I tilted my head at Otis. What’s up?
He shrugged. No idea.
By mutual, unspoken agreement, we went.
The officer’s full title was Officer Jack Zupančič. I bet he and Lisa Cole could speak Slovene to each other. I bet they had nine hundred friends and family members in common.
Maybe this guy was not here to bust up my day any worse than it already was.
Right. And maybe pigs will fly, Alice Jane.
Chapter Eleven
Officer Jack steered us out through the restaurant’s bar, past a chic group partaking of a perfectly curated board of delectable-looking charcuterie. He said “Thanks, miss” to the hostess who was unable to pry her eyes off his overpopulated belt. Impressed or horrified, but professional about it.
Otis’s gun was sequestered under his jacket but his “don’t mess with Otis” demeanor was on full display. Next to those guys, I believed I was invisible in my anonymous gray slacks, gray sweater, and non-haute-couture shoes. Good. Hiding out was my main game. Again.
Once we were in the atrium’s wide open space, the cop said, “Ms. Harper. We need you to take a look at the footage from last night for us. The woman who spoke to you in the gallery upstairs. You probably heard somebody taught her how to dodge the cameras? That’s not as foolproof as you might think. We got her, square-on, a couple of times. Not that it helps any, with her all wrapped up in that kooky outfit.
“The good news is, whoever coached her didn’t know that, in January, security installed a handful of new cameras—leading edge tech—on each floor. Not many of us heard about that. Now we can get big wide shots of the main spaces from overhead. Decent images. Don’t bother to look up, Ms. Harper. I can’t find them and I know where they are. If you’ll both follow me, you can take a look. And there’s something—” He opened a door.
The museum’s security office was modest in size, dimly lit, and dominated by a wall of monitors. My eye was drawn to the one with a zoomed-in image of a woman, frozen on the screen. The uniformed guy at the console said, “Hi, Ms. Harper,” without taking his eyes away from the display. “Name’s Jeff.” He patted a folding chair on his left. “Come sit next to me.” I sat.
“Name’s Allie.”
Officer Jack grabbed a chair, dragged it over to the other side of Jeff. “Call me Jack, you guys. Let’s get on with this.”
Otis took up his position against the wall. I was here to look at video. He was here to watch over me. I hated every single thing about this except Otis.
Jeff hit play.
Right off the bat, I could see my blind woman wasn’t being blind just then. The cane, no doubt collapsed and stuck into her bag, was not in view. Enveloped in the sari, her face hidden by the scarf, huge dark glasses goggling—the lady was bizarre as hell. The weaving dance she was doing to evade the cameras enhanced the spooky effect. Even at no more than three inches high, she creeped me out.
“Yes. That’s her, no question. What else do you need to know?”
Can I go now?
“They’ve put together all the segments we’ve got so far that she’s in. And there’s a question—Take a look. I don’t want to prejudice you. Okay?”
Jeff was whisking the video forward.
“If it will help us find her—okay.”
“Great. I’ll run this normal speed, but stop me whenever you want a closer look.”
The woman came in through the door of our encounter with Kip Wade. The time stamp read 6:01 p.m. When we’d arrived, she was already inside the museum. Waiting.
Damn. Of course she was. She’d arrived early to meet Kip in 241-C. So he could pass her the envelope.
What you don’t see is what you get.
I must have been jigglin’. Otis came over. Put his hand on my shoulder. Leaned down. Spoke quietly.
“Allie, listen, reviewing stuff like this—Sometimes it helps to put yourself in the subject’s place. Trick I picked up at the security job. Try to get an idea of what it’s like to be her. See what she sees. Feel what she feels. Give it shot?”
“Okay.”
He stepped away. Said, “Roll it back to the beginning, Jeff?
“Give me a second to think about how to do this, Jeff.”
“Just say ‘go’ when you’re ready, Allie.”
Jeff rolled her back to the outside doors. I breathed as calmly as I could. Trying to be her, coming in the north entrance. Wearing what she wore. Seeing what she saw. Feeling what she felt. Our doorway. An hour before us. No Kip/Tom skirmish yet. No Otis. No me—“Go, Jeff.”
I am standing outside the door. The handle is freezing—No. I’m wearing gloves, but—I left my coat behind. I’m freezing. Damp. My heart is beating too fast, but I’m…excited to be…here. It’s a challenge. My sari is light, filmy. Can’t let it get tangled and trip me up. And the glasses are ridiculous. I can’t see for—Good for me. I’m supposed to be blind. Being blind now.
In through the front hall. Atrium. Right. Four steps. Stop. Left. Five. Skirt the trees and tables. Counting. Changing direction. Escalator. Relax, just stand here, head down, head down, head down. Slow, careful, pause—1-2-3 off!
At the top of the escalator I was suddenly Allie Harper again, and my personal neck was prickling. In spite of her realistic portrayal of blindness—now with cane in hand—the sari woman had stolen a glance behind her. Quick, but unmistakable.
“Jeff. Stop. I—She looked over the edge. Can we see what she saw?”
“Yeah, Allie. Good. We caught that too. There’s a man there, at one of the tables. Out of range of the closer cameras. But he’s definitely watching her and now she knows he’s there. Any thought about who—? Want to take a closer look right now?”
No. And no.
“Not yet. Let’s keep going. She’ll turn in to 241-A now.”
By the time she came toward us and entered the first section of the gallery, she was all blind all the time. Into the second section. Around my Buddha. On into Chad’s “cul-de-sac.” Our camera lost her then, except for what showed through the door. Which was a big cloudy bunch of nothing.
At 6:53 Kip came out.
Had he timed his exit to confront us? He’d known Tom was registered for the tour. Or was his angry reaction to meeting Tom at the front door raw nerves, jangled by an unexpected encounter with us? Whatever he was up to last night, the Kip I was looking at didn’t have a clue he’d be dead in less than an hour.
I shifted, restless in my chair. Chilled to be studying the arc of a murder.
Grateful to disappear into somebody else’s perspective.
I’m coming out of the gallery, turning left—Ah!—heading into a restroom. I feel more confident now. I can stay out of sight until my next appearance—Wait. I’m—There’s a—
“Jeff, she looked again. Can you back that up to where she comes out of 241? Somebody down the hall there?”
He ran it back and the not-really-blind woman came out of the bathroom, skittering in reverse, cane zipping back and forth in front of her as she moved in the wrong direction. My neck tingled again. Shadow by the wall, one door up the hall. Big, tall, and fuzzy.
“Jeff, can we see the person leaning against the wall across from…uh…242-A? Ancient India? Maybe?”
“You’re right. He’s there, Allie. We tried before. But he’s out of—Let me do one more—C’mon. C’mon. No. Sorry, Allie, it’s worthless. I know what you’re talking about. But he’s out of range of the wide shot and in the blind for that hall. I could blow it up till doomsday—Just make it grainier. Can’t get him. Could be a dude waiting for his wife. Wishing he was home having a beer and watching college basketball.”
I didn’t think so.
“Okay.” I’m coming out of hiding for real now. Feeling more exposed than before. Tentative. Taking a second to get back into being blind. Making my way to Ancient
China, glad the blind people won’t be judging my performance. Jittery now. Nervous. Getting a grip. I can do this. It’s showtime!”
A clean shot of both of us. From the gallery’s cam this time. Me sitting. Eyes closed. Her passing carefully, quietly, by me into the next section, cane not quite touching the floor. But she didn’t find Tom. Back with me. Talking to me now, turning to peer at the Buddha’s missing hands, handing me the envelope—then hurrying out. Leaving Allie Harper to toss the envelope into her public disgrace of purse and answer her phone.
I’m done! It’s all done. I’m—
Another not-so-blind pause. Lightning bolt this time.
The man. That man.
“Jeff. Is that same man there? Is he waiting for me—for her—right outside the gallery?”
“Yeah. He’s there. I’ve nailed him. Do you want to see?”
“No. Yes. Not—You’ve got him saved, right?”
“Oh, yeah.”
“Let me concentrate on this.” And not know for sure yet. “Give me a minute. He’s already gone when she—when I come out, right?”
“Yes. Until—Yes. And there she goes.”
I am barely steps from the top of the down escalator, and I hear a blast of sound that jars my whole body. Assaulting my ears, stealing air from my lungs. Seconds later museum visitors begin emerging from all the rooms of the west wing into the hall. All around me.
A handful, then a cautious stream, fast becoming a torrent. Bobbing heads and shoulders on the escalator.
For a moment I’m back to being Allie Harper again, trapped in that crush of bodies. Checking my phone. Fighting panic.
I shivered, remembering.
“You okay, Allie?” Otis had my back.
“Fine, Otis. Jumpy is all.”
Our target was walking faster, a glimpse, here and there, getting swallowed up by the flood.
I’ve put the cane away, abandoned the escape route I practiced. I’m making a beeline for the door I came in through. Quick. Quick. Is that man is following me again? If I don’t hurry, a guard or a cop will be blocking me. They’ll say, “Sorry, ma’am, I can’t let you go out there. It’s not safe.”
If it’s not locked down already. Caught. I’ll be caught.
My heart drums. It’s not safe in here, either—not for me. The sound of my breathing, short bursts, in my ears. I’m dizzy. Scared. It’s okay. I’m okay. No one is paying attention to anybody. Go. Go. Go.
We’d lost her in the sea of bodies. I wondered if she knew this deluge was coming. Whether she was as shocked and frightened as the rest of us. Or extra scared, because she’d been forewarned this night would go off the rails, and “off the rails” was the plan all along. And maybe, not being the least bit blind, she’d recognized the man who’d been tracking her. Watching her. Who was maybe behind her now as she hurried along. Or already waiting.
“Jeff? Do we have a shot of her leaving?”
“That’s up next. She was one of the last to make it out the doors. Ditched her whole avoid-the-cameras routine. But we still didn’t get a good look. Gimme a sec—Here. There she goes.”
I’m running. Everything—falling apart. Hurry. Hurry! Forget this stupid—Guard coming. Guard. Guard. Don’t stop. Out!
Helter-skelter down the lighted walkway. Features still hidden by the scarf. Sari billowing. Nothing frail or uncertain about her now. The guard leaning out the open door, yelling soundlessly into the sleet for her to come back inside. To be safe.
I’m hidden in the darkness and the rain. Safe.
Jeff let the scene run.
I kept watching. Calming myself. Catching my breath. So I saw it all.
This focus, unlike many of the others, was sharp, clear, and close. I was back to being Allie Harper again, shaking my head at the frantic people swarming onto the elevator. Abandoning a lovely, warm museum for a car, going nowhere, stuck in a frigid parking garage. I empathized. Tough to pick your smartest move when the world goes insane and your imagination conjures the worst.
The elevator door slid closed, leaving a man behind. The man, tall, well-dressed, unaccustomed to being thwarted, slapped angrily at the closed door and turned back to confront the guard who—civilized jacket, tie, and name tag aside—had been well-trained to deal with panic and was all about procedure now. And—
“Allie,” Jeff said, “Here’s your guy.”
The tall man swiveled. Unperturbed by the chaos. Sought out the vestibule’s camera. Gazed into it—Smiled—I knew that smile. It visited me in my most terrifying dream.
“Jeff—Stop. Freeze him.”
“Do you know this man, Allie? Have you seen him before today?
The man was looking straight at me.
Allie?
By the second “Allie?” Otis was at my chair again. His hand back on my shoulder. “Allie. Is it—Is that… him?
The deadly eyes. The arrogant sneer. The only thing missing was the oppressive presence of the “world’s most expensive fragrance for men.” I could almost smell him. Hear his voice, delivering the threat I’d tried to erase from my memory.
I’ll be back around sooner or later. I am still quite interested in your money.
“It’s him, Otis. Show us the rest, Jeff.”
The video started up again. Tito Ricci stepped up to the door and slugged the guard—a vicious punch to the gut—stepped back to let him fold in on himself and crumple onto the floor. Strolled out the into the night.
Chapter Twelve
If I could offer one smart rule for everyone on the planet, it would be, “Do not make a deadly enemy.” This is a fantastic rule. It was not workable for Tom, Otis, and me because our deadly enemy was a self-made-done-deal before he landed on the doorstep of our lives, fully equipped with a nefarious scheme, a sociopathic henchman, and a chunky bankroll.
Tito Ricci—not his real name—was a crazy-ass nightmare in one expensively dressed, oppressively fragranced package, and he was all ours. Last summer, disguised as a social-climbing businessman, Tito masterminded a hacker-heist of the Mondo Money. It flopped. Our hacker beat his hacker, and—in an ill-considered fit of pique—Tito summarily executed his hacker-protégé right in front of Tom and me. On the concierge level of a Marriott hotel.
The T&A more or less trashed his scrapper-drug ring too.
Tito went away very, very mad.
Here’s a corollary to my clever Make-No-Deadly-Enemy rule: “If you have a deadly enemy, do not let him get away.”
Ours got away. Big time. Nobody last summer laid a glove on Tito. His plans fell through, at least in part because of the T&A—and he vanished. Leaving a trail of dead associates and innocent bystanders. “Skipped town” does not do justice to how brutally gone he was.
Except he wasn’t. Not gone from our hearts. Or our minds. Or my nightmares. Or—in spite of my happy-dappy pretending between last July and now—maybe not even gone from Cleveland. Whether he ever got as far away as we’d been hoping, i.e., outer Tasmania or—possibly—hell, made no difference today.
He was back.
I was trying to act not-hysterical.
Otis was all business.
“Now that we know we’re looking for this man, can you guys make another pass? And let’s set up facial recognition for the CCTVs around the outside of the museum. Especially on the walk from the north entrance and down to where—down to the end of the lagoon. First priority.”
Otis and I thanked Jeff and Jack. Said goodbye. Their curiosity followed us out the door. We weren’t ready to talk about what we’d seen.
I wasn’t ready to think about it.
We walked in silence up the stairs and out across the atrium. We were almost to the door of the restaurant when my pseudo composure buckled.
“Holy crap, girl. Are you awake finally? What have I been trying to tell you!?!”
&n
bsp; Uh oh.
Lee. Ann. Smith.
“Otis. I need a minute. Ladies room?”
“Sure, Allie. I’ll come with you.”
Otis didn’t mean that like it sounded.
We headed down the hall to the door with the female graphic. He popped it open and called in, “Cleaning crew.”
A flurry. A short burst from a hand dryer. Two young ladies—high-school-age—rushed out, still shaking water from their hands, stifling giggles. They registered Otis as “no way janitorial,” but were too busy being young and adorable—and totally unaware of the gun under his jacket—to care.
“Is that it in there, ladies?”
Another outbreak of giggles. “Yeah.”
He went in. Came back in a half minute with the “all clear.”
“Go ahead, Allie. Take your time. I’ll be right here.”
Otis would tell anyone who wanted in there, “Sorry. Out of order. Take the up escalator, turn right, you can’t miss it.” He was resourceful like that. And if anybody argued, he’d have Cecilia Southgate kill them. Carte blanche is carte blanche.
* * *
I scurried on in.
The lovely solid door whisked shut behind me.
Hint: If you need a place to hide, a bathroom is a decent choice. For starters, assuming conditions are reasonably stable, guys can’t come in after you. Often that’s fifty percent of your problem solved right there. Another helpful thing is, once inside, you can have your mini-breakdown behind a good, solid, steadfast, stainless steel door, and, if you’re quiet about it, no one will know.
I sat, fully clothed, on the sparkling toilet, my blurred reflection in the polished door. Put my head below my knees. Listened for the voice who’d hustled me in here to tell me something I already knew.
“Alice Harper. Get over yourself.”
Let me clarify something about Lee Ann Smith. I know you’re aware of that voice in your head? The one that says stuff like “I’d never do tequila shots.” Or “I am never going to kiss this guy—Or steal that car.”
Hurray for you, right? But what about the other voice in there that answers that wussy voice back, “Aw, shut up. We could both be dead by the time another…
The Devil's Own Game Page 6
