When You See Me (Detective D.D. Warren #11)(60)

D.D. pulled out her small notepad. “I’m going to need your full legal names and photo IDs.”

“Why?” Cook asked.

“Because I said so.”

“I got breakfast to prep.”

“Don’t worry, once the guests hear the news, they won’t be hungry.”

The cook glared at D.D. The two younger girls sat in silence on the wooden bench. D.D. didn’t like it. In her experience, employees talked. Especially the younger generation who barely recognized authority figures and had plenty to say about anyone who thought they were above them.

This . . . this was creepy.

Kimberly moved away from D.D.’s side. She drifted along the edge of the massive stainless-steel prep table, which was covered in flour and a pale mound of dough. The FBI agent conducted a brief inspection of the heavy door for the walk-in fridge, followed by a cursory exam of the commercial-grade dishwasher, complete with a stainless-steel hood and plastic conveyor belt for marching lines of dirty plates quickly and efficiently through boiling-hot spray.

She was drawing attention away, making it difficult for the cook and her younger charges to know where to focus.

“Legal name,” D.D. spoke up sternly. She bore her gaze into the cook. As the boss woman did, so the others would follow.

“I like Cook. Been Cook for thirty years and four marriages, God rest their miserable souls.”

Four marriages, D.D. thought. Four men had endured this delightful attitude?

“Well, Cook, I hear they’re always looking for help in county lockup. Though I don’t think you get to start out running the kitchen. You’ll have to work up to the position. You may find the auditioning process . . . different . . . than what you’re used to.”

The cook glared at her.

“I have all day. Do you?”

“Mary!” she said at last. “My legal name is Mary Theresa Josephina Smith.”

“Seriously?”

“Shut up!”

The older maid, Hélène, shifted slightly, the first sign of life from the woman. Repressing a smile at her boss’s expense or flinching from fear of future reprisal? Too hard to tell.

“Photo ID?” D.D. demanded.

“In my room. I’ll fetch it later.”

D.D. turned to Mayor Howard’s niece. “Your name?”

“She can’t talk,” Cook said.

“Does she have photo ID?” D.D. hated addressing her questions back to the cook. It felt disrespectful, especially as she was convinced the girl understood everything just fine.

The cook shrugged. “No driver’s license, since she can’t drive. But there’s probably a birth certificate. Mrs. Counsel . . .” For the first time, the cook wavered. If D.D. hadn’t believed the woman was carved of granite, she would’ve thought the cook was upset. “Mrs. Counsel kept track of those sort of things. She took care of everyone.”

D.D. wasn’t sure what to make of that. Genuine care? Or control? Because employees who didn’t have access to their own ID raised red flags in the law enforcement world.

“She has my papers,” Hélène spoke up suddenly. Her voice was hoarse, as if she didn’t use it much. D.D. realized Mayor Howard’s niece had turned slightly, the side of her hand lightly touching Hélène’s. Lending strength? A show of unity? D.D. quickly returned her attention to Hélène’s face, before she gave them away.

“Do you know where she keeps them?” D.D. asked.

“No. My full name is Hélène Tellier,” the woman delivered with an exotic lilt that spoke of faraway lands and hot, sandy beaches.

“Why did Mrs. Counsel have your papers?” Kimberly spoke up. She had moved all the way behind them, forcing the three interview subjects to twist awkwardly. The cook glowered, clearly not liking such tricks in her own kitchen.

“Our rooms . . .” Hélène didn’t seem to know what to say. She glanced timidly at the cook. “Our rooms are simple. We don’t have any place to store . . . valuables.”

“Your rooms aren’t safe?” D.D. pressed.

Hélène shook her head quickly, then gave up and stared at her feet. Another small movement: the niece covering the trembling maid’s hand with her own.

“All right.” D.D. squatted down until she was eye level with the silent niece. “I’m not calling you Girl. Do you have a name? Maybe we can find it in Mrs. Counsel’s papers.”

The girl shrugged, as if D.D.’s guess was as good as anyone’s.

“Do you remember your family?” D.D. asked softly. “Your mother, your father?”

Another small shrug. D.D. glanced to where the girl’s hands rested on the bench. But the girl didn’t offer any fingers in coded reply. She just looked sad and hopeless. A child resigned to her fate.

“Bonita,” D.D. said softly. “It’s the Spanish word for pretty. What do you think? I’ll call you Bonita.”

Another harrumph from the cook.

The girl kept her gaze on D.D. She reached up and lightly touched her own face, brushing her hand across the ridged scar furrowing into her hairline, then her drooping left eyelid, sagging lip.

D.D. didn’t need a code to understand what the girl was trying to say. She captured the girl’s hand between her own.