The heaviness in my body lingers as I trek to work. I’m on high alert, studying stranger’s faces, wondering if the sense that someone’s stalking me is real or imagined.
As I head into the station, movement out of the corner of my eye makes me turn. A black town car pulls around the corner, and I wait until it’s out of sight before heading inside.
There’s a padded envelope waiting on my desk. Inside is an SD card in a plastic holder marked “Security footage,” along with the address of the building next door to Martin Shipping.
“Who left this?” I show Burgess the envelope in lieu of greeting him.
He clears his throat and peers at it. “Looks like the footage we wanted from the building next door.”
No shit, Sherlock. “The building manager wouldn’t release it. Threw a bunch of legalese at me.” I spent the better part of my work day trying to untangle my best clue from the red tape, and went home feeling like my investigation had stalled.
Burgess shrugs. “Someone cut it. Don’t look a gift clue in the mouth.”
“Right.” I hold the disk for a moment, feeling a sense of deja vu. For the second time in twelve hours, someone’s delivered exactly what I’ve needed to my desk or front door.
Whatever. A clue is a clue, and we need a break in this case. “Is there a place I can watch this?”
Hours later, I’m still in a dark room back at the station, staring at a screen. The video plays frame by frame, showing the far-off brick wall with the door and fire escape. A few seconds in, a huge shadow glides diagonally across the wall. The dark shape lands in front of the door, blocking it. “There.” I pause the tape.
Behind me, Burgess leans in so close I can smell the stink of cigarettes on his breath. “Where? I don’t see it?”
I replay the clip and stop it right as the dark shape is about to land on the fire escape platform.
“Keep playing it?”
“It stops soon after this.” But I hit play and let it continue until there’s nothing but static.
“Did you see it?”
“Naw. That’s nothing,” he says. “Trick of the light.”
“What’s a trick of the light?” someone in the hallway asks.
Burgess turns to the pair of detectives hovering just outside the door. “Nothing, Tony. Just something weird on a security camera.”
“A camera with a view of the Martin building.” I keep my eyes on the screen but speak loud enough for them to hear.
“Really?” a second voice says. “Show me.”
I push back my chair, and it nearly zooms out from under me. The seat is crooked from a wonky wheel.
I get myself together in time for Jim Bonds and Tony Cuccinelli, the main detectives on the case, to crowd into the room. They’re both white men around Burgess’s age, with bags under their eyes from sleepless nights and stakeouts. Bonds is short and wiry, while Cuccinelli is a little younger and broad-shouldered with a gut. There’s not enough space for all of them in the little room, so Burgess backs up to lurk in the doorway.
“Show ’em what we found,” Burgess orders me. Now that the big detectives are interested, he wants to take credit. I do what he says without comment and play the clip twice for good measure.
“That’s it?” Cuccinelli motions to the screen.
“Yep,” I say, and play the clip again, frame by frame. The image is blurry, but the movement is unmistakable.
“That’s nothing.” Cuccinelli rocks back on his heels.
“Then what is it?”
“A tarp, or something, blowing down from the roof.”
“A tarp,” I repeat. “A tarp that came down from the roof right after midnight. You walked the perimeter. Was there a tarp anywhere on the street?”
“Could’ve blown away,” Cuccinelli scoffs, halfway out the door. His partner is still studying the screen.
