Seven Empty Deposit Envelopes Showed What Was Happening At Carters Diner
“He forgets to ring things up,” Megan said, nodding quickly. “He’s sixty-eight, seventy-one, whatever he is. He’s old.”
She snapped her chewing gum, the sound sharp in the quiet office.
“The digital logs show fifty-two separate cash voids,” Henderson said, slide-ruling his finger down the columns. “Every single one of them was authorized under employee identification number zero four.”
“That’s Henry’s number,” Troy said. “He keeps it written on a piece of masking tape on the back of his name badge.”
“He leaves his badge on the counter all the time,” Megan said. “Anybody could see it, but he’s the only one who uses it.”
Carter stood near the filing cabinet, his arms folded.
“Henry spent forty years at the foundry,” Carter said. “He knows how to count.”
“People change when they get older,” Troy said, his voice turning defensive. “They start losing track of things. He’s got all those medical bills from his wife.”
“The hospital bills from St. Jude’s,” Carter said.
Troy blinked, looking at the floor where his quarter had rolled.
“Yeah,” Troy said. “The ones he’s always talking about.”
