joanna returned carrying a large Diet Coke. She sat down, pulled on her slinky straw, and bent it.
“Joanna, do you mind if I record this interview? This way I don't have to bother you as much.”
Joanna shrugged her shoulders and shook her head.
“Thanks. I'm a little rusty at this, so bare with me. If you could make your answers as complete and thorough as possible, I'd appreciate it.” Cale turned on the recorder. “Ms. Holmes, could you state your name, address, and occupation for the record.”
“My name is Joanna Holmes. I live at six-sixty Naples Street here in San Francisco. I'm a waitress at the Outcast Caf
é from 9:00 p.m. to 6:00 a.m. or so in the morning. I'm also a hair stylist at the Look-See Designs when I'm not here.”
“Are you aware that there was a murder in the museum recently?”
“Yeah, one of our regular customers told me he saw a lot of police cars arrive in the morning, and he watched them go into the building with Mr. Peck, the museum security guard.”
“And who was that that told you this information?”
“His name's Jerry. He works at the newsstand down the street. He comes in every morning for a couple of cups of coffee before he goes to work.”
“Ms. Holmes, do you mostly serve regular customers throughout the night?”
“Half and half. People move. There are a lot of customers who I've never seen before.” Joanna drank through her straw, her eyes fixed on the surface of her Diet Coke as it dropped down around the ice cubes.
“Ms. Holmes, how long have you worked here at the Outcast Cafe?”
“Three years or so.”
“Always the same shift?”
“Yep. I make pretty good money, and it allows me to do my other job during the day.”
“You said you're a hair stylist?”
“Yeah, I work at Look-See Designs from 11:00 a.m. until 3:00 or 4:00 p.m., Wednesday through Saturday.”
“Wow. You're a busy woman. Can you recall; were there any Asian men in here the night of the murder?”
“I couldn't say. I see so many faces, and I can't really remember where I see one or another.”
“Do you remember Mr. Peck, the guard at the museum, coming over for a cup of coffee?”
“Oh yeah, he comes over and fills his thermos pretty regularly. He comes in for a few minutes, fills his thermos, and is out the door.”
“Would you remember roughly what time that would have been?”
“No, but if you check the phone records, you could probably figure it out, or the cash register receipt on the roll,” Joanna explained.
“Why the phone records?”
“Because he always calls first if he's going to fill his thermos. That way we start a fresh pot for him.”
“So he doesn't have to wait.”
“Right.”
“Stephanie was kind enough to bring over some receipts from a couple of nights ago. If you were to look at them, do you think that might help you put a face to the ticket?” Cale asked.
“Probably.”
Cale spun the tickets around so Joanna could read them. Joanna put her soda down and pulled the tickets towards her. She glanced at the first ticket and flipped to the second and then through the rest of the stack. She moved to the second pile of tickets and started nodding.
“Are there any regulars there?”
Joanna nodded, returned to the first group of tickets, and fanned them like a hand of cards. “There are five regulars here that go weeks at a time eating the same thing every time they come in. Then one day when they're sick of it, they change to something else, and they'll order that for a couple of weeks, and so on. These others,” she flipped through the tickets, “this ticket is two couples who came in after spending too much time at the refreshment bar during intermission at the ballet and came in for food and coffee at eleven. This second ticket was a couple negotiating an affair. He wanted out. This one, he didn't like his steak sandwich, so I took it back, and he reordered pastrami with cheddar cheese on sourdough with clam chowder instead of fries. He was very apologetic and tipped big for my trouble. There are ten tickets here that were at the counter. I don't usually deal with them much unless they ask for something while I'm behind the counter, then I turn around and give it to them and carry on with my stuff.” She grabbed the second stack of tickets and began going through them.
“Could you put a check mark in the upper right corner if they're regulars and focus more on the ones you are not so familiar with? Tell me some things about them.”
Joanna searched the tickets, checking six and hesitating on one with her pen on the receipt.
Cale watched her and asked, “Is that face not coming to you?”
“No, that's not it. He's not really a regular. He comes in periodically, once every couple months or so,” she explained.
“And you remember him?”
“Yeah, a month ago he was here sitting in the back booth, shaking and crying. He sat back there for a long time drinking black coffee. I saw him a couple weeks ago, and he apologized for making a scene. It was no big deal really, but he stuck in my mind. He was here early in the morning yesterday; an older guy, maybe fifty, fifty-five, sixty. He was really quiet, watching his watch.”
“Do you know his name?”
“I don't ask. That usually leads men down the wrong path. You know what I mean?”
Cale nodded.
Joanna flipped through the rest of the tickets. “Lots of these tickets are at the counter. The rest of them, I basically seated, took their orders, and gave the tickets to Zireena. She trained that morning. I don't remember much.”
“This might sound like an odd thing to ask for, but if you think of any regulars who have skipped their routine or it changes this week, anything out of the ordinary, could you write it down and give me a call when it's convenient.” Cale pulled out one of his cards and handed it to Joanna. “You could do me a really big favor by taking a copy of these receipts home with you and giving me some personal descriptions of all these people—names if you know them or can get them. Don't worry about those who paid with plastic; I can get all the information I need on them. It's the ones who paid with cash that I want you to focus on. If you can remember what they wore, whether they were happy or mad, whatever. It could really help me eliminate some possibilities. The ticket of the fifty-something guy, I'm interested to know what he looks like, what he was wearing, and what kind of person you think he is, same thing with the other regulars.”
Joanna vacuumed the bottom of her soda glass and looked at Cale, “You weren't just checking Mr. Peck's story. You think the murderer was here, don't you?”
“I don't know that. I just got the case this morning, so I don't know very much. But if I was waiting for the museum to open, or close, or wait for a particular event to occur, such as Mr. Peck calling in his coffee order, this is were it would happen. For instance, and this is just one of many scenarios, I would wait for the call for coffee, get up, and get into position. Peck leaves the museum. Now there's nothing stopping the perpetrator from getting into the museum. I'm just trying to be thorough in the gathering of information while it remains fresh in people's minds.”
Joanna nodded and put her soda on the table.
“Joanna Holmes, thank you for your time. If I need to ask you any more questions, can I reach you through the café here?” asked Cale.
“Sure. Just have someone give me a call, and I'll try and make arrangements. If there's a problem or something comes to mind, I have your card.”
Cale turned off the recorder, leaned back, reaching for his wallet, and reminded Joanna, “And if you could see to those descriptions.”
“Yeah, I'll probably do them tonight here at work, and you can pick them up tomorrow if you like.”
Stephanie walked over with Joanna's plate, picked up Cale's check and cash, and asked, “All done?’
“Yeah, for now, I guess. Thanks. Do you mind giving me a receipt?”
“No problem, Detective. Joanna, do you want some more soda?”
“Yes, thanks.”
Cale began to pick up his things, including some photos of the crime scene and a shot of the victim in the morgue on top. The victim had been cleaned up; his eyes were closed and his mouth was cleaned out and shut. A light blue sheet covered his chest, and the blue sheet of his bed cropped the photo.
Joanna looked over her shoulder, making sure Stephanie was out of earshot, and asked Cale, “Is that a picture of the dead guy?”
Cale looked at Joanna, nodded, and said, “Yep.” He wondered if he should show her the picture and sympathetically asked, “Woul
d it bother you to look at the photo? Maybe see if you recognize him?”
Joanna smiled coyly, “I've already seen it. No, it wouldn't bother me.”
Cale opened the folder and turned the photo around for Joanna to look at properly.
Joanna leaned forward, and took a good look, then shook her head slowly, and replied, “I don't recognize him. Sorry.”
Cale closed the folder, “If anything strikes you, you've got my number.”
“Yep, I got it.”
“Will you be able to duplicate these tickets here, or should I take care of it?” Cale asked.
“No. There's a copier here. I can do it. Good luck with the case.”
“Thanks. I'll see you around.” Cale got up and shook hands with Joanna. As he walked out of the café, he said thanks again and waved good-bye to Stephanie.
It was dark. A loose newspaper parted and blew around in swirls. One sheet of newspaper was abruptly tossed up by a passing car and then by a bus. The paper looked alive, dodging automobiles and racing around in the street. Cale turned up his collar and walked back to his car in the museum parking lot. On his way home he played the recordings of both the guard and now Ms. Holmes.
Cale parked his car on the street in front of his second-story flat. He put the recorder in his pocket, stacked the two boxes of evidence, and carried them upstairs. He put the two boxes on a table in the living room separated from the kitchen by a wall. On his way to the fridge he habitually pushed the button on his answering machine, not noticing that the light wasn't flashing.
“There are no new messages.”
Cale grabbed a beer, poured it into a frosty mug from the freezer, walked into the living room, and opened a set of curtains. A sliding glass door to a small balcony overlooked the street. Cale took a deep breath and stood very still, assessing his renewed position. Cale moved back to the table and cleared everything off except his laptop computer and the two boxes. He spread the victim's clothing out, peeled open a plastic bag labeled “effects-pocket contents,” and poured it out on the man's pants. On his computer Cale listed the items. He compared his list to the one from the lab; pocket knife, lighter, small silk pouch with magnifying glass in a silver stand, one pack of Korean cigarettes called “This,” a black leather belt, money listed as travelers checks and three currencies—U.S. dollars, Korean won, and Indonesian rupee. Cale added coral sand in the man's shoes to the list. He picked up the silk pouch, emptied the magnifying monocle in his hand, and rolled it around. Remembering the two red stones in his pocket, he stood up and pulled them out, rolling them like dice out on the table. Cale reached for a nearby lamp and brought it close. Placing the magnifying glass over one of the stones, he peered down through the monocle. The stone blazed blood red with incandescence in the center. Cale was stunned by the amount of detail he could see in the stone. He got up, went to a utility drawer in the kitchen, pulled out an empty film container, placed his two red stones in it, and snapped the lid down, then returned to his table. Looking again at the pocket contents list, he said to himself, “You don't have a wallet, or it was stolen. No car keys, no house keys, no cell phone, and no beeper. You have a lighter, and a pocketknife, and a monocle. You're meeting someone in the museum to collect these stones. The guy gives them to you, and you use the magnifying glass to make sure the stones are what you wanted. You get killed, but the murderer doesn't take the stones or the money, unless there was something else, something more valuable. He's searching for something else—there's no time—not money and not stones. The murderer hates you enough to kill you. Could it be a crime of passion?” Cale laughed at himself and exclaimed, “All crimes are passionate.”