“Who was it?”
She was about to tell him that it was none of his business but decided to go in another direction. “I want to show you something.”
“What?”
She beckoned Brandon toward her computer and checked her e-mail. Two minutes later, the message from Joe Schwartz came up. The subject read: Per your request. The message was only a link.
“What’s this?” Brandon asked.
“The ATM video of your mom.”
She clicked the link and hit the PLAY button. This time, she watched Brandon’s reaction more than the video. When his mother appeared at the ATM, Brandon’s face went slack. He never, not for a second, looked away from the screen. He didn’t blink.
Kat had seen psychos who could channel Daniel Day-Lewis when it came to lying to the police. But there was no way this kid hurt his mother.
“What do you think?” Kat asked.
He shook his head.
“What?”
“She looks scared. And pale.”
Kat turned back and watched the screen. Scared, pale—hard to say. Everyone looked drawn on an ATM surveillance video. The images were often less flattering than DMV photos. You are concentrating on a small screen and trying to push buttons and there is money involved and you are basically facing a wall. No woman looks her best under those circumstances.
The video continued. Kat watched more carefully this time. It did take Dana three tries to get her PIN right, but that didn’t mean much. When the money was dispensed, Dana fumbled with it, but again, those machines sometimes held on to your bills too tightly.
It was when Dana finished up and started to walk away that Kat saw something. She reached out and hit the PAUSE button.
Brandon looked at her. “What?”
It was probably nothing, but then again, no one had studied the video closely. There had been no need. All they wanted to do was confirm that Dana Phelps had taken out the money on her own. Kat hit the slow-motion REWIND button. Dana started walking backward toward the ATM.
There.
Kat had seen movement in the upper right-hand corner of the screen. Something—or someone—was barely there, in the distance. That wasn’t too much of a surprise, but whoever it was seemed to move when Dana did.
The video quality had enough pixels for Kat to close in on the figure, clicking the magnifying glass until the dark dot grew into an image.
It was a man in a black suit with a black cap on.
“How would your mother have gone to the airport?” Kat asked.
Brandon pointed to the guy in the black suit. “He wouldn’t have taken her.”
“Not what I’m asking.”
“We always use Bristol Car Service.”
“Do you have their phone number?”
“Yeah, hold on.” Brandon started tapping his phone. “They picked me up from college a few times, you know, when I wanted to go home for the weekend. Easier than having Mom get me sometimes. Here.”
Brandon read out the number. Kat plugged it into her phone and hit SEND. The answering voice gave her two options. Press one for reservations. Press two for dispatch. She went with dispatch. When a man answered, she introduced herself and identified herself as a cop. Sometimes, this made people clam up and demand proof. Most times it opened doors.
When people are both cautious and curious, curious usually wins out.
Kat said, “I’m wondering if a woman named Dana Phelps recently booked a ride to an area airport.”
“Oh, sure, I know Mrs. Phelps. She’s a regular. Nice lady.”
“Did she book a car with you recently?”
“Yeah, maybe a week ago. For Kennedy airport.”
“Could I speak to her driver?”
“Oh.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah, like, oh, wait. You asked me if she booked the ride to JFK.”
“Right.”
“She booked it, yeah, but she didn’t take it.”
Kat switched the phone from her left hand to her right. “What do you mean?”
“Mrs. Phelps canceled, maybe two hours before the ride. I took the call myself. It was kinda funny, actually.”
“Funny how?”
“She was apologetic, what with it being so late and all. But she was also, I don’t know, all giddy.”
“Giddy?”
“Yeah, like laughing or whatever.”
“Did she give a reason for canceling so late?”
“Kind of. I mean, I think that’s why she was giddy. She said her boyfriend was sending his own black stretch limo to get her. As a surprise or something.”
Chapter 19
Hoping cooler heads would prevail—and needing to make an official police request—Kat showed up at the precinct for work the next day. Her still-partner (ugh) Chaz, resplendent in a suit so shiny Kat reached for her sunglasses, stood by her desk with his fists on his hips. He looked surprised to see her.
“Yo, Kat, need something?”
“No,” she said.
“Boss man said you were on leave.”
“Yeah, well, I changed my mind. I just need to do one quick thing and then I want to hear what’s going on.”
Kat sat at her computer. Last night, she had used Google Earth to figure out what nearby surveillance cameras could give her a fuller view of the street near Dana’s ATM. She hoped to see what car Dana got into, maybe get a license plate or some other lead.
Chaz peeked over her shoulder. “This about that kid who was in here the other day?”
She ignored him, made the info request, and was prompted for her user name and password. She typed them in and hit RETURN.
ACCESS DENIED
Kat tried again. Same thing. She turned back to Chaz, who stood watching her with his arms crossed.
“What’s going on, Chaz?”
“Boss man said you were on leave.”
“We don’t disable someone’s computer access because they take a leave.”
“Yeah, well.” Chaz shrugged. “You did ask for it, didn’t you?”
“Ask for what?”
“You wanted a transfer, so I guess you’re getting one.”
“I never asked for a transfer.”
“That’s what the captain told me. Said you put in for a new partner.”
“I put in for a new partner. I didn’t ask for a transfer.”
Chaz looked wounded. “I still don’t know why you’d do that.”
“Because I don’t like you, Chaz. You’re crude, you’re lazy, you have no interest in doing the right thing—”
“Hey, I have my own way of working.”
She didn’t want to get into this now.
“Detective Donovan?”
Kat looked behind her. It was Stephen Singer, her immediate superior.
“You’re on voluntary leave.”
“No, I’m not.”
Singer moved closer. “Voluntary leave is something that no one holds against you. It doesn’t show up on your record as, say, insubordinate conduct toward a superior officer.”
“I didn’t—”
Singer cut her off by raising his hand and closing his eyes. “Enjoy your vacation, Kat. You’ve earned it.”
He walked away. Kat looked at Chaz. Chaz said nothing. She understood what was being said—keep quiet, take the slap, it will all go away. That was the smart move, she guessed. The only move, really. She stood up and reached down to turn her computer off.
“Don’t,” Chaz said.
“What?”
“Singer said to get out of here. So do it. Now.”
Their eyes met. Chaz may have given her the slightest nod—she couldn’t be sure—but she didn’t shut the computer off. As she headed down the stairs, Kat glanced toward Stagger’s office. What the hell was his problem anyway? She knew he was a stickler for rules and regulations, and yeah, maybe she should have more respect, but this felt like overkill.
She checked her watch. Her day was somewhat free now. She changed subways three times on her way down to the Main Street stop on the 7 train in Flushing. The Knights of Columbus hall had wood paneling and American flags and eagles and stars and any other emblem you might loosely associate with patriotism. The hall was, as at every event, boisterous. Knights of Columbus halls, like school gymnasiums, are not meant to be quiet. Steve Schrader, who was retiring at the tender age of fifty-three, stood near a keg, handling the reception line like a groom.