Chapter Two
Samantha Sutcliff
Two hours earlier…
The dashboard’s glowing green 12:01 disappears as I shut off the SUV’s engine. Twisting in my seat, I point my new camera at Bobby Gabrielli. Done with drinking, he waits in the lobby of an old apartment building in the worst section of Bed Sty.
I zoom in to read the tag of his inside-out wife-beater. Holy shit, I love this new camera lens!
Keeping one eye on next month’s rent, I review some of tonight’s photos. The first few were taken in a dive bar where my client’s cheating spouse ordered a drink. He texted on his phone, walked to this hotel, and now paces under a bare bulb.
Car lights off, I’d crawled along behind him and slipped into an illegal parking space in front of a hydrant. No one can see me behind my tinted windows but just in case, I sink lower in the seat.
As a rule, waiting is not my strong suit but with my new lens, it’s like Christmas. Even better, this place is hopping. People come and go as if it were midday on Fifth Avenue. I snap photos of men in designer suits as well as kids in crummy jeans. They wander past Bobby, disappear up the steps, and come back down in about five minutes. I’m surprised the drug dealer doesn’t offer valet parking.
In the lobby, my target looks down at his phone, then pivots toward the staircase.
Shit. I can’t lose a whole night’s work. Jumping out of my car, I press my key fob to lock the vehicle, and run into the building. Maybe my client is wrong. Her husband’s not sleeping around, he’s an addict.
Regardless, she paid me to find out. I follow him up three flights of stairs to where a woman dressed in a lot of nothing opens the door.
Busted, dude.
The rest I’ll do online. If she’s a hooker, Mrs. Gabrielli will gain custody of the kids along with a pretty good settlement.
Cha-ching. Rent paid.
Suddenly, a gun fires overhead and I drop to the floor. Who the fuck would use a silencer in this neighborhood?
Dammit.Why is nothing ever easy?
Crawling on hands and knees, I duck under the industrial staircase. My hands shake like mad as I reach under my arm, pull out my weapon, and point at the footsteps clambering down the metal steps. Not until an engine roars to life do I realize I was holding my breath and let it out.
Finally, tires squeal, pebbles pelt a nearby garbage bin, and when I’m sure they’re gone, I dial nine-one-one.
The operator tells me to stay put but I need to go on up. What if someone needs saving? The bang must’ve come from the fifth or sixth floor. After searching the hallways, I stop at the only open door and glance inside.
A man lies on his side, blood gushing out of his head, a gun in his hand. It’s staged to look like a suicide. I’d believe it if not for the two guys who ran from the building and the fact the silencer is missing.
My stomach wretches and I swallow hard. I’ve never puked onto a crime scene and not about to start now.
As the queasiness settles, a West Indian woman with high cheekbones peeks out from across the hall and narrows her gaze. “You keep your mouth shut if you know what’s good.”
Before I can ask her what she means, she slams the door, followed by three distinct lock clicks.
Dammit. Suds is going to kill me.Tonight’s surveillance was supposed to be easy-squeezy. A client hired us to follow her cheating spouse, I took a few pictures, and then, I was supposed to get paid.
Bada bing, bada boom.
Putting nine-one-one on hold, I call my husband, and text him my address. This pisses off the emergency operator on the other line so I don’t dare answer my husband’s subsequent calls.
If that isn’t bad enough, the ghost of my former FBI self takes over. A body snatcher, she snaps pictures and notes how poorly the crime scene is staged.
Why use a silencer? Why stage a suicide? Why not steal the pile of money on the counter or pocket the stash of pot in the dresser drawer?
Sirens sound in the distance and when the nine-one-one operator asks me how I’m doing, the Brooklyn girl reappears. What I want to say goes something like,Whaddoyou t’ink, huh? Jesus, Mary and Joseph. There’s a dead body, in front of me.
What I actually say is much more civilized. “Fine. I’m fine. Thanks for asking. I’m going to hang up now.”
