The door handle rattled, then a knock sounded. “Hey, there’s a line out here.”
Carlotta stowed her phone, then unlocked the door and walked out, undeniably rattled.
The two thieves had left—no doubt with a couple of lifted wallets. On the sidewalk outside the coffee shop, she checked the security of her own bag, then headed back to the shipping store. She breathed deeply to steady her emotions, but it was hard not to feel hopeful she might be close to unlocking the secret to her parents’ disappearance.
As she approached the storefront, she sipped her lukewarm coffee and tried to act casual. The windows of the business were studded with hand-lettered signs proclaiming “NO Loitering—This Means You.” “NO F*cking Smoking.” (Which only reminded her how much she craved a cigarette.) And more menacingly “Customers Come & Go at Your Own Risk.”
She pulled open the heavy glass door and walked inside, glad to see the man at the counter had a customer. It gave her time to get the lay of the land.
The place was grubby and stale-smelling, with a few missing ceiling tiles. The one-room shop was deep and narrow, with shipping supplies and a counter on the right, and a bank of mailboxes on the left and back walls. She had memorized the post office box number from the receipt she’d found in her father’s things: 610.
A quick scan of the numbers led her to the box in question located against the back wall, second row from the bottom. It was one of the smaller boxes, about six by twelves inches. Which was encouraging—a smaller box would likely be checked more often, she reasoned. As the customer at the counter completed his transaction, she casually reached into her bag and pulled out her keyring. She fumbled and jangled the keys, then grunted loudly and said, “Oh, no.”
The man behind the counter apparently heard her distress call. “Can I help you?”
She turned and sighed. “I’m a dope. My father is sick and asked me to pick up his mail, but I must’ve brought the wrong keys. Can you save me? Box 610.”
The man frowned. “Are you on the list of names authorized for the box?”
“I must be. My dad wouldn’t have asked me otherwise.”
He nodded. “Let me check—box 610, did you say?”
“Yes, sir.”
He used his index fingers to hunt and peck a few keys on a keyboard. “And what’s your name?”
She hoped her father had used the same name he’d given to the Atlanta real estate agent—Bill Randolph. “Er…the name on the box is Randolph.”
“Yes.”
His confirmation sent her adrenaline spiking.
“But what’s your name?”
“Uh…Carlotta.” It was a longshot.
“Sorry ma’am, but that name isn’t on the list.”
“Maybe he has me in the system as Melanie?”
He squinted, then checked. “No female names listed on the account at all. Sorry.”
“Maybe you could check to see if there’s a letter from my father’s doctor’s office?” All she needed was a piece of mail that might lead her to a street address.
The guy pointed to one of the many hand-lettered signs posted on the counter. This one read “No mail given out over the counter. Don’t ask.”
“Oh. Okay, just to make sure I have the right box, can you confirm the street address on the account?”
“None listed,” he said.
“Phone number?”
He frowned. “Come. Back. With. The. Key.”
“I’ll do that,” she said congenially. She started to leave, then turned back. “One more question?”
The guy rolled his eyes.
She pulled out her phone and retrieved an image—a decade-old picture of Randolph and Valerie. “Just to make sure I’m in the right place, do you recognize my father? He’s older now.”
Her heart beat in her ears as the man peered at the photo. Then he shook his head. “No, that’s not the man who picks up the mail for 610.”
Her disappointment was acute. “Thanks. Maybe I do have the wrong place.”
“But I recognize the woman.”
Carlotta’s head came up. “You do?”
“Yeah, she’s been in with the man who picks up the mail. Pretty lady. Although, now that I think about it, I haven’t seen her in a long time.”
Carlotta thought her heart was going to hammer through her chest. “How often does this man come in?”
The guy gave her a quizzical look.
“Just wondering how piled up my dad’s mail might be.”
“I don’t know—maybe once or twice a month?”
Crap. She didn’t have that much time.
Another customer walked in carrying boxes, and the man went to help.