Chapter 3 - The Badge and the Reckoning
The dining room went so silent you could hear the hum of the ice machine in the kitchen.
Kyle froze. The smirk on his face didn’t vanish all at once; it dissolved slowly, morphing into a sickening mask of disbelief. "Frank...? No. No, that's impossible. Frank is in Florida looking at vacation properties."
"Frank was in a thrift store on 8th Street two hours ago," I replied evenly, standing up to my full six-foot height. I didn't stoop anymore. I didn't tremble. I rolled back my shoulders, brushing the dust from my knees.
Chloe’s jaw dropped. She gripped the hostess podium as if the floor had tilted beneath her feet. "M-Mr. Vance...?"
From the swinging kitchen doors, Marcus, the veteran line cook who had whispered the warning to me two days ago, poked his head out. When he saw me standing tall, a wide, knowing grin spread across his sweat-stained face. He quietly crossed his arms and leaned against the stainless-steel prep table, watching the show.
"Listen to me, Frank—sir," Kyle stuttered, his hands coming up in a placating gesture. He backed up toward the counter, his foot discreetly trying to slide the skimmer and the thick envelope under the baseboard. "This is... this is a massive misunderstanding! We get vagrants coming in off the avenue every week trying to harass the customers. I was just protecting the brand! I didn't recognize you under... under all that dirt!"
"You didn't recognize me because you never look at anyone unless they're wearing a thousand-dollar watch, Kyle," I said, stepping forward. "Don't touch that envelope. If you kick it again, I’ll add tampering with evidence to the charges."
Sirens wailed in the near distance, growing louder with terrifying speed.
Amber was still kneeling on the floor, looking between me and the phone in my hand, totally bewildered. "You're... you're Mr. Vance? The owner?"
I reached down with both hands, took her trembling fingers, and lifted her gently to her feet. "I am, Amber. And you are the only person in this front room who still has a job."
Two police cruisers screeched to a halt outside the floor-to-ceiling front windows, their red and blue lights painting the dining room walls in sharp, flashing strokes. Two uniformed officers stepped through the front door, hands resting casually near their utility belts.
The lead officer was Sergeant Tom Miller—a man who had been eating my mother’s chicken pot pie since we opened fifteen years ago.
"Got a call about an assault—" Tom started, then stopped dead in his tracks, staring at me in my tattered rags and grease-stained face. "Frank? What in the hell happened to you? Did you get mugged?"
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"Not mugged, Tom," I said, pointing straight at Kyle, who was sweating through his pressed blue dress shirt. "Just enlightened. Arrest this man for battery. Then call the financial crimes unit. We’re going to need an evidence bag."
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