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It took us twenty minutes to reach Hot Cuppa. When I walked in, I could feel the grief lingering in the air. The place was deserted, and the employees sat on the chairs, faces masked with pain.
“Doctor West.” The owner of the coffee shop walked toward me. “Did you see her? Would she have been in much pain?” She sniffled.
“No. No pain.” I shook my head, feeling the black vines of guilt climbing up my heart. “Mabel, sorry to be an inconvenience right now, but can I get a list of Miranda’s past week’s orders? Receipts?”
“She always kept such a neat record of her orders,” Mabel said. “Whatever you need. Please, find the bastard, Doctor West.” She looked at me like she believed that I’d find him for them. Tears streamed down her cheeks, and she quickly wiped them off. “She’d been working for me since the day I opened the coffee shop. She was my manager, but she still loved making coffee, and continued to do that.”
“I’m sorry,” I whispered when Mabel handed me the thick file.
“I think this is this week’s order lists,” she said. “Please… find him.”
Nodding and assuring her that I’d do my very best, Ryden and I walked to the tables on the outside.
“What are we looking for?” Ryden asked as we took a table.
“Anything that stands out,” I said, scanning through the list of coffee orders. Some made me wince, but nothing felt out of the ordinary or creepy.
What the hell was I even looking for here? I had no idea, but I hoped I’d find it.
“This is no use. While we’re sitting here, he’s finding his third victim,” I whispered. “He killed my best friend, and he took Irene away—”
Three shots of plain espresso in a to-go cup.
I jerked up. I had heard that before once, and I wouldn’t ever forget it.
Miranda had written… hot but weird guy, on the receipt.
47
MURDER IN MY MIND
YARA
“Did you find something?” Ryden asked, and I pushed the receipt toward him. “And?” Ryden asked, confused.
“Logan Jones. It’s him. I know it’s him.”
“You mean… the one we met at the Art and Apostles? The artist? That Logan Jones?” Ryden narrowed. “What do you mean?”
“His coffee order. These are the orders Miranda fulfilled yesterday, and this is one of them,” I said, pointing to what she wrote. “Look at the name on the receipt. It’s an anagram…”
“Grant Leshter. The Strangler. Fuck. He knew we’d come here. He’s baiting us…” Ryden said, punching the table. “But how do you know his coffee order, Yara?”
“I saw him at the Coffee Connexion. It was before the art exhibition.”
Ryden took in a sharp breath, and I knew he was trying so hard to not lose it right here.
“Something about him made me want to dig deeper, so I did,” I said, biting my lips. I told him about the AFIS search I’d done.
“And you think he might be The Strangler?” Ryden asked, scratching his stubble.
“He may or may not be The Strangler. Logan Jones wasn’t an innocent man. I knew that much,” I said, grabbing the receipt. “He knows something.”
“Let’s go find this fucking bastard, then.”
We went to the art gallery. Trish was talking with another woman who looked a little like Daphne. They stopped when we walked in. The other woman introduced herself as Daphne’s sister, Linda.
“I’m sorry for your loss, Linda, but…” I looked at her with an apologetic smile. I didn’t want to do this now, but I had to.
