Chapter 7 - Closed for Repairs
The photographs in the complaint were old. The gas problem wasn't.
That was the part I couldn't argue away.
The inspector found a corroded connector behind the kitchen range and a damaged emergency-exit latch that didn't release smoothly. Both needed attention. He ordered us to stop cooking until the gas line was repaired, the system tested, and the exit fixed.
Denise stood beside me while I signed the closure notice.
“Marco's contractor said he checked the gas line last month,” she said.
“Do we have proof?”
“A paid invoice. No actual inspection report.”
“Then we close.”
I could practically hear the cash register shutting down. Friday reservations were full, a wedding rehearsal dinner was scheduled for Saturday, and the health inspector's notice would spread on local social media in minutes. The other restaurants could handle some canceled bookings, but not all. Every choice had a price.
We called customers, issued refunds, and found a licensed contractor with availability the following morning. Frank advised us to preserve the old vendor invoice and to avoid publicly accusing anyone of sabotaging the equipment. The defects might be old neglect. A fraudulent complaint didn't make the unsafe connector less real.
At seven, Marco called.
“Trouble with the kitchen, I hear.”
I put the phone on speaker with Frank in the room. “Please direct any employment questions to your attorney.”
“Funny thing about restaurants. You need someone who knows where the shutoff valves are.”
“We have a licensed technician.”
“I could have you open by breakfast. Bring my contract back and stop this ridiculous audit.”
“I won't trade employee safety for a reopening date.”
He chuckled. “You weren't worried about safety when you signed the purchase paperwork.”
My face burned. He had found the sore spot and pressed it.
“You're right,” I said. “I should have checked more. I'm checking now.”
The silence was so complete I thought he'd hung up.
“You'll lose the whole chain,” he said finally.
“That's possible.”
“And you'll blame me.”
“I'll blame whoever the records show is responsible. Including myself where I was wrong.”
I ended the call and saved the recording that our phone system had made with the required notice at the beginning. Frank made a note for the investigators. We didn't call the exchange a confession. It wasn't one.
When I went outside, employees had gathered beneath the awning in the rain. Felipe held his bicycle helmet. Patrice held the week's shift schedule, now mostly crossed out. Rosa had come by to collect her belongings; she stood apart from the group with her arms folded.
“We're paying scheduled hours for the closure period,” I told them. “That's coming from the reserve. Nobody has to use vacation time to cover it. Denise will offer temporary shifts at other locations if you want them, with transportation paid.”
Patrice frowned. “For how long?”
“Three days to start. If repairs take longer, we'll tell you the truth as soon as we know it.”
“Not a promise you can't keep?”
“No.”
A younger server named Mia asked if the company would give her written confirmation, because she had a landlord who didn't accept verbal reassurances. Denise had brought printed letters with contact information, and handed them out.
For the first time that week, I heard a staff member say thank you. It should not have made me feel relieved. Paid hours and honest information were the minimum.
Later that night, Felipe sent Denise a photograph from the security log of a commercial van loading boxes near Storage B two evenings before the audit began. He'd been sweeping the alley when he noticed the same company logo on the van used for Marco's private catering deliveries.
“Don't chase it,” I told Denise. “Save the original file. We'll give it to Jonah and the detective.”
The photo showed a worker lifting a large cardboard box. Written on the side, in black marker, were the words EVENT RECORDS — ARCHIVE.
The man holding the van door wore a light blue sleeve. I magnified it, then stopped myself. Sleeves weren't evidence of a person's identity.
But Jonah had something stronger.
He called just before midnight. His team had received records from the delivery vendor under a signed authorization. The boxes had been billed as document disposal. The work order listed the person who requested the pickup.
May you like
It wasn't Marco.
It was Celia Baird.
