“You’re sure you don’t know her.” “I’ve never seen her in my life. That hair? I’d remember that tragedy.” Tuesday’s phone buzzed as she tried to figure out exactly what she had seen in the Benz. It was one of the servers from the Café spreading the word. Natasha was calling everybody into the restaurant for an emergency meeting. Like now. “This is getting old,” she grumbled to Clipper as she slipped her phone back in her tote. “Natasha’s paying overtime, which is supposed to sweeten the pot, but I’m not on salary so that means nothing to me. Got to run. I’ll call you after the meeting.” Before she took off, she did her best to rub the yellow marker off her windshield that dubbed her a scofflaw. At the Café, Natasha was in a particularly bad mood. Tuesday assumed it was because she promised to cover overtime for the meeting. She let Detective Jameson run the show. The detective had pulled her long Afro into a ponytail and it bobbed playfully as she walked to the cash register.
