Chapter 3 - Cold Coffee Under Neon Lights
The rain slicked the asphalt of Music Row, turning the neon signs of recording studios and all-night cafes into smeared ribbons of crimson and amber. My green jacket was soaked through, the wool heavy and smelling of damp earth and estate mulch. I hugged my arms tight across my chest, my fingers brushing against the cold empty space where the dented metal bowl had rested just hours before. The metal was gone, left behind in the chaotic seconds after Julian Vance stepped into the nursery frame demanding explanations, but the image of Rosalyn and Camille burning behind my eyelids remained sharper than glass.
I pushed open the heavy glass door of the all-night diner. A bell jingled overhead, and the thick, greasy air of fried bacon and stale coffee hit me like a physical wall. The room was mostly empty at this hour—just a tired-looking truck driver hunched over a paper plate at the counter and a young couple whispering in a corner booth near the jukebox.
The waitress behind the counter, a woman with tired eyes and a stained pink apron pulled tight over her uniform, looked up as I shuffled in. Her gaze swept over my matted hair, the dirt on my cheeks, and the soaked fabric of my jacket. Her mouth tightened into a familiar, defensive line reserved for the city's unwanted.
"Bathroom's for customers only," she said before I even reached the counter. "And we close up the lobby seating at three for cleaning."
"I don't need the bathroom," I said, my voice cracking from the cold and the long walk across town. "Just a cup of coffee. Whatever's cheapest. And I need to use the payphone in the back."
She studied me for a long moment, weighing whether it was worth the trouble of kicking me out into the rain. Finally, she sighed, reached for a thick ceramic mug, and poured a stream of lukewarm black coffee from a chipped glass decanter. She shoved the mug across the Formica counter, making no move to wipe up the dark spill that sloshed over the rim.
"Seventy-five cents," she muttered. "And the payphone takes quarters. Don't go bothering the other booths."
I dug into the pocket of my green jacket, my fingers tangling in lint until they struck three cold quarters and a dime. I laid the coins carefully on the counter, picked up the heavy mug, and walked back toward the humming yellow payphone mounted near the emergency exit. The metal box was greasy, the plastic receiver smudged with fingerprints and chewing gum wrappers stuck to the coin return slot.
I set the coffee down on the narrow metal shelf beneath the phone, lifted the heavy receiver, and listened to the steady, hollow dial tone. My hand shook as I inserted a quarter. The mechanical clink sounded unnaturally loud in the quiet back corner of the diner.
I pressed three digits, paused, then hung up and re-dialed. The state child protective services emergency intake line rang twice before a flat, professional female voice answered.
"Child Abuse and Neglect Hotline. Operator four-four-two. State your emergency."
"Listen to me," I said, keeping my voice low and urgent, pressing my ear hard against the plastic to block out the low hum of the diner's neon sign. "I need to report an emergency welfare check. Two toddlers. Twin girls, about three years old. They're being starved. Locked in a nursery on the estate grounds off Tyne Castle Road."
There was a dry click of a keyboard on the other end of the line. "Ma'am. What is your name?"
"My name doesn't matter," I said, my grip tightening on the receiver until my knuckles turned white. "What matters is what's happening inside that house. The father—Julian Vance—he keeps them hidden away. The housekeepers are covering it up. Clara, the head housekeeper, she watches the cameras. The little girls were eating out of a dented metal bowl I passed through the bars because they hadn't been fed in days."
The keyboard clacking stopped. When the operator spoke again, her tone had shifted from routine fatigue to cautious skepticism.
"Ma'am, are you currently on the property?"
"No. I just left. But I saw it with my own eyes. You have to send someone out there tonight. Tonight, before—"
"Ma'am, do you have a permanent address or a direct callback number?" the operator interrupted, her voice dropping into that practiced, bureaucratic cadence that signaled an incoming dismissal. "An anonymous tip regarding a high-profile private residence requires specific, verifiable evidence before we can dispatch an after-hours emergency field worker. Without a formal complaint filed by an identified party, or documented medical proof from a licensed physician, state protocol prohibits unannounced warrants on private residential property."
"Protocol?" I stared past the payphone at the empty vinyl booths, a cold knot tightening in my stomach. "They're starving! They're locked behind iron bars while he throws charity galas and pretends to be a family man!"
"If you have physical evidence, photographs, or medical records, you may bring them to our downtown office during regular business hours," the operator said evenly. "Otherwise, I cannot open an active case file based on an anonymous call from a payphone. Have a good evening."
Click.
The dial tone returned, flat and steady, humming against my ear.
I slowly placed the heavy plastic receiver back on its cradle. The coin dropped into the return slot with a hollow rattle, but I didn't reach down to take it back. I walked slowly back to the counter, picked up the lukewarm coffee, and stared into its dark surface. The diner waitress was watching me now, her expression a mix of pity and lingering suspicion.
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Julian Vance's name was a fortress. His money, his lawyers, his clean public image—they had built walls higher than the iron bars on that nursery window. An anonymous phone call from a shivering homeless woman in a diner booth wouldn't even scratch the paint. If I wanted to save Rosalyn and Camille, a phone call wasn't going to be enough. I needed real evidence, and I needed it before the week was out.
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