The hall was brightly lit with fluorescent overheads and full of foldable round tables that reminded Larkin of high school cafeterias, although these were covered with blue dining cloths. The room was still busy with guests of nearly every age and ethnicity: single mothers with children too young for school; the elderly in sweaters and light coats, despite the warm summer day; a table of troublemaking-looking teenagers wearing an abundance of torn jeans and black, their alternative hair likely styled with office supplies versus costly product, as well as a table of men who’d isolated themselves from the rest of the crowd—Larkin suspected they were the ones who spent actual nights on the street. A buffet on the left side of the hall was staffed by several individuals wearing aprons and hairnets, dishing out a lunch of baked chicken and rice, a side of mixed vegetables, and fresh fruit—Bosc pears, by the looks of them. The commotion of dozens of conversations—English, Spanish, Chinese, Urdu, and Larkin was pretty sure he picked up some Greek and Polish too—seemed to vibrate the room, but the second dose of Xanax was keeping the noise to a manageable level.

Barely, anyway.

Larkin headed toward the buffet and said to an older woman with graying locs, “I’m looking for whoever might be in charge.”

She pushed a pair of glasses up the bridge of her nose with a knuckle. “And who might you be?”

Larkin retrieved his badge and quickly, discreetly, flashed his identification, as he didn’t want to unsettle any of the guests by his presence. “Detective Everett Larkin, Cold Case Squad.”

The woman shared a slightly suspicious look with the tall, gangly man at her side who’d been serving rice, and then she pointed a gloved hand across the dining hall and said, “Noel Hernandez is the operations manager for the kitchen.”

Larkin turned on his heel and looked in the direction she pointed just as the man in question, who appeared to be making the rounds and checking on some of the seniors scattered throughout the hall, glanced their direction. From the corner of Larkin’s eye, the woman was waving Hernandez over, which he acknowledged and began to weave through the tables toward them.

Noel Hernandez was Larkin’s age and roughly the same height and build. His dark brown, almost black hair was styled in an edgy undercut, and he wore his facial hair in a short, well-groomed boxed beard. Hernandez had on a pair of gray trousers and an almost saffron-colored button-down—no tie. “Welcome to St. Jude’s Mission,” he said with a big smile. “Can I help you gentlemen?”

Larkin once again removed his badge. “Detective Everett Larkin, Cold Case Squad. My partner, Ira Doyle. May we speak with you somewhere private.”

“What’s this about?”

“If we can take this elsewhere,” Larkin said again.

“Sure… okay.” His tone was still polite, despite his obvious confusion.