Chapter 3 - Six People Knew
The list had six names.
Julian Price, general manager.
Mara Keene, reservations director.
Caleb Stone, executive chef.
Theo Grant, maintenance supervisor.
Chloe Parker.
Me.
I laughed when Detective Hayes told me.
Not because anything was funny.
Because of course.
Six people knew.
I had been at Lumina for three years without so much as stealing a bread roll, and now my name was sitting on a list beside a possible child-abduction conspiracy.
Hayes saw my face.
“A list is not an accusation.”
“Feels adjacent.”
“It’s a starting point.”
“How did I know?”
“You were assigned VIP water service.”
“I learned that at six thirty.”
“Correct.”
“So unless I teleported three criminals into a fake ambulance—”
“Claire.”
“Sorry.”
Pain medication made sarcasm difficult to regulate.
Special Agent Bell sat in the chair near window.
He had explained why federal task force cared.
The stolen medical vehicle had crossed state lines.
Possible kidnapping conspiracy involving organized crime.
Vincent Moretti himself was already subject of an unrelated federal investigation.
That last part he stated carefully.
“Unrelated?”
“To tonight’s attempted crime, as far as we currently know.”
“You think he arranged attack on his own son?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“But you considered it.”
“We consider facts.”
Fair.
Then he asked:
“What did you know about Moretti before tonight?”
“Rumors.”
“What kind?”
“That he’s organized crime.”
“Anything specific?”
“No.”
“Ever served him before?”
“No.”
“Seen Leo?”
“No.”
“Any contact with Moretti employees outside Lumina?”
“No.”
Then:
“Your former partner David Wynn?”
My entire body tightened.
“How do you know David?”
“Standard background.”
“I’m witness.”
“And we’re mapping possible links.”
“He gambles.”
“What kind?”
“Anything that lets him lose money.”
“Sports?”
“Yes.”
“Online?”
“Yes.”
“Private bookmakers?”
“I don’t know.”
That was true.
David had been an expert at keeping details vague until bills arrived.
Two years earlier he left with:
Most of our joint savings.
My grandmother’s ring.
Three payday loans I did not know existed.
A promise he was “one good weekend” away from fixing everything.
He sold the ring.
I left him.
End.
Or so I thought.
Bell asked:
“Did he know where you work?”
“Yes.”
“Have contact recently?”
“No.”
“Phone records can verify?”
“If you have legal authority.”
He nodded.
Good answer, apparently.
Then Hayes shifted to Chloe.
“She says Julian told her to take the champagne tray through the east aisle.”
“That’s normal.”
“She says it wasn’t her section.”
I frowned.
Chloe usually worked west dining.
“She was covering?”
“She says Julian changed route five minutes before.”
“Why?”
“He told her VIP wanted champagne.”
“They already had champagne.”
“How know?”
“I walked past. Bottle in silver bucket.”
Hayes wrote.
Then:
“Did Chloe know Moretti reservation?”
“Maybe when she entered room. Everybody knows faces.”
“Before shift?”
“I don’t think.”
Then maintenance.
The brass strip.
Crime-scene technician found both securing screws had been deliberately removed.
No breakage.
No fatigue.
The underside contained traces of a clear gel-like substance that reduced friction.
I did not need chemistry.
Someone made it unstable.
Theo Grant, maintenance supervisor, had signed off on floor inspection at 4:45 p.m.
He told police strip was secure.
Camera footage showed him in east aisle at 5:02.
Then footage gap.
From 5:04 to 5:19, one camera went offline.
“Convenient,” I said.
Hayes:
“Very.”
“Did Theo shut it off?”
“Access logs show administrator credentials used.”
“Whose?”
“Julian Price.”
There.
First hard link.
But passwords can be shared.
No conviction by login alone.
Then Lumina event schedule.
Moretti reservation created by Mara Keene three days before.
Name field:
V.M. PRIVATE
Guest notes:
4 adults, 1 child.
East VIP booth.
Private entrance optional.
No publicity.
Six staff had access based job functions.
But at 3:17 that afternoon, someone exported the private-reservation sheet to PDF.
Login:
Julian Price.
At 3:22, it was printed from manager office.
Police found no copy.
Then loading-dock access.
An electronic gate had been opened at 8:03 using a one-time vendor code.
Who created code?
Julian’s manager account.
He told police:
“Probably assistant.”
No assistant had access.
I closed my eyes.
“It’s Julian.”
Hayes:
“It looks bad.”
“Looks worse than bad.”
“It’s still investigation.”
Special Agent Bell added:
“We need to know whether he acted alone, was coerced, or was compromised.”
Compromised.
Meaning debt.
Blackmail.
Threat.
Organized crime.
Then my phone vibrated on bedside table.
A message.
Unknown number.
I looked.
You always did like rescuing men with money.
I froze.
Only one person wrote like that.
David.
Another message:
Saw you on the news. Guess bleeding for mobsters pays better than waiting tables.
I handed phone to Hayes.
“That's my ex.”
Bell read without touching until I handed it voluntarily.
“Why now?”
“Because he’s an asshole.”
Then third message.
Tell Moretti he owes me too.
Bell’s eyes lifted.
“Why would Moretti owe David?”
“I have no idea.”
That was true.
But suddenly David was no longer only a bad memory.
He was another person who knew where I worked.
Another person with gambling debts.
May you like
And another person who apparently believed Vincent Moretti’s name had something to do with him.
Continue to the next chapter: Julian’s login had opened the loading dock for the fake ambulance and disabled the camera over the sabotaged floor, while Claire’s ex-boyfriend suddenly resurfaced with a message claiming Vincent Moretti “owed” him too.
