“Can you turn up the volume?”
“There is no volume, Max.”
He frowned. “Why not?”
“There was a lawsuit a few years ago,” Sarah said. “Something about privacy being violated.”
“But privacy isn’t being violated with the CCTV?”
“Once Briggs lost the right to use audio in court, they claimed the video was a matter of security and didn’t infringe on privacy.”
“The courts bought that?”
“They did.”
Max shrugged. “So what did you want me to see?”
“Look here.”
Sarah started playing the video. The camera must have been placed on the ceiling somewhere behind David Burroughs’s shoulder. They had a face-on shot of Rachel, who took a seat on the other side of the plexiglass. Sarah hit the fast-forward button, and the two figures moved jerkily. When on-screen Rachel pulled out what looked like a manila envelope, Sarah stopped the fast forward and hit the play button. The speed returned to normal. Max frowned and watched. On the screen, Rachel looked down as though she were trying to muster strength. Then she took something out of the envelope and pressed it flat against the glass.
Max squinted. “Is that a photo?”
“I think so.”
“What’s it of?”
Even with no sound, even with mediocre quality in terms of pixels and lighting, Max could feel everything in that visitors’ room change. Burroughs’s body stiffened.
“I don’t know yet,” Sarah said.
“Maybe it’s an escape plan.”
“I tinkered with it before you got here.”
“What could you see?”
“People,” Sarah said. “One of them could be Batman.”
“Pardon?”
“Maybe, I don’t know. I’ll need more time, Max.”
“Let’s also get a lip reader.”
“On it. Legal says we have to apply for a warrant.”
“That privacy lawsuit?”
“Yes. But I forwarded it anyway. I don’t think the pixel quality will be good enough.”
“Can you zoom in more?”
“This is the best I have so far.” Sarah clicked a key. The image blew up. She paused so that the pixilation could catch up, but it never really became clear. Max squinted again.
“We need to ask Rachel Anderson about this.”
“Her lawyer barred her from answering any questions.”
“We have to try. We still have eyes on her, right?”
“Right. She’s home. Her sister came over.”
“Burroughs’s ex?”
Sarah nodded. “She’s pregnant.”
“Wow,” Max said. “We have taps on all the phones?”
“We do. Nothing yet.”
“Rachel Anderson drove with Burroughs for hours. They planned this out. She won’t be stupid enough to use her phone.”
“Agreed.”
“We both know her history,” Max said.
“That me-too article?”
Max nodded. “Any chance that has something to do with this?”
“I can’t see how, Max. Can you?”
He thought about it. He didn’t. Not yet anyway. “How’s the deep dive into the financials going?”
“Ongoing,” Sarah said. Max knew what a slow-go it was to comb through a person’s financials. It was how most white-collar criminals were able to stall for years. “But I do have something.”
“On.”
“Ted Weston.”
“The prison guard Burroughs tried to kill?”
She nodded. “The guy is in debt, totally underwater, but there’s been two recent deposits for exactly two thousand dollars each.”
“From?”
“Still checking.”
Max sat back. “A payoff?”
“Probably.”
“It never made sense to me,” Max said.
“What didn’t?”
“That Burroughs would try to kill Weston.” Max started gnawing at his fingernail. “This is feeling like a lot more than a prison break, Sarah.”
“Could be, Max. You know how we find out for sure?”
“How?”
“We do what we do. We don’t get distracted. We bring in Burroughs.”
“Truer words, Sarah. Let’s drag Weston’s ass in before he has a chance to lawyer up.”
Chapter 22
Gertrude Payne stood on the cliffside of the Payne estate. The moon reflected off the churning waters of the Atlantic. She’d let her gray hair loose and closed her eyes. The wind felt good on her face. The crashing waves soothed her. She could still hear Stephano approaching, but she kept her eyes closed for another ten seconds.
When she opened them, she said, “You didn’t get him.”
“Ross Sumner failed us.”
“And that guard, the one who told you about the sister-in-law’s visit.”
“He failed too.”
She turned away from the ocean. Stephano was a beefy man with jet-black hair cut into Prince Valiant bangs, making him resemble an aging rocker who was trying a little too hard to hang on to his youth. Stephano’s suit was custom-made but still fit his square frame like a cardboard box.
“I don’t understand,” Gertrude said. “How could he have escaped?”
“Does it matter?”
“Perhaps not.”
“It’s not as though he’s a threat.”
She smiled.
“What? You think he is?”
She knew the odds of David Burroughs causing any lasting damage were miniscule, but you don’t reach what her husband used to nauseatingly call the Payne Pinnacle without adding the other P:
Paranoia.
But she also knew the way the world worked. You simply never know. You believe you are safe. You are certain that you considered every angle, thought about every possibility. But you didn’t. Not ever. The world doesn’t work that way.
No one gets it right all the time.
“Mrs. Payne?”
“We need to be prepared, Stephano.”
Chapter 23
I hurry-walk the streets of Manhattan.
I don’t want to be conspicuous by running, but I also want to put distance between myself and that apartment on Twelfth Street. I head north. I pass the Fourteenth Street subway station and then the Twenty-Third Street one, resisting the urge to head down because if there is some kind of manhunt or dragnet, they’ll probably cover all nearby subway stations.
Or not.
The truth is, I have no idea.
I have a destination, of course.
Revere, Massachusetts. My hometown.
The man who blackmailed Hilde Winslow? The one with the forelock? That’s where he lives.
I know him.
I assume the FBI will have someone watching my father’s house, but then again, the police can’t be everywhere all at once. We get used to that viewpoint from television and movies, where every bad guy is quickly brought to justice by unlimited surveillance or a fingerprint or a DNA sample.
I also don’t know what Hilde Winslow may have told the cops. She seemed to genuinely sympathize with my plight, and she had helped me escape. But it’s hard to say for certain. It could have been an act. It could have been that she feared what would happen if the police broke in and I was near her. I don’t know.
But I really don’t have a choice. I have to risk going up to Revere.
When I arrive in Times Square half an hour later, I realize how in over my head I am. I had thought about crowded places like these — the people, the noise, the bright lights, the big screens, the neon signs — but I am ill-prepared for what I’m experiencing right now. I stop. There is too much stimulation. The swirl and onslaught of hums, of hues, of smells, of faces — of life — it all sends me reeling. I’m like a man who has spent five years in a dark room and now someone is shining a flashlight into my eyes. My head spins to the point where I have to lean against a wall or fall down.