Authors: Scott Thornley
“No way they live here. Maybe they’re delivery guys.”
“Not likely, since they’re empty-handed. Okay, line up all the other cameras to this time frame. I want especially to see the drive-by and the sixteenth-floor elevator footage. And when you get them together, let them play in real time.”
It took several minutes, but to his credit, Wilson didn’t fume or fuss about it. Finally he said, “Okay, here we go. I’m giving it to you in real time, left to right—left being the drive-by.” He pushed a button on the console and sat back to watch the screens.
A black Range Rover pulled slowly into the drive-by and stopped at the far edge so that only the wheels and lower body were visible. After several seconds a figure got out of the front passenger seat, closed the door and waited. It was just possible to see the bottom of his black leather jacket. He was wearing jeans and what looked like black hiking boots. In a moment another figure walked into the frame from the right, presumably the driver, and as the two passed under the camera, one glanced up directly into the lens. He smiled briefly. Both wore sunglasses and had short-cropped fair hair.
The next screen showed them coming through the lobby door, where they would have had to use a resident’s key fob or punch in a code. They did neither. The one who’d looked up at the drive-by camera turned around and looked up again. His body was shielding the taller man, the driver. In a moment they were both through the door.
“How’d they do that?” Wilson said, suddenly sitting up. He reached for the joystick.
“Let it run,” MacNeice said.
At the elevators, both kept their heads down to avoid the more direct stare of the camera. The doors opened and they walked quickly inside.
“Why aren’t there cameras in the elevators?” Aziz asked.
“There are, but when the building opened, the residents’ association asked that they be turned off to avoid invasion of privacy. I don’t know what they get up to in the elevators that’s so private, but they were deactivated in the first six months of operation.”
The two men appeared briefly on the sixteenth floor. They turned left, in the direction of the Petrescu apartment. Again Wilson moved to stop play.
“Let it run,” MacNeice said again.
“Sir, look at the drive-by.” Aziz was looking three screens to the left.
The rear door of the Range Rover opened and someone stepped out. He stood by the vehicle, walked slowly forward, kicked the front tire as if checking the air pressure, and walked back. He leaned against the side of the Rover.
“He’s havin’ a smoke,” Wilson said quietly.
“I think you’re right. Notice anything else?” MacNeice said.
“Uh … well, no. But I’m a smoker and I can spot the walk—that dumb wandering to kill time while you’re havin’ a butt.”
“Black trousers with a very tight crease. His shoes, even with this feed, look as if they’ve been shined by a professional, and so far as I can tell, he’s not wearing a leather jacket. His suit looks expensive.”
“Wow, that’s impressive.” Wilson really did seem impressed, and he rocked back for a moment in his chair.
On the far monitor the two men appeared at the bottom of the screen. As the second elevator opened they walked up-frame and into it, and for a moment it was possible to see both of them clearly.
“I make the lapsed time between exiting and returning to the elevator roughly five and a half minutes,” Aziz said.
“Big boys. They look like cops to me,” Wilson said.
“They’re not cops,” MacNeice said flatly.
“How can you tell for sure?” Wilson watched as the two exited the elevators and came into view of the lobby camera.
“Well, for one, cops don’t drive Range Rovers with guys with sharp creases sitting in the back seat. But there’s something else about them.”
“What’s that, sir?” Aziz wanted to see what MacNeice was seeing.
“They don’t walk like we do. It looks military, but it’s not a North American military walk. I’m sure of it.”
The two men left the building and joined Shiny Shoes next to the vehicle. A butt descended from the top of the frame, falling parallel to the creases. When it hit the pavement, one of the shoes ground the life out of it. They all got into the Rover and disappeared slowly from the screen.
“Told you he was a smoker.” Wilson smiled.
“We’ll review all of this footage again to see if these boys show up anywhere else, but we can have our people do it. What’s the resolution?”
“Probably in the eight megapixel range, like a still camera. This system is the best I’ve ever worked with—you could make a billboard out of this stuff. Okay if I give it to you on a DVD?”
“That’ll be fine. How long will it take to download it?” MacNeice checked his watch—10:58 a.m.
“About the time it took that guy to have a cigarette. If you want to wait, there’s a lounge down the hall with an espresso machine. There’s a fridge there too.”
“That’s perfect. Do you want us to bring a coffee back for you?”
“No, thanks. I’ve got enough of a buzz on just watching these screens.”
Settling into a club chair with her espresso cup, Aziz glanced up at MacNeice, who was looking out at the courtyard garden, a space that looked both idyllic and lonely—intended to be seen and never wandered through. “What was it exactly about the way they walked?”
“Maybe something with the arm swing. North American men generally don’t swing their arms like that. And the short steps they took—for big men it seemed strange, foreign.”
“I think I get what you mean. The police academy’s ju-jitsu coach took short steps when he walked. I assumed it was so he could react quicker than if he was using a long stride. It looked strange though, and a little threatening, because he had long legs.”
“That’s it. In all the great samurai movies, the samurai always take quick, short steps. And big men over here, even the ones who are violent—cops or otherwise—tend to saunter as if nothing could threaten them, as if they have lots of time. These guys walked as they were trained to walk.”
“But how did you notice them in the first place?”
“Because they looked so out of place. Everybody coming and going—including Petrescu and her boyfriend—looked like they belonged here … but not those boys.”
MacNeice put down his espresso cup on the counter. “Here’s an exercise for you. Next time you look at that footage, try to
convince yourself that those two men grew up here, went to college, got jobs and maybe have wives and kids, a house with a lawn sprinkler going and bikes in the driveway.”
“Is this a new technique, sir?” Aziz smiled as she stood up and carried her cup over to the counter.
“Years ago, an artist I knew told me that he would take his drawings—you know, just when he felt they were really good—and turn them upside down to look at them. Invariably he’d spot things that didn’t work, didn’t fit, that he couldn’t see looking right side up. His theory was that the true form of the drawing was revealed only when he turned it upside down. Well, this is a bit like that. I wasn’t looking at what they were doing or even so much where they were going. There was something upside down about the way they looked and walked—even the shoes.”
“What about the shoes?”
“Two heavies wearing the same footgear makes me think standard issue military.”
Wilson appeared at the door with an envelope in his hand. “Here you go—it’s all there.” He handed it to MacNeice. “Let me know if there’s anything else you need.”
“Well, we’ll need to know who the concierge was when these boys came through, and whether he noticed how they gained access. How many shifts do you use to cover this place?” MacNeice asked.
“Six of us on rotating shifts—two weeks of nights, two of days, two of afternoons, and we also rotate weekends. It’s a good gig. A bit quiet, normally, but good.”
“Why do they call you a concierge?” Aziz asked.
“Just bullshit, really. I mean, I answer the phone if someone calls and I can order cabs, take in dry cleaning, book restaurants
and that kind of thing, but really my background is digital surveillance. The guys on the desk are more like concierges, if that’s the word. I come here, I wear this Italian suit and a black tie, but for the most part I’m watching that console.… Speaking of which, I should get back.”
“Thanks for your help.” MacNeice picked up his notebook and took one last look at the garden.
A plant prison
, he thought.
He and Aziz shook hands with Wilson and walked ahead of him towards the entrance, passing the concierge, who was reading a magazine. As Wilson reached the door to his security room he turned back. “Oh, one thing I thought of, concerning the boyfriend …”
“What’s that?” MacNeice asked
“Well, if the guy had a bicycle, there’s a bike rack in the basement. Maybe he went down the stairs to the basement and rode out on his bike.” He shrugged to cover himself in case it wasn’t much of a theory.
“That’s good—very good.” MacNeice smiled at him, and Wilson smiled back before he returned to his darkened room.
Walking across the drive-by to the car, MacNeice said, “You see, just when I begin to think highly of my powers of observation, along comes hi-tech Jesse Wilson with a credible theory about the boyfriend that hadn’t occurred to me. It sure does keep you humble. And he doesn’t look like he’s seen the light—well, sunlight, at least—for days.”
“Years.” Aziz opened the passenger door of the Chevy.
A
S
M
AC
N
EICE PULLED UP
in front of her apartment, Aziz unfastened her seatbelt but didn’t reach for the door handle. “What do you want me to focus on tomorrow?”
“Well, the plates on that Range Rover had plastic shields, but the number might be readable in spite of the glare. Could you get the lab guys on that?”
“Right. Anything else?”
“We don’t know much about Antonin Petrescu other than that he owns a shop that trades in expensive furniture and old papers. I want to know if he’s connected to the two heavies in leather jackets.” MacNeice turned off the ignition and sat back. “We know his son is in the Romanian military, doing biomedical work of some kind. I want to know what kind, and where he is now.”
“I have an idea. A good friend of mine in my doctoral
graduating class ended up working for the U.N. as a security analyst. She did that for a few years and then last year she took a job with Interpol—again in security. She might know who we can speak to about the brother. I’ll Skype her when I get upstairs. She’s six hours ahead, so I might not reach her, but she’ll know I’m trying.”
“Call me when you’ve spoken to her. She might be able to find out more about the father too.”
“Why don’t you come up? I’ll make some tea and we can see if she’s online now.”
“That would be nice, but Fiza … I don’t want to intrude.”
“You’re not intruding, sir, and besides, I’d like to keep chasing this.”
T
HE APARTMENT WAS MUCH SMALLER
than Lydia Petrescu’s but with no less light. The view was somewhat obscured by a lower building next door, but looking over its roof MacNeice could see the Carolinian forest of the Royal Reserve rolling beyond the rooftops. “It’s a beautiful view.”
From the kitchen she said, “Thanks, I love it.” He could hear the electric kettle coming to life. “I’m just going to change. Make yourself comfortable.”
He looked at the paintings on the wall, mostly abstract and very colourful. On a bookcase shelf, sitting proud of the dozens of novels and fat volumes on criminology and psychology, was a photograph of Aziz standing at attention with her parents in London. She must have been fourteen or so, and she wore black trousers, a tweed jacket and a headscarf. She wasn’t smiling, but neither did she appear unhappy—a look MacNeice had come to know. Her parents were smiling broadly, and he noted that her mother hadn’t covered her hair, and was using a hand
to keep it from flying into her face in the breeze. Behind them was one of the bridges that stretch over the Thames.
“I had just won a scholarship to a very exclusive school. They were very proud and I was very nervous.”
He turned to look at Aziz, who was now in a T-shirt and sweatpants. “Nervous? You don’t show it. What bridge is that?”
“Waterloo. Have you been to London?” She headed back to the kitchen.
“Yes, though not for some time. When we were there, it rained so much we were always running from cabs to hotels, cabs to restaurants, cabs to museums and concert halls. I got to know and love the London taxis.” He moved to the dining room table, which was positioned somewhat tightly next to the kitchen. He sat down to watch her making tea.
“You must be hungry—I certainly am. I have some beautiful cured ham that the Mennonites make, and I’ve also got a baguette.” Without waiting for his response, she sliced the baguette in half and then sliced the two pieces lengthwise.
The small kitchen had by necessity been designed ergonomically, and like a dancer she pivoted tidily from counter to refrigerator and took out the ham, some cheese and prepared mustard. In a couple of minutes she was in front of him with a plate. “I’ve got the tea cozy over the pot so the tea can steep. How about some water, though?”
“Water’d be great, thank you. I remember how the English complained about the damp and cold and how people seemed to be freezing all the time, but everyone had a tea cozy to keep their tea warm.”
Aziz smiled but made no comment.
They made small talk about the neighbourhood as they ate,
and when they’d finished their sandwiches, MacNeice said, “I thought Muslims didn’t eat pork.”
“That’s true. And Catholics don’t eat meat on Fridays.”
“I hope I’m not being rude.”
“You aren’t, and I’m not sensitive about it. Nor was I earlier with Mr. Petrescu, though I was happy you thought I was and got me out of the room.”
“I’m embarrassed to say that I know little about your religion beyond what I read in the newspapers. I hope my curiosity isn’t offensive to you.”
“It isn’t. I just happen to be fairly private about my beliefs, in part because I know that my religion is a cause of great suspicion and fear around the world.”