Chapter 2 - The Plate on the Sidewalk
Hollis Brennan did not ask Adeline many questions.
That was one of the reasons she trusted him.
People who saw someone living inside a car usually became curious in one of two ways.
Some wanted tragedy.
They wanted the dramatic details because another person's suffering made an interesting story.
Others wanted reassurance.
They wanted to hear that homelessness had happened because of some obvious mistake, some moral failure, some addiction or reckless decision that separated Adeline from people like them.
Hollis wanted neither.
He looked at her shoes.
Then at the sky.
“You eaten?”
Adeline almost smiled.
“I’m fine.”
“That wasn’t the question.”
Dale sighed.
“You might as well say yes. He’ll keep asking.”
Twenty minutes later, Adeline sat in a rear booth at Brennan’s with a plate of eggs, potatoes, and toast in front of her.
Hollis sat across from her.
Dale stood near the coffee machine.
On the table between them lay the fragments of the shattered porcelain plate.
Adeline had offered to help repair it.
Hollis had looked at her as if the suggestion were impossible.
“You know how?”
“No.”
“Then why’d you offer?”
“Because I’m fairly good at trying things I don’t know how to do.”
That made Dale laugh.
It was the first time Hollis smiled that morning.
Adeline ate slowly.
She had learned to do that when meals were uncertain.
Eating too quickly made hunger obvious.
Hollis noticed anyway.
“Cain threw you out of Sen?”
Adeline nodded.
“I found a wallet.”
“Whose?”
“I don’t know.”
“Money in it?”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
“I didn’t count.”
Dale leaned against the counter.
“You returned a wallet full of money while you’re sleeping in a car?”
Adeline stopped eating.
Embarrassment hardened her face.
Hollis turned toward his brother.
“Dale.”
“I’m not judging her.”
“It sounded like it.”
Dale raised his hands.
“I’m impressed.”
Adeline looked down at the plate.
“For about five minutes, I wasn’t sure I was going to return it.”
Hollis shrugged.
“That’s what makes returning it mean something.”
She looked at him.
He tapped the table.
“Being honest when temptation doesn’t exist isn’t much of an accomplishment.”
Adeline thought about that.
Hollis picked up one porcelain fragment.
“Did Cain know whose wallet it was?”
“I don’t think so.”
That was not completely true.
Something about Cain’s reaction after taking it had bothered her.
Not then.
Now.
He had wanted her gone too quickly.
He had not asked where exactly she found the wallet.
He had not checked for identification while she stood there.
He had simply taken it.
Adeline reached into her pocket.
“I accidentally kept this.”
She placed the damp receipt on the table.
Most of the print was unreadable.
The SEN logo remained visible near the top.
On the back were the markings.
B-17.
11:40.
M.K.
Dale leaned closer.
“What’s that?”
“No idea.”
Hollis looked at it.
“Could be a parking garage.”
Adeline folded the receipt again.
“I should probably return it.”
“To Cain?”
She hesitated.
“No.”
Hollis nodded approvingly.
“Good answer.”
The bell above Brennan’s front door rang.
A young woman entered carrying a cardboard box.
Marisol Reyes.
Her hair was loose around her shoulders.
She was wearing jeans and a sweater instead of her Sen uniform.
Adeline stood.
“What happened?”
Marisol looked at Hollis.
“Are you hiring?”
Adeline’s stomach dropped.
“You were fired.”
Marisol attempted a laugh.
“Technically I was told my services were no longer aligned with the hospitality standards of the company.”
“Because of me.”
“No.”
“Marisol—”
“Because Preston Cain is an ass.”
Dale coughed into his fist to hide a laugh.
Marisol set the box on a table.
Inside were her shoes, a water bottle, a photograph, and two server aprons.
“He waited until I finished closing.”
Adeline’s face tightened.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t.”
Marisol looked directly at her.
“Please don’t apologize for him.”
That sentence landed harder than Marisol intended.
Adeline looked away.
Hollis rubbed his chin.
“You know breakfast service?”
“Yes.”
“Lunch?”
“Yes.”
“Can you carry four plates?”
“Six.”
“You’re hired.”
Marisol blinked.
Dale turned.
“Hollis.”
“What?”
“We’re being forced out.”
“Then we apparently need excellent service while it happens.”
“Hollis—”
“I’m not dying today.”
His tone ended the discussion.
Marisol’s eyes filled.
She looked away before anyone could notice.
“You don’t even know me.”
“I know what you did last night.”
Hollis nodded toward Adeline.
“That’s enough for the first shift.”
Then he looked at Adeline.
“You wash dishes?”
“Yes.”
“You cook?”
“Yes.”
“How well?”
Adeline hesitated.
“Pretty well.”
“Then you’re hired too.”
She stared.
“I didn’t ask.”
“I know.”
“I can’t let you do that because you feel sorry for me.”
Hollis leaned back.
“Good, because I hate feeling sorry for people.”
Dale smiled.
“We’re short two people.”
“One,” Hollis corrected.
“Now we’re short one.”
Adeline looked around the restaurant.
The cracked vinyl booths.
The old photographs.
The faded menu board.
A place Preston Cain had described as lowering property values.
“What if the lease problem gets worse?”
Hollis picked up another piece of his father’s plate.
“Then we work until somebody physically carries the stove into the street.”
By noon, Adeline wore an apron.
By one o’clock, she had repaired a leaking sprayer beneath the sink with plumbing tape.
By three, Hollis discovered she could make hollandaise without measuring anything.
At four, Dale tasted a sauce she prepared from leftover tomatoes and stood silent for several seconds.
“What?”
Adeline asked.
“Where did you learn that?”
“My mother.”
“Your mother was a chef?”
“No.”
“Then where?”
Adeline returned to chopping onions.
“School.”
“What school?”
She did not answer.
Dale looked at Hollis.
Hollis gave him a warning glance.
Leave it.
So Dale did.
Across town, Martin Keller sat inside a conference room with financial records spread across two tables.
He had returned from Newark before sunrise.
Beside him was Rinaldi Holdings attorney Celia Ward.
Enzo stood at the window.
The acquisition documents for Bellweather Hospitality would become final in less than forty-eight hours.
Bellweather owned Sen.
It also controlled development options on fourteen Federal Hill properties.
Martin pushed a folder forward.
“This doesn’t make sense.”
Enzo turned.
“What?”
“Cain’s department has recommended purchases at inflated prices in three areas.”
“That sounds like incompetence.”
“It would.”
Martin opened another file.
“Except the properties Bellweather purchased cheaply are the ones later transferred into entities whose ownership is obscured.”
Celia looked up.
“Shell companies?”
“Probably.”
Enzo walked over.
“Probably isn’t useful.”
Martin slid another sheet toward him.
“These are lease renegotiations.”
Enzo read several names.
Brennan’s was among them.
“So he’s driving existing tenants out.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Martin pointed to a development map.
A section of Federal Hill was outlined in blue.
“Because somebody wants the entire block.”
Enzo stared.
Bellweather’s official redevelopment plan included only part of the area.
Cain’s internal notes included much more.
Brennan’s.
A tailor shop.
Two apartments.
A grocery store.
A bakery.
Small properties held by families who had occupied the neighborhood for decades.
“Who benefits?”
Martin took off his glasses.
“That’s where this gets strange.”
“Strange how?”
“Cain does not appear to own any of the purchasing entities.”
“Then someone above him does.”
“There shouldn’t be anyone above him with authority over those acquisitions.”
Enzo’s expression hardened.
Celia closed a folder.
“Unless someone is paying him from outside the company.”
Martin nodded.
“There’s more.”
He produced reimbursement records.
“Cain has been meeting repeatedly with Miles Keene.”
Enzo knew the name.
Keene was a commercial appraiser.
More importantly, he had been investigated three years earlier for manipulating values.
No charges had been filed.
“Why?”
“We don’t know.”
Enzo remembered the wallet.
“Find out.”
Martin hesitated.
“There’s one other thing.”
He handed Enzo a security report.
“Miles Keene was admitted to Rhode Island Hospital last night.”
Enzo looked up.
“What happened?”
“Assault.”
“Where?”
“One block from Sen.”
The room became quiet.
Bruno, standing near the door, straightened.
Enzo asked, “Time?”
“Approximately twenty minutes before the woman came into the restaurant with the wallet.”
That connected everything.
Enzo looked at Bruno.
“Find her.”
Bruno understood immediately.
“The woman?”
“Yes.”
“What do we know?”
“Wet coat. Brown hair. Late twenties. Worn shoes.”
Celia looked skeptical.
“That describes half the city in a storm.”
Enzo looked at Martin.
“And Cain fired the waitress.”
“How do you know?”
“I called Sen this morning.”
“Why?”
“To see what kind of man removes the only employee who behaved correctly.”
Enzo buttoned his coat.
“Her name is Marisol Reyes.”
Bruno reached for his phone.
“Where do you think she went?”
Enzo looked down at Cain’s lease list.
Brennan’s.
Something about the name reminded him of the two elderly men he had seen entering the building that morning.
“Start there.”
At Brennan’s, the lunch rush ended shortly after two.
Adeline stepped outside carrying trash.
A black sedan was parked across the street.
She noticed it because the engine remained running.
Then the rear door opened.
Enzo Rinaldi stepped out.
He wore the same old wool coat from Sen.
Adeline recognized him only vaguely.
One of the customers.
He crossed the street.
She held the trash bag against her hip.
“Can I help you?”
“I believe you can.”
Adeline immediately became cautious.
“Do I know you?”
“You were at Sen last night.”
“So were you.”
“Yes.”
He appreciated the answer.
“I saw what happened.”
Adeline tightened her grip on the bag.
“If you came to tell me I shouldn’t have been there—”
“I came to tell you the opposite.”
She studied him.
“Who are you?”
“Enzo Rinaldi.”
The name meant something even to her.
She had heard Hollis mention it once.
Everyone in Providence had.
She looked toward the black car.
Then at Bruno standing near it.
“What do you want?”
“The wallet.”
Adeline’s heart shifted.
“I returned it.”
“To Cain.”
“Yes.”
“Did you remove anything?”
Her eyes sharpened.
“No.”
“Did you see anything unusual?”
“Why?”
“Because the man who appears to have owned that wallet is in a hospital.”
Adeline’s face changed.
“He was attacked?”
“Yes.”
She thought of the money.
The receipt.
The marks written on the back.
Enzo watched her.
“You remembered something.”
“No.”
“Ms.—”
He stopped.
“I don’t know your name.”
“Adeline.”
“Adeline what?”
“Vance.”
“Ms. Vance, I’m not the police.”
“That doesn’t make me more comfortable.”
For the first time, Enzo almost smiled.
“Fair.”
Hollis opened the restaurant door.
“You bothering my dishwasher?”
Enzo turned.
Hollis froze.
Unlike Cain, he recognized Enzo immediately.
“Mr. Rinaldi.”
“Hollis Brennan.”
“You know me?”
“My father ate here.”
That surprised Hollis.
“Your father ate everywhere.”
“Not twice.”
Dale appeared behind him.
Marisol saw Enzo and stopped.
Enzo looked at her.
“You’re Ms. Reyes.”
She nodded cautiously.
“You were fired this morning.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because by Friday morning, the company that fired you will belong to me.”
Silence.
Marisol blinked.
“What?”
Adeline stared.
Enzo looked at all of them.
“I’m acquiring Bellweather Hospitality.”
Hollis’s expression darkened.
“Bellweather is the company trying to take our lease.”
“I learned that today.”
“You expect me to believe you didn’t know?”
“No.”
Enzo’s tone remained calm.
“I expect you not to believe anything until I prove it.”
That answer disarmed Hollis more than reassurance would have.
Enzo looked at Adeline.
“The wallet may be connected to what’s happening here.”
She reached slowly into her pocket.
“I kept something by accident.”
Everyone watched as she removed the folded receipt.
Enzo took it carefully.
He unfolded the wet paper.
B-17.
11:40.
M.K.
Bruno came closer.
Enzo looked at him.
“B-17.”
Bruno frowned.
“Bus station?”
“Locker?”
Marisol spoke.
“Parking garage.”
They turned.
She pointed uphill.
“The Mercer Garage has sections marked by letters. Basement level uses B.”
Enzo looked at the receipt again.
“Seventeen.”
Bruno was already reaching for his phone.
“I’ll check.”
Enzo stopped him.
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because if Cain is involved, he may already be watching it.”
Adeline looked at the writing.
“M.K.”
“Miles Keene,” Enzo said.
Her eyes lifted.
“The man in the hospital?”
“Yes.”
She suddenly understood why Cain had searched the wallet.
“He was looking for something.”
Enzo looked at her.
“How do you know?”
“He didn’t care about that wallet when I handed it to him.”
Her voice became more certain.
“He cared afterward.”
She described the way Cain had taken it.
How quickly he wanted her gone.
The anxiety she had only understood in hindsight.
Enzo listened.
When she finished, Hollis asked, “What the hell is happening?”
Enzo folded the receipt.
“I don’t know yet.”
He looked at the shattered porcelain pieces on a nearby table.
“What happened to the plate?”
Hollis said nothing.
Dale answered.
“Cain.”
Enzo stared at the fragments.
“He broke it?”
“Knocked it onto the floor.”
“Why?”
“Because my brother asked him to show some respect.”
Something changed in Enzo’s face.
Not anger exactly.
Something colder.
He looked toward Federal Hill.
Then at the restaurant Cain wanted removed.
A waitress Cain had fired.
A homeless woman he had humiliated.
A family heirloom he had destroyed.
Every person harmed had one thing in common.
Cain believed none of them mattered.
Enzo handed the receipt back to Adeline.
“Keep this.”
“Why?”
“Because he doesn’t know you have it.”
Adeline stared at him.
“That makes me uncomfortable.”
“It should.”
Hollis stepped closer.
“You bringing trouble into my restaurant?”
Enzo looked at him.
“No.”
He glanced toward the shattered plate.
“Trouble was already here.”
That evening, Preston Cain received photographs on his phone.
Adeline entering Brennan’s.
Enzo Rinaldi arriving.
The four of them speaking near the front entrance.
Cain enlarged the final photograph until Adeline’s face filled the screen.
His breathing slowed.
Then he dialed a number.
A man answered.
“You found her?”
“Yes.”
“Does she have the card?”
“I don’t know.”
Cain stared at Enzo in the photograph.
“But Rinaldi found her.”
The man cursed.
Cain closed his eyes.
By Friday, Enzo would own Bellweather.
If the card reached him before then, the redevelopment project would collapse.
Not merely collapse.
People would go to prison.
Cain opened another message.
MERCER GARAGE.
LOCKER B-17.
STILL SEALED.
He stood.
“Do nothing tonight.”
The man on the phone asked, “Why?”
“Because Rinaldi expects us to move.”
Cain picked up his coat.
“And if he expects us to go to the locker, we give him something else to watch.”
“What?”
May you like
Cain looked at Brennan’s lease termination file.
“The restaurant.”
