Page 2 of Justice Delayed

“Do you mean a reward?” Maybe this story wouldn’t turn out so bad after all. A regular customer thwarting a robbery in such an unusual manner would play well. He’d also do some digging into Veer Patel before he questioned the son. Something about Veer working during all three incidents was one coincidence too many in Brogan’s book.

“Reward?” Mr. Patel laughed. “Yes, I will give her reward even though she’s like an employee.”

“Employee?” Brogan frowned. “I thought she was a customer.”

“No. She cleans. Every Friday overnight.”

“She works for you one night a week?”

“Didn’t I just say?” Mr. Patel called out a hello as a burly man walked in and headed straight for the fountain drinks. “I hired company, Squeaky Clean, and they send her. First time she cleaned, I call manager and tell him to only send her. So she cleans my store once a week for six months. Very good worker. My store sparkles. Good for customer service.”

As Mr. Patel chatted with the burly man and rang up the customer’s purchases, Brogan took the opportunity to check his phone for messages. Nothing. He wasn’t expecting anything big to break, not with much of the greater DC area on vacation. But all he needed was that one story to catapult him back into the big leagues.

Mr. Patel waved goodbye to the customer. “Any other questions?”

“Just one.” Brogan poised his pen over the notebook. “What’s her name?”

“Mel Harman.” Mr. Patel gestured toward the door. “You can meet her. She just pulled into parking lot.”

* * *

Melender Harman puther Honda Accord into park outside the Kwikie Mart and checked the dashboard clock. Four-thirty. Good, she’d have enough time after her visit with Mr. Patel to stop by the grocery store down the street before starting her overnight shift. She enjoyed the solitary nature of her job, cleaning stores and offices while most of the world slept. Tonight, she had a new client on her list, which meant Squeaky Clean’s owner, Janice Butram, would be sending along another cleaner to keep them on schedule.

Melender, who had shortened her unusual first name to Mel at her job to avoid questions about its origin and to camouflage her background, stepped into the convenience store, the overhead bell announcing her entrance. Behind the counter, Mr. Patel chatted with a tall, handsome blond man wearing jeans and a faded t-shirt. The man held a small notebook and fastened his gaze in her direction when she entered.

“Miss Mel.” Mr. Patel slipped around the end of the counter and approached, a broad smile on his lined face.

Melender lifted her own lips into an answering grin. The joy on the older man’s face made it impossible not to return his greeting in kind. “Mr. Patel, Janice said you wanted to see me. Is everything okay?”

Mr. Patel grabbed her hand and pumped it up and down. “Everything fine, thanks to you.” Not letting go of her hand, he turned to the man at the counter. “I was telling Mr. Gilmore about what you did last night in—what was word you said?”

Mr. Gilmore smiled. “Foil.”

Mr. Patel nodded. “Yes, foil robbery attempt.”

Melender gently freed her hand from Mr. Patel’s grip and looked from one man to another. “It was nothing.”

“It was not nothing!” Mr. Patel slapped his hand on the counter.

Melender automatically stepped back as her heart rate skyrocketed.There’s no danger. You’re not inside anymore. Nothing to fear here.But no matter what she told herself, the scent of danger hovered in the air. If she sniffed, she would smell its familiar tang, a mixture of sweat, fear, and power.

“Mr. Gilmore is writing about your story forNorthern Virginia Herald.”

No, no, no!“I didn’t do anything special. And I’d rather not have my name mentioned.”

“It is okay,” Mr. Patel nodded. “I spoke with Ms. Butram. She said it would be okay to have company name and your name in article.”

Melender didn’t alter her expression. Of course the owner of Squeaky Clean wouldn’t mind free publicity, never mind that Melender wanted to fly under the radar. An article, even in a regional paper like theNorthern Virginia Herald, could shift the spotlight back on her.

“Mr. Patel told me what you did, chucking a two-liter bottle of soda at the would-be robber.” The reporter studied her with knowing blue eyes that weren’t buying her false humility act for one second. The scent the reporter smelled wasn’t danger but a scoop. She’d seen that lean, hungry look in the courtroom too often to mistake it now.

The name Brogan Gilmore had a familiar ring to it. She rarely read the news these days, so she hadn’t recognized his name from seeing it online on theHeraldsite.

“What kind of soda was it?”

“I’m sorry, what?” She’d lost track of the conversation. Not a smart move, given the very real danger the man posed.

“The two-liter. What brand was it?”

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