Triple Digits

Claire Miles

It was midday when the door to the café where Claire Miles worked opened, the greeting bell ringing out pleasantly. Claire swung, prepared to greet her latest customer for the day, and paused. Strickland was standing there, his arms full of shopping bags, and lugging a brand-new suitcase behind him. He was red-faced from walking from the shopping centre twenty minutes away.
"You took the money. Good. Helix normally fights me on it," she said, heading around the counter with a glance back to see where her manager was. Once her shift started, she normally wasn't allowed out the front unless it was to clean tables or change out the bins.
Peeking into one of the bags, she hummed in appreciation at the clothes within. They were nice. Nothing too lavish, no designer labels or anything, which meant he would be able to wear them around Mid-City without sticking out like a sore thumb. After seeing his pyjamas, Claire had decided to give him the money. He desperately needed a wardrobe uphaul, if that's what he wore to bed.
"It was a nightmare. I hate shopping," he grumbled like an old man, dumping the bags onto a table closest to the counter, leaving the suitcase on the ground next to his chair, "And why are clothes so expensive, anyway? It's just fabric sewn in different shapes!"
Claire laughed, heading back around the counter and grabbing two coffee cups. She made his the way he liked it; a triple espresso with four sugars, and made a cup of pure black stuff for herself.
Popping two pastries into the oven, she tapped the three-minute timer, hoping Strickland liked bacon and cheese strudel, since she certainly wasn't giving him her triple chocolate, molten donut.
Sliding over the counter, she placed Strickland's coffee cup down in front of him with a wink, shouting out to her manager, "I'm going on break!"
Their reply echoed from the back- they didn't care, so long as Claire was back in thirty minutes.
Corey was already looking over his police notes, as well as handing back the spare change to Claire. She slid it back over the table, ordering, "Keep it." He could use it in the airport, or something. She didn't care.
He reached down, taking a wary sip of the coffee she'd given him.
"It's payment and tip for the coffee and whatever fresh Hell you're making in that oven."
He dipped his chin toward it, where the piece of shit chunk of metal was smoking, like it normally did, and Claire laughed in disbelief, "You're going to tip me three-hundred?" It was more than she made in a week here.
"If you don't, I'll put it in your wallet later." Damn it, Helix must have spoken to him about that particular trick this morning. Never mind, she could outplay him at her own game.
She rolled her eyes, taking the notes back and shoving them into the back pocket of her jeans. She'd just have to sneak them into his luggage tonight.
"Did Helix tell you about the flights?" Corey nodded, patting his new suitcase lovingly, "Seven tonight. I've already let Dunfield know. I passed over a copy of the case notes to him about Jaivon's death. The poor girl in the grocers was heartbroken. She said she hadn't heard from him since the day before the race, and nobody had told her he'd died."
Claire grimaced. She couldn't imagine having a partner die like that, so suddenly and brutally, and not even know. It must have been a nightmare for the girl, anxiously awaiting a message or call, only to have Strickland show up with the worst possible news. That he was gone, and the police had reason to believe he was murdered.
"That's awful. Poor thing. Did she give you anything useful?"
"Nothing concrete. I asked her if she knew who Triple Digit was. She confirmed what you said- nobody knew who the others were. She said my best bet to getting to speak with her was if I caught her in a race."
Ha! There was no chance of that happening! Claire hummed thoughtfully, the oven dinging behind the counter, and she rose, sliding Strickland's cheese and bacon strudel onto a napkin and handing it to him, reaching for her donut. It was a melted lump of chocolate and sauce. Scooping up a wooden fork from the dispenser on the bench, she took a seat across from Strickland once again, and set a timer on her watch for thirty minutes. Her lunch break was starting now.
His eyes sparkled in amusement at the stolen three minutes.
"You probably shouldn't be telling me case details," Claire teased, sipping from her coffee and waiting for Strickland to look confused before continuing, "For all you know, I could be the murderer." He paled like he hadn't even considered the possibility, before shaking his head, huffing, "I don't think so. You were with me when Maddison was attacked, and while I have no idea where you were the night Jaivon Carter was murdered, I doubt you were the one to do it. Not with a broken wrist."
"I could be the murderer!" She cried out indignantly, Corey laughing and shaking his head, insisting, "No, you couldn't be. You don't strike me as the type."
He tapped the top of her chocolate donut with the fork, like eating desserts meant you couldn't be a cold-hearted killer, and Claire gave in with a grin, "You're right. I'm just a street-racer." Honestly, considering the colour scheme of her house, it was a Gods-damned miracle he hadn't figured out her street-racing name yet.
How much more obvious could it be?
"You must make quite a lot of money," he hinted, "What's your racer name? I'm dying to know."
'He would die if he did know,' Claire thought to herself, cradling her cup of coffee and sighing, "The day I tell you, Strickland, is the day that oven gets replaced." She jutted a thumb toward it, and Corey winced, a smile tugging at his lips again, "And guess what? It's forty years old." It was all the better that the race on Monday had been cancelled. She wouldn't be getting back until early Tuesday morning, at around three.
Strickland downed the rest of his coffee, pride coiling in Claire's chest. He'd liked the coffee this time, at least.
"So you're not going to tell me?"
"Nope," she sung, "Never-ever."
"Theoretically, I could drag you down to the station in handcuffs and make you tell me." His tone was joking enough that she rolled her eyes again, "Ha!"
He pulled out the pair of handcuffs jokingly, Claire snatching them up and teasing, "You aren't taking me anywhere in these."
"Oh? I could think of a few places I could take you in them." Was that... an attempt to flirt? She shifted in her seat, her toes curling in her shoes at the implication behind the statement. Of course, he wasn't flirting, it had just been a poorly-worded joke, but it didn't stop the flicker of desire in her. She tamped down on it immediately, shame following it. Who the Hell did she think she was?
He coughed immediately afterwards, realising what he'd said, groaning when Claire began cackling with laughter, tossing the handcuffs back towards him. Dropping his head into his hands, he shook it pitifully, "I am so sorry, Miss Miles. That came out entirely wrong." Hopefully he wasn't back to calling her that. She much preferred 'Claire'.
"Not entirely!" She howled between her gasping laughs, "Make sure you pack them in that suitcase of yours, you might need them!"
He pinched the bridge of his nose, removing his hands to reveal the fact that his face was red. Boiled lobster red. Finishing her donut, she cleared the table, flicking the crumbs onto the floor, earning a scolding look from Strickland.
"What? I'm the one who's going to clean it later! Show me the clothes you bought."
"No, I'm going to go back to your apartment, and pack. You can see them on the trip." He rose from the chair, still red-faced, and Claire sighed, calling after him, "Fine, but you better model them for me in the motel!"
She'd gotten one room on the fifty-second floor of the Cotterlee Motel, Redwood's finest. The three nights had cost her nearly two-thousand, for the both of them. That wasn't accounting for anything else she would need there- a rental car, something fun to do after the funeral so she could avoid whatever family gathering was planned, and a way to show off the best of Redwood to Officer Strickland.
She scrolled through her phone for the rest of her lunch break, waiting for it to end, bringing the end of her shift that much closer. When her watch beeped, she rose, and continued to work...
She was sweeping up the crumbs from Strickland and her lunch when the door opened again, a younger boy walking in. It wasn't that unusual. Despite being on a university campus, the café was perfectly positioned to receive patrons from the local high school and shopping centre.
Heading back around the counter, Claire plastered a customer service smile onto her face, cheerfully chirping, "Hi, how can I help you today?"
The boy was wearing a black hoodie, lifted up to conceal most of his face, but he returned her smile, holding out a ten dollar note and pointing to one of the strawberry yogurt cups behind the glass display case. He carried a black school bag, a sun and moon pin stuck onto one of the straps dangling over his shoulder.
Taking the note, Claire turned and grabbed out the cup, dropping a spoon into it for the kid who was yet to say a word, and handing him the change.
"Can I help you with anything else?"
He shook his head, lifting the yogurt in gratitude, and strode out of the café. Maybe he was nonverbal or something?
Claire reached over to grab the spray to continue cleaning the front of the store, only to notice something resting on the bench where the kid had been standing. It was one of the Triple Digit tags, drawn onto a scrap of paper and left behind.
Plucking it up, she unfolded the piece of paper, reading over it, only to freeze.
Written on the inner edge of the paper, in neat handwriting, were the words:

Lifting her head, she peered out the window, hoping to catch a glimpse of the kid and ask what the Hell it meant. He was gone, not a soul in sight. Rushing to the front door, she scanned the streets. Nothing. There wasn't even anything nearby he could hide behind.
Hands shaking, she read the paper again, hoping it was just a trick of her mind. Maybe she'd read it wrong?
Nope, it was still her name, along with her street-racer name, a date, and a number.
Who had figured it out?
And why would this kid put the thirteenth of May underneath her name? That was next Thursday. What did the fifty-fifty mean? It could have been some sort of bet, she supposed.
Folding the paper again, she placed it in her pocket, alongside the money, and returned to her work, hoping she appeared unshaken.
Still, she couldn't stop herself from peering out the window every minute or so, for the rest of her shift...