Seven Empty Deposit Envelopes Showed What Was Happening At Carters Diner
“Henry is the one logged in,” Linda said, her eyes fixed on the screen. “If we do not report him, we are violating our own operational guidelines.”
“These numbers only show who was logged in, not who pressed the keys,” Carter said.
Linda paused, her thumb hovering over her phone screen. She looked at the blue cap on Carter’s head, then back at the laptop.
“You are risking a lot for a dishwasher,” Linda said.
“I am risking it for the truth,” Carter said. “Keep the digital logs on a flash drive. I need to see what else is happening on that floor.”
He left the library before she could argue. The air outside was cool, carrying the sharp scent of burning leaves from the residential streets. Carter drove his truck back toward the diner, parking in the gravel lot of the vacant auto shop across the street.
From there, he had a clear view of the diner’s side parking lot. Henry’s 2004 Buick sedan was parked near the dumpster, its gold paint oxidized and peeling along the hood. Carter climbed out of his truck and walked across the street, keeping his head down as he crossed the gravel.
