"Petty," a disembodied voice called. Will moved down the counter. He saw the lower half of a body sticking out from a copy machine. "Did you clock out like I told you?"
Petty smiled, and Will saw the crookedest set of teeth he'd ever seen on a man. "So, not to be crass or anything, but is there a reward? ‘We can't say no at Campano.' They live in Ansley Park. The family must be loaded."
"No," Amanda answered. She had figured out who was in charge. She asked the kid under the copier, "Where's the tape for the security cameras?"
He crawled out of the machine. There was a splotch of ink on his forehead, but his hair was neatly combed, his face clean-shaven. He was about the same age as Petty, but he lacked the other man's boyish features and stoner charm. He wiped his hands on his pants, leaving a faint trail of ink. "I'm sorry, we've got a ten thousand booklet run due first thing in the morning and my machine just jammed up."
Will glanced at the guts of the copier, thinking that its gears and cogs reminded him of a wristwatch.
"I'm Warren Grier," the man offered. "I pulled the tape as soon as your guys got here. You're lucky. We swap out the same two cassettes every day. If you'd shown up tomorrow, it probably would've been recorded over."
Will asked, "Do you have a problem with theft around here?"
"Not really. The construction makes it hard to get in and out of the building. About ninety percent of our clients never see us. We deliver out to them."
"Why the security camera?"
"Mostly to see who's at the door and to keep out the homeless people. We don't keep a lot of cash here, but the junkies don't need a lot, you know? Twenty bucks is a score for them."
"Is it just you and Lionel?"
"There's a girl who works mornings. Monique. She's seven to noon. We use a courier for deliveries. They're in and out all day." He leaned his hand on the counter. "Sandy and Frieda should be in soon. They work the evening shift."
"Who uses the offices upstairs?"
"There used to be some lawyers, but they cleared out maybe a year ago?" He was asking Petty, and the other man nodded confirmation. "They were immigration lawyers. I think they were running some kind of scam."
"Lots of shifty people," Petty provided.
"Here." Warren dug a set of keys out of his pants pocket and handed them to Petty. "Take them to my office. I stopped the tapes when your guys got here. The one on the top is from today. It hasn't been rewound yet, so you can probably find the time frame you need pretty easily." He apologized to Will. "I'm sorry, but I've got to get this machine back up. Just holler if you have any problems and I'll come back and help you."
"Thank you," Will told him. "Can I ask—have you noticed someone using the parking garage a lot lately? Maybe not the Prius, but another car?"
Warren shook his head as he walked back to the machine. "I'm usually chained to the store. The only time I go back through that door is usually when it's time to go home."
Will stopped him before he ducked into the copier. "Have you seen any suspicious characters in the area?"
Warren shrugged. "This is Peachtree Street. It's kind of hard not to."
Petty said, "I keep a lookout, you know?" He motioned for them to follow him to the back of the store. "It's not just like with the car. I called the cops on some homeless people who were crashing in the alley."
Amanda asked, "When was this?"
"Year, maybe two years ago?"
Will waited for her to say something sarcastic, but she held her tongue.
He asked Petty, "Have you ever seen the Prius parked back there before?"
He shook his head.
"What about any other cars?" Will pressed. "Is there one in particular that you've seen back there a lot?"
"Not that I remember, but I'm usually inside to catch the phones."
"What about your cigarette breaks?"
"Stupid, huh?" He blushed slightly. "I quit, like, two years ago, but then I met this girl at the Yacht Club a couple of days ago, and she smokes like freakin' Cruella de Vil. I picked it back up like—" He snapped his fingers.
The Euclid Avenue Yacht Club was a divein Little Five Points. It was just the kind of place you expected to find a twenty-something-year-old copy store worker with the ambition of a snail.
Will asked, "What about the construction workers outside?"
"They've been there off and on for about six months. At first, they were trying to use the garage during lunch. You know, for shade and all. But Warren got mad because they were leaving all kinds of trash back there—cigarette butts, coffee cups, all kinds of shit. He had a talk with the foreman, all cool about it, just, like, ‘show some common courtesy, man. Put litter in its place.' The next day, we get here, and there's fucking steel plates all over the road and they haven't been back since."
"When was this?"
"A week ago? I don't remember. Warren will know."
"Did you have any other trouble with them before this?"
"Nah, they weren't on the job long enough to give a shit. They come and go all the time, usually different crews, different bosses." Petty stopped in front of a closed door. He kept talking as he slipped the key into the lock. "I don't want you to think I'm some kind of greedy bastard asking about a reward."
"Of course not," Will said, glancing around the office. The space was small but well organized, with what must have been thousands of CDs neatly stacked on metal shelves from floor to ceiling. A battered chair sat beside a metal desk, papers stacked on the top. The time clock ticked loudly. A shelf on the opposite wall held a tiny black and white television. Hooked up to the front jacks was an array of cables leading to two VCRs.
Petty said, "It's pretty crappy. Warren's right about the tapes being recorded over. I've been working here seven years and he's bought new ones maybe twice."
"What about all these CDs?"
"Customer files, artwork and stuff," he explained, tracing his fingers along the multicolored jewel cases. "Most of the projects are e-mailed now, but sometimes, we get repeats and have to pull them."
Will stared at the television, spotting the top of Charlie's head as he cut a patch of material from the passenger seat of the Prius. Two tapes were beside the set, numbers labeling them one and two. Will checked one of the VCRs, which looked pretty straightforward. The big button was always play. The smaller ones on either side would be rewind and fast-forward.
He told Petty, "I think we've got this."
"I can—"
"Thank you," Amanda said, practically pushing him out the door.
Will went to work, sliding the top tape into the player. The television screen blinked, and the image of the parking garage came up.
Amanda said, "They turned it off two hours ago."
"I can see that," he mumbled, holding down the rewind key, watching the date and time code count backward. Will stopped the tape and hit rewind again, knowing the machine would go faster without having to show the image. The VCR whirred. The clock ticked.