Page 7 of Pike’s Redemption

“I’m going to need you to dig deeper into the records from foster care. Dig hard.” I examined my hair in the mirror over the dresser for a second. “He mentioned two people from his stint in prison. Virgil Holder and a guard named O’Conner. I need everything you can find on them. Last known whereabouts, money trails, all of it.”

“Sure, no problem,” she said, coming over to play with the ends of my hair. “You should let me cut in some bangs. You’d look cute with some soft layered bangs framing your face.”

“Yeah?” I considered. “Okay. Sure.” It was just hair. If she messed it up, it’d grow back. Right? How bad could it be?

“Don’t look so scared. It’ll be great.”

Twenty minutes later, I had layered bangs, just like she said, that fell just above my eyebrows. She was right. They were a nice look. “Thanks, Ronnie. You did a great job.” I stopped her as she turned, holding her wrist gently, careful not to bruise her. “Be careful when you work, okay? Cover your tracks,” I cautioned. In the whole world, no one mattered more to me than my little sister.

“I will, Nat. I’m good at what I do. Lots of practice.” She gave me a sad smile. She had a lot of practice, but at least she’d found something to occupy her time while cooped up.

?

I pushed open the door to the Odd Duck diner, the sound of the bell above the door announcing my arrival. Diners had their own distinct smells: syrup, waffles, and bacon. Those comforting smells hit you immediately to ease the tension and make you relax. That sound of sizzling and the slam of pans from the kitchen. The diner bustled with activity, even though the lunch rush had already passed.

The Duck still had a lunch counter, which I imagined was standard for diners in the 50s, but I loved the idea of being up close to the action of the kitchen and the wait staff and away from the main floor of the other diners. Hopping onto a stool near the swinging door and the cash register, I picked up a menu. There was no reason to starve myself just because I was working.

The kitchen pass-through showed an active kitchen with a burly-looking cook barking orders at someone I couldn’t quite see—a prep cook, maybe? Daisy, the waitress I was here to see, was pouring coffee for a table in a far corner. It looked like I might have to have some patience. Was she the only one here serving? Looked like it.

A few minutes later, she emerged around the corner, her breathless arrival adding to her charm. “Welcome to the Duck. What can I get started for ya’?” she asked, her voice as warm as her smile. Her copper-red hair and freckles only added to her beauty. She seemed to be about my age, I guessed. Just as I was about to respond, the kitchen door swung open, and a blond figure stepped out, one of the diner tees knotted at her waist. Another server, perhaps. Daisy’s head whipped towards the other girl. “Yay! Glad you made it!” Her face broke into a grin before turning back to me. “That’s my relief,” she said with another giant grin. “She’ll take over for me, but I’ll take your order.”

“I’ll have onion rings and a chocolate malt, and I have some questions I need to ask when you have a few minutes,” I added the last apologetically. I hated to do it after she’d been so friendly, but I had to.

“Questions? About the menu?” Her nose wrinkled as she stared at me, puzzled.

“Pike.” There was no reason to beat around the bush.

“Ah.” There was a wealth of understanding in that word. Other people had been asking around about Pike. Gossiping maybe. Were the police already here asking her? Her face closed down, and the friendly light in her eyes banked.

“I’m Pike’s lawyer, Natasha Petrova.” I pushed a card over the counter to her embossed with my name and number. She looked warily at it. “Also, I’m Dimitri Volkov’s cousin. You can call either of them and verify,” I added with a wink. Her face immediately relaxed.

“Phew, girl, you scared the heck out of me.” She popped a hand on one hip and blew her lips out. “Everyone has been down my throat about Pike.” Her cheeks immediately reddened as if realizing the sexual innuendo.

“I get it.” I laughed.

"He mentioned he was here around eleven and stayed past midnight. I'm trying to verify his alibi for the night before the body was found in Morinrock, so the 22nd.” She looked cautious again, so I added quickly. “You could call him to double-check that it’s okay and for the case. He knows I’m here.”

“I don’t need to call. He was here. I can get his receipt from that night if it’ll help. Pike paid the bill for the table and left a nice tip. He’s a good tipper,” she added. “Officer Macmillan said it didn’t matter. I already told them.”

“It matters. If I can establish this piece, then it will help a lot.” God, the Morinrock PD was dumb as a bag of rocks, or they just wanted a scapegoat because they were worried that they might get another body like the first. I suppose that was possible if they didn’t know who the actual killer was.

“Alright. Let me put in your order and get your food going. Then I’ll get those receipts. Just a sec.”

Daisy disappeared into the back, and I took a moment to look around the diner. It was cozy, with a checkered floor and a jukebox in the corner playing soft tunes.

A few minutes later, Daisy returned with a stack of receipts. "These are from the 23rd," she said, spreading them out on the counter. "You can look through them, but I remember Pike being here. He came in and sat in his usual booth. Had the chicken fried steak and a slice of apple pie. Stayed for a couple of hours and paid the whole ticket for the booth.” She quickly flipped through the receipts, and I wondered if I should help. Triumphantly, she spun a receipt toward me. “This is it.” Sure enough, there was a time stamp and Pike’s signature. This squarely put him in the diner.

I scanned a photo of the receipt and drop-boxed it into the file for Pike’s case. “Can I keep this?” I asked. “The original?”

“Sure. Let me get a copy to put with the receipts for the month. I’ll be back in a jiff.”

I fiddled with my phone while Daisy was gone, replying to business emails and a text from my mother, looking up only when the other waitress set down a towering basket of onion rings and a milkshake in front of me.

“So, you’re Natasha?” she asked. Her eyes were a startling shade of blue, but her earrings caught my attention. A tiny lumberjack hung from one ear and a chainsaw from the other.

“Yep. Nice earrings.”

“Thanks. I’m Helena.” She stuck out a hand for me to shake. “Nice to meet you. Thanks for coming.”

---