Chapter 2 #2
The interior was small and cramped, the kind of place where efficiency trumped atmosphere.
Plastic tables with mismatched chairs crammed against the walls.
A counter separating the ordering area from the kitchen, where steam rose from industrial-sized woks.
Laminated menus with photographs of food that probably looked nothing like what actually came out of that kitchen.
A television mounted in the corner playing a Chinese soap opera with the volume turned low.
“Too bad I just spent the morning smelling dumpster and dead body,” I said. “Otherwise I’d say let’s pick up lunch while we’re here.”
A man emerged from the back, wiping his hands on a stained apron.
Mid-fifties, wiry, with gray threading through black hair and a weathered face that came from decades of long hours and hard work.
His eyes went straight to Jack’s badge, then to my lanyard, and his expression shifted—not fear, exactly, but wariness.
The automatic caution of someone who’d learned that authority figures rarely brought good news.
“Not open yet,” he said. His accent was faint, worn smooth by years of speaking English, but still present in the way he clipped certain syllables. “Lunch at eleven.”
“We’re not here for food.” Jack’s voice was easy, unthreatening—the tone he used when he wanted people to feel comfortable, not cornered. “I’m Sheriff Lawson. This is Dr. Graves, the county coroner. We’re investigating an incident that occurred behind the building.”
The man’s brow furrowed. “Incident?”
“A body was found in the dumpster early this morning.”
“Aiya.” He pressed a hand to his chest, and the wariness gave way to genuine shock. “Dead body? Here? Behind my restaurant?”
“Behind the old auto shop. But close enough that we’re hoping someone might have seen something. Mind if we ask you a few questions?”
The man hesitated, that internal calculation playing out across his face. Talk to the cops or keep his head down. Get involved or stay out of it. Finally, he gave a short nod and gestured toward one of the plastic tables near the window.
“I don’t know nothing about dead bodies,” he said as we sat. “But I answer your questions.”
“We appreciate that. Can we start with your name?”
“Henry Liu. I own this place. Fifteen years now.” A hint of pride crept into his voice despite the circumstances. “Before that, my wife and I had a restaurant in DC. Chinatown. But the rent got too high, so we came out here. Quieter. Cheaper.” He shrugged. “Less business, but less headache too.”
“You work here every day?”
“Every day. Seven days a week.” The shrug again, more resigned this time. “My wife, she help when she can, but her knees are bad now. Mostly it’s just me and my nephew. He do deliveries, wash dishes. I do everything else.”
“Were you here last night? Around closing time?”
“Until maybe ten thirty. I close up at ten, but there’s always more to do. Count the register, mop the floors, prep for tomorrow.” He gestured toward the kitchen. “I was doing the vegetables for today when you come in.”
“Did you notice anything unusual last night? Any cars you didn’t recognize, anyone hanging around the parking lot?”
Liu’s brow furrowed as he thought. “Parking lot always has cars. People come and go—the college kids, the military boys from the base. I don’t pay much attention anymore.
” He paused. “But now that you ask…there was a truck. Dark color, maybe blue or black. It was parked behind the old auto place when I took out the garbage. Maybe nine o’clock, nine thirty. ”
Jack leaned forward slightly. “Did you see anyone with the truck? Anyone getting in or out?”
“No. I just notice because nobody parks back there. The auto shop, it’s been closed for years. No reason for anybody to be there.” Liu’s eyes narrowed. “I thought maybe kids. You know, teenagers looking for a place to drink or smoke or…” He waved his hand vaguely. “Whatever kids do these days.”
“But you didn’t see anyone.”
“No. Just the truck. And when I came back from dumping the garbage, maybe five minutes later, it was gone.” He spread his hands. “I didn’t think nothing of it. People park, people leave. It happens.”
Jack made a note. “Let me describe the victim for you, see if it rings any bells. Young Black man, mid-twenties. Tall—over six feet. Muscular build, shaved head. Probably weighed around two-twenty. Would have been hard to miss.”
Recognition flickered across Liu’s face. Or the edge of it.
“Big guy like that,” Jack continued, his tone still casual, still conversational. “Would have stood out. He ever come in here? Buy some food?”
The silence stretched a beat too long. Liu’s fingers found the edge of his apron, worrying the fabric between them.
“Maybe,” he said finally. “Maybe I see him before. Hard to say. Many customers. But maybe. Big guy, shaved head. Yeah.” Liu’s eyes slid away from Jack’s, fixing on something in the distance. “He come in sometimes late. After nine. Order the kung pao chicken, extra spicy. Always pay cash.”
“Did he ever come in with anyone else?”
“Sometimes. Different people.” The shrug again, but tighter now. “I don’t pay attention to who eats with who. I just cook the food.”
“Can you describe any of them? The people he came in with?”
“White guy, one time. Older. Maybe another Black guy, I don’t remember.” Liu shifted in his seat, his body language screaming that he wanted this conversation to be over. “I just cook the food,” he repeated.
“Did you ever talk to him?” I asked. “Learn his name?”
Liu looked at me for the first time, his dark eyes assessing. “No name. He don’t talk much. Just order, pay, leave.” A pause, and something softened in his expression. “Nice kid, though. Polite. Always say thank you.”
There it was. That word. Polite.
“Did he ever seem scared?” I asked. “Nervous? Like he was watching for someone?”
Liu’s laugh was short and humorless. “Lady, everyone in this neighborhood watches for someone. That’s just how it is around here.” He paused, his fingers still working the edge of his apron.
“When’s the last time you saw him?”
Liu thought about it. “Week ago, maybe. Maybe less.” His expression darkened. “He come in, order the kung pao, same as always. But he look…” He searched for the word. “Rough. Like he been in a fight. Black eye. Lip all swollen.”
“Did he say anything about what happened?”
“I ask if he okay. He just laugh.” Liu shook his head slowly. “Say something like, ‘you should see the other guy.’ I don’t ask more questions. Not my business.”
Jack closed his notebook. “You’ve been very helpful, Mr. Liu. If you think of anything else—anyone he came in with, anything he said—give me a call.” He slid a business card across the table.
Liu took it, looked at it, tucked it into his apron pocket. “I hope you find who did this.” His voice was quieter now, some of that wariness replaced by sadness. “Like I say—nice kid. Didn’t deserve to end up in no dumpster.”
* * *
The vape shop was called Cloud Nine, which struck me as either aspirational or deeply ironic given the general air of defeat that clung to everything in this strip mall.
The door was propped open with a rubber doorstop shaped like a skull, and through the window I could see a woman behind the counter, leaning on her elbows and scrolling through her phone.
She looked up as we walked in—heavyset, with bleached blond hair escaping from a messy bun and tattoos covering both arms from wrist to shoulder.
A skull wrapped in roses on the left. Something that might have been a mermaid or a fever dream on the right.
Multiple piercings caught the fluorescent light—ears, nose, one eyebrow.
Her eyes went to Jack’s badge, and her expression shifted from bored to guarded in the space of a heartbeat.
“Let me guess,” she said, straightening up. “You’re not here for the mango pods.”
“I’m Sheriff Lawson. This is Dr. Graves.”
“Yeah.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “Saw the cop cars this morning when I came in. Figured something bad happened.”
“A body was found behind the old auto shop.”
Her eyebrows rose—surprise, but not shock. “No kidding. Someone I know?”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out.” Jack described the victim—height, build, shaved head.
Recognition sparked in her eyes before he’d finished. “Sounds like Dre.”
My pulse quickened. “Dre?”
“That’s what he went by. Don’t know if it’s short for Andre or Deandre or what.
” She reached under the counter and pulled out a pack of cigarettes—the regular kind, not the vape products lining the walls behind her—and lit one with a practiced flick of a cheap lighter.
“He came in with another guy once a week or so. The other guy is a regular—always buys the same vape cartridges. Dre would just grab a water from the cooler and wait. Don’t think he smoked or vaped.
Too healthy for that.” She gestured vaguely at her midsection. “You could tell he worked out. A lot.”
“Tell us about the other guy,” Jack said.
“Older white dude. Maybe late forties, early fifties. Looked like he’d been through some things—broken nose, cauliflower ear, you know the type.
Walked like his knees hurt.” She tapped ash into a plastic tray shaped like a human hand, fingers curled upward.
“I figured he was a personal trainer. He had that vibe. He’d be talking the whole time—giving advice, critiquing.
Dre would just nod and listen. Respectful, you know? ”
“They ever mention a gym? Somewhere nearby they trained?”
She thought about it, smoke curling toward the water-stained ceiling. “Not by name. But one time the older guy said something about getting back to the warehouse before the afternoon guys showed up.”
“When’s the last time you saw them?”
“Few days ago, maybe.” She tapped ash into the tray. “Same as always. Trainer got his cartridges, Dre grabbed a Gatorade, they left.”
“Nothing unusual? Nothing out of the ordinary?”