The afternoon sun bore down overhead as they crossed the street. It was nothing like the oppressive heat that made a steel-and-concrete jungle absolutely unbearable during the months of July and August, but it was enough to remind Larkin he was very fair-skinned and hadn’t ever known a tan. He passed the church proper and led the way to the front doors of the community hall. To the left was a wall-mounted sign that displayed a welcome message, a relatable Bible verse, and the days and times the kitchen was open to those in need. Larkin grabbed the handle, pulled the door open, and motioned Doyle to step inside.
The hall was brightly lit with fluorescent overheads and full of foldable round tables that reminded Larkin of high school cafeterias, although these were covered with blue dining cloths. The room was still busy with guests of nearly every age and ethnicity: single mothers with children too young for school; the elderly in sweaters and light coats, despite the warm summer day; a table of troublemaking-looking teenagers wearing an abundance of torn jeans and black, their alternative hair likely styled with office supplies versus costly product, as well as a table of men who’d isolated themselves from the rest of the crowd—Larkin suspected they were the ones who spent actual nights on the street. A buffet on the left side of the hall was staffed by several individuals wearing aprons and hairnets, dishing out a lunch of baked chicken and rice, a side of mixed vegetables, and fresh fruit—Bosc pears, by the looks of them. The commotion of dozens of conversations—English, Spanish, Chinese, Urdu, and Larkin was pretty sure he picked up some Greek and Polish too—seemed to vibrate the room, but the second dose of Xanax was keeping the noise to a manageable level.
Barely, anyway.
Larkin headed toward the buffet and said to an older woman with graying locs, “I’m looking for whoever might be in charge.”
She pushed a pair of glasses up the bridge of her nose with a knuckle. “And who might you be?”
Larkin retrieved his badge and quickly, discreetly, flashed his identification, as he didn’t want to unsettle any of the guests by his presence. “Detective Everett Larkin, Cold Case Squad.”
The woman shared a slightly suspicious look with the tall, gangly man at her side who’d been serving rice, and then she pointed a gloved hand across the dining hall and said, “Noel Hernandez is the operations manager for the kitchen.”
Larkin turned on his heel and looked in the direction she pointed just as the man in question, who appeared to be making the rounds and checking on some of the seniors scattered throughout the hall, glanced their direction. From the corner of Larkin’s eye, the woman was waving Hernandez over, which he acknowledged and began to weave through the tables toward them.
Noel Hernandez was Larkin’s age and roughly the same height and build. His dark brown, almost black hair was styled in an edgy undercut, and he wore his facial hair in a short, well-groomed boxed beard. Hernandez had on a pair of gray trousers and an almost saffron-colored button-down—no tie. “Welcome to St. Jude’s Mission,” he said with a big smile. “Can I help you gentlemen?”
Larkin once again removed his badge. “Detective Everett Larkin, Cold Case Squad. My partner, Ira Doyle. May we speak with you somewhere private.”
“What’s this about?”
“If we can take this elsewhere,” Larkin said again.
“Sure… okay.” His tone was still polite, despite his obvious confusion.
Hernandez led the way through a pair of swinging doors and into a kitchen that smelled overwhelmingly like the canned mixed vegetables being served, grease, and dish soap. On Larkin’s right, an industrial dishwasher roared and a high-powered spray hose competed for attention as a short, chubby man loosened food debris from massive baking sheets. A woman in chef whites was loudly discussing tomorrow’s menu with two prep cooks, and on the far left, near a walk-in fridge, a petite woman dropped an armful of pots and pans.
Larkin visibly jumped.
“Somewhere a bit quieter?” Doyle called, touching Larkin’s elbow discreetly.
Hernandez headed toward a back door and outside into a narrow alleyway—a gate on the right led to the sidewalk, and the left appeared to access the churchyard. They were shaded by an ancient-looking dogwood, its white flowers still clinging to branches in late May. The kitchen access door closed behind Doyle and the grounds were suddenly still, serene, like the hustle and bustle of the city that’d grown up around St. Jude’s couldn’t penetrate its invisible force field.
Larkin took a slow breath.
The street gate groaned loudly before slamming shut. All three turned.
“What’re you doing, Courtney?” Hernandez asked.
A young woman—maybe a college student volunteering in her free time—startled and squeaked. “Oh! I’m—uh—taking out the trash.”
“That’s Nate’s job,” Hernandez replied.
“I was just helping.”
“All right. Go help inside, please.” He waited until she’d scurried past them and disappeared through the door, before saying, “Another vape break. These kids think just because it tastes like mango, it ain’t gonna kill them…. Anyway, what can I help the boys in blue with? You’ll have to forgive me, I don’t have much time—we serve between five and eight hundred meals a day. We’re pretty busy here.”
“I understand, Mr. Hernandez,” Larkin answered. “How long have you worked for St. Jude’s Mission.”
He laughed, and it had an airy, carefree sense about it. “Am I under investigation? Our food is donated by neighboring restaurants, stores, and upstate farms. I assure you, we’re not stealing our chicken and rice.”
“I suspected no such thing,” Larkin replied. “I’m merely establishing basic personal information relevant to my interview.”
Hernandez gave Larkin a skeptical once-over. “I’ve been the operations manager for three years. Before that, I worked as a line cook for the kitchen. And before that, prep. Before that? Dishes. St. Jude’s is very important to me. I want to return the kindness the church showed me as a boy.”
“You were a guest,” Larkin asked.
“That’s what I said.”
