“Passing through doesn’t pay the same as consulting, sugar. You need a better business plan.”
“So what have you got, John?” Bree asked. She called him John; I’d been calling him Sampson since we were kids. Both ways worked fine, though.
“Nobody seemed to notice our boy come in or out of the building. As we speak, they’re running all of today’s surveillance tapes. Such as it goes, this place is fairly tight, securitywise. Unless he can walk through walls, I’ll bet he’s going to show up somewhere on one of the tapes.”
“For what it’s worth, I don’t think this one minds having his picture taken,” I said.
Just then, a uniformed cop called from across the room. “Excuse me, Detective?”
All three of us turned.
“Uh, ma’am? Detective Stone? There’s a question for you. From CSI in the back room.”
The three of us followed the uniform down a narrow hallway into a den. It was lined with more books, and French litho-graphs in expensive-looking frames, plus several vacation photos. The apartment seemed to have quality furnishings everywhere—everything highly polished, oiled, or fluffed. A cardboard box full of liquor delivered from Cleveland Park was sitting by the door. Was the killer the delivery guy? Was that how he got in here?
A tapestry love seat was arranged in the corner, along with a television on a console. The cabinet doors were open to show a combination DVD player and VCR underneath.
I noticed another Hallmark greeting card on a shelf. I looked, and this card was also unsigned.
“Somebody should maybe bag these greeting cards, Bree. Unsigned. Could be nothing. But there was another one in the living room.”
A young woman in a crime-scene Windbreaker was waiting for us by the TV. “Over here, Detective.”
“What am I looking at?” Bree asked.
“Maybe nothing . . . but there’s a tape in the player. No other videos on display in the room. Do you want me to play it, eject it, or what?” Obviously the CSI techie didn’t know whether to wind her watch or shit.
“Latent prints all done in here?” Bree asked in a kindly manner.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Were the cabinet doors open or closed to begin with?” I asked.
“They were definitely found open, just like you see them now. You’re Dr. Cross, aren’t you?”
The young cop’s tone was a shade defensive, but Bree seemed not to notice. She flicked on the television and then the tape machine.
At first there was just static. Then came a flash of blue screen. Here we go, I thought.
Finally an image came up. Disturbing one too, right out of the box.
It was a medium shot of a dark-blue wall with a flag hanging on it. A plain wooden chair was the only other item in the picture.
“Anyone recognize that flag?” Bree asked. It had bars of red, white, and black, with three green stars across the middle.
“Iraq,” I said.
The word dropped like a heavy weight in the room.
Bree did the smart thing, then. She paused the tape. “Everyone out,” she said. “Now.”
A handful of other cops had gathered at the door to see what was up in the den. “Detective,” one of them said, “I’m D-2 on this case.”
“That’s right, Gabe, so you know how sensitive this tape might be. I want you to talk to everyone who was just in here. Make sure this stays tight.”
She shut the door to the den without waiting for a response from the D-2.
“Do you want me to go?” I asked her.