Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 94076 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94076 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
“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.
“Any guesses as to what it might be?” he asks without looking at me.
“It’s him.” My sketchbook is lying next to the keyboard. I flip it open, showing the drawings I’ve made so far, inspired by the clip caught on camera, plus my vision at the scene.
All three men stare at my charcoal drawing, and I fight the urge to squirm. It shouldn’t feel so intimate like they’re viewing my naked body.
If they delve deeper into the sketchbook, they’ll see the scenes I drew of the dom. I’ll rip the book out of their hands before I let that happen.
“You think this is him?” Cuccinelli asks, pointing to my drawing. “What the fuck is he wearing?”
The sketch shows the UNSUB as a large man in a black helmet, his broad shoulders made bulkier by thick layers of black material molded to his powerful form. “Some sort of body armor or suit. Like there.” I gesture to the screen.
“It’s not clear enough to see that. I’ve seen so-called UFO sightings clearer than this.” Cuccinelli reaches for my sketchpad, and I clench my fist, fighting the urge to slap it out of his hand. “And this shit? This is fairytale stuff outta a storybook. Some guy in a costume?” He studies my work for a second, then tosses my sketchbook back onto the desk. “How’d he fly down from the fifth story? Invisible wings?”
“Some sort of zipline,” I blurt before I think better of it. Burgess and Cuccinelli roll their eyes.
Bonds ignores them. “Do you see him coming out?”
“No.” I keep playing the clip until it goes fuzzy. “After this, the tape goes blank.”
“UFOs.” Burgess elbows Cuccinelli.
“He could’ve set off some sort of electric pulse to take out the alarm,” I say. “Which could also interrupt a recording like this.”
“Oh yeah, body armor and a fancy gadget,” Cuccinelli mutters.
“There’s stuff like that on the black market,” I say.
“Expensive,” Bonds says quietly.
“It fits the profile.” I swivel carefully to face Bonds. I might as well give him my professional opinion now. They can’t ridicule me any harder than they already are. “The vic was a rich man. His life was his work. This wasn’t a crime of passion. He was most likely killed over business.”
Cuccinelli snorts. “That doesn’t narrow it down. Tons of companies used Martin Shipping. They have contracts all over the country.”
“Whoever did this knew him.” I tick off my fingers. “Knew he’d be working there that night. Swung down somehow and entered through the emergency exit. And. . . drugged the vic?”
“The labs came back on the whiskey,” Bonds tells me. “No trace of any drug we know about.”
I lean back in my chair, careful of the wobbly wheel. “So he incapacitated him somehow, tied him up. They had a chat, and then the UNSUB slit his throat.”
“UNSUB.” Burgess nudges Cuccinelli with his elbow as if to say, “Get a load of this chick, using big FBI words. ”
“You think they knew each other?” Bonds asks, back to staring at the screen.