The Hidden

Braxton Hall was young, barely twenty-one. He’d been quarterback for his high school football team and had hoped to parlay that into a college scholarship and career. But a broken kneecap—the result of a skateboarding accident—had ruined that dream. Now he was attending a local junior college and working at the Moose Pot Pie.

Stan White was thirty, liked his job at the Moose Pot Pie—he’d told Diego at the onset that he intended to stay at the restaurant forever—and liked living close to Rocky Mountain National Park. He was also a great fan of recreational marijuana—a hindrance at the moment, since he just kept saying, “Oh man, not cool, not cool. Oh man, not cool.”

Diego seldom interviewed suspects or witnesses together. But he didn’t suspect either man of being guilty, and he hoped that something one said might trigger something important in the memory of the other.

Stan was slouched back in his chair, legs extended beneath the table. Braxton was sitting right up, hands slack in his lap, eyes red-rimmed.

“Cassandra was the best,” Braxton said.

“The Moose Pot Pie seems like a pretty laid-back place, but isn’t it unusual for restaurant workers to be bonded?” Diego asked him. “Did anyone mind?”

“If they minded, they could get a job somewhere else,” Braxton said. “The owner is a great guy, but he was ripped off by a manager about five years ago, so he started insisting that his employees be bonded. But he’s one of the best bosses out there. He doesn’t breathe over your shoulder, and he left Cassandra in charge most of the time and didn’t even come in. The guy’s name is Vince Guttenberg, in case you want to talk to him.”

“I know,” Diego told him. “And one of my colleagues is talking to him now. So you two were both there with Cassandra ’til the end of shift last night, right?”

“Yup,” Stan said.

“No, you cut out about a half hour early—your foot was hurting you,” Braxton reminded him.

“Oh, yeah, that’s right. Fell down my stairs last week and broke a little tiny bone in my foot,” Stan said. “Hurts like a mother. That’s why I’ve taken something for, you know, the pain.”

“Stan, being stoned is legal here,” Diego assured him. “It’s okay. I just need your help trying to find out what happened to her. Was anyone hanging around in the street when you left, like maybe they were waiting for her to come out? Did either of you see anybody watching her last night? Did she talk to anyone in the past few days who seemed angry or upset?”

“I don’t think so,” Stan said, as Braxton shook his head.

“What happened when you closed up?” he asked, turning to Braxton.

“We locked the door at ten fifteen, when the last customers left. We don’t seat anyone after ten, but we don’t force ’em to leave if they’re already inside. So we got the last people out. I cleaned tables, while Cassandra balanced the day’s receipts and took the last charge card tips out of the register.”

“And then?”

“Then we left together.”

“And where did you go?” Diego asked.

“We started to walk to our cars together. But there was a band playing at the Twisted Antler that Cassandra liked—local guys—so she decided to stop in for a while before going home.”

“Did you see her go into the bar?” Diego asked.

“No, we were by the city parking lot. There were still people out—it’s really safe there. I headed to my car. She walked down the street.” He looked down and then at Diego. “I wonder what would have happened if I hadn’t. I wonder if she’d be alive—or if I’d be dead, too.”

*