Caleb let out a short, dry laugh that made a woman two booths over look up from her Denver omelet. He reached out and tapped the edge of my saucer with a manicured finger.
“Arthur is a relic who still thinks a hand-delivered letter is a legal strategy,” Caleb said. “I know about the deed you took from Julian’s green backpack. My associates have already pulled the land registry records for Dearborn Street.”
The waitress approached our table with a fresh pot of coffee, her rubber-soled shoes squeaking on the linoleum. She looked at Caleb’s tailored coat and then at my faded yellow acrylic sweater.
“Can I get you something, sir?” she asked.
“No,” Caleb said, his eyes never leaving my face. “We are leaving in a minute.”
The waitress hovered for a second, her hand twitching toward her apron pocket, before she turned and walked back to the safety of the pie case.
“My father was seventy-two years old and his heart was failing,” Caleb said, leaning forward so that his face was only a foot from mine. “He was on three different sedatives during his final forty-eight hours. You knew he was dying, and you used your volunteer badge to get past the family visiting restrictions.”
