Chapter 4 - The Audit at Lunch
Back at the Harbor Table Kitchen, the rain had slowed to a drizzle, but the atmosphere inside the restaurant was heavy and toxic.
Grant Mercer stood behind the host stand, tapping his pen against a clipboard. His mood was foul. The lunch rush had been a disaster. Without Claire covering section three, two other servers had gotten slammed with eight-top tables, resulting in three long wait times and an angry review left on Yelp.
"Renee!" Grant barked as the assistant manager walked past holding a tray of dirty glasses. "Why isn't table four turned yet?"
Renee stopped, setting the heavy tray down on a side table. Her eyes were red, her face tight with suppressed rage. "Because we're down a server, Grant. In case you forgot, you fired our best floor worker four hours ago in the middle of a storm."
"She broke company policy!" Grant hissed, stepping closer to her, lowering his voice so the remaining customers couldn't hear. "I don't care if she was the queen of England. Nobody brings a sick kid into my kitchen. And if you keep talking back to me, Renee, I’ll have your badge by five o'clock."
"You can have it right now," Renee snapped, reaching for the name tag pinned to her apron.
"I wouldn't do that if I were you, Miss Foster," a deep, quiet voice sounded from the foyer.
Grant turned around, irritation instantly flushing his thick neck.
Standing near the entrance doors was the old man from Booth Seven. He had taken off his Tampa Bay Lightning cap, revealing short, silver-white hair. He wore a crisp, tailored navy suit now—not the thrift-store denim jacket he had been wearing all morning. Behind him stood two tall men in dark suits carrying heavy black leather briefcases, flanked by three uniformed officers from the Tampa Police Department.
"Sir," Grant said, switching into his fake, polished customer voice, though his eyes narrowed. "The dining room is closed for afternoon prep. If you're looking for a table, we reopen at five—"
"I'm not looking for a table, Grant," Everett Cole said calmly, walking into the center of the dining room. His leather shoes clicked sharply against the tile floor. "I’m looking at my restaurant."
Grant blinked, confused. "Your restaurant? What are you talking about? Who the hell are you?"
One of the men in suits stepped forward, opening a leather folder and holding up an official corporate identity badge with a gold seal.
"This is Everett Cole," the man announced loudly. His voice echoed through the entire restaurant, reaching the kitchen staff through the pass-through window. "Founder, Chairman, and Chief Executive Officer of Cole Hospitality Group."
Grant’s face drained of every ounce of color. The clipboard in his hand slipped, clattering loudly against the floor.
May you like
"Mr... Mr. Cole?" Grant stammered, his knees visibly shaking. "I... I had no idea you were visiting! If I had known, I would have set up a formal presentation—"
"I know you had no idea, Grant," Everett said smoothly, taking a seat at a high-top table near the register. "If you knew I was here, you wouldn't have spent the last six months stealing forty-two thousand dollars from my company."
