Page 52 of Fallen

We’re champing at the bit to discover even the most minute of clues, but finding anything useful on a twenty-four-hour run of CCTV is not a speedy process. After the first hour, Tomasetti pulls up one of the visitor chairs and settles in beside me. I roll through the footage as fast as I dare. Both of us have our necks craned, eyes squinting.

One hour turns into two. At two A.M., I turn over the mouse to him and go to reception to make coffee. I’ve barely finished when Tomasetti calls out. “Here we go.”

I return to my office and come up behind him for a look.

He backs up the footage, clicks PLAY. It’s darker now, dusk, the resolution fuzzy and disjointed. Headlights flash as a vehicle pulls into the parking lot of The Pub and parks at the side of the building. My pulse jumps when I recognize it as Rachael Schwartz’s Lexus. She doesn’t open the door or get out. A full minute passes with no movement. Then the female driver gets out, slams the door, leans against the car door. Though I can’t see her face, I can tell by the way she moves that it’s her. She’s wearing dark skinny pants with a cold-shoulder top. Heels. A hat cocked at just the right angle. The outfit speaks of attitude, confidence, and style, and she has mastered all of it.

“She’s talking to someone on her cell,” Tomasetti murmurs.

He’s put on readers at some point. Black frames. The sight warms me, makes me smile. “You look good in those cheaters, Tomasetti.”

He doesn’t look at me, but I see his mouth twitch. “I know.”

“You’re pretty full of yourself, aren’t you?”

“Full of something.”

We turn our attention back to the screen. Rachael is still leaning against the car, cell pressed to her ear, talking animatedly, gesturing. Smoking a cigarette now. Even though it’s been years since I saw her—and she was just a kid—her mannerisms are familiar. In spite of the dim light and poor resolution, it’s evident that she was a beautiful, animated woman.

“We need to find that cell phone,” I murmur.

“Call records would be nice.” He’s looking intently at the screen. “She’s not happy with whoever’s on the other end.”

My cop’s interest stirs. Though we can’t make out her expression or hear what she’s saying, her body language tells us she’s arguing with someone. “Looks like it.”

I glance at the time in the lower corner of the screen, which indicates the footage was recorded at 6:42 P.M. According to her credit card record, she had dinner with an unknown individual and paid for it with her card, just an hour later. Is she talking to her murderer? Planning to meet him? Does the argument have anything to do with her murder?

“Who are you talking to, my girl?” I whisper.

Rachael ends the call abruptly. Shaking her head, she cuffs the roof of the car with the base of her palm, then yanks open the driver’s-side door and slides inside. We watch and wait, but the car doesn’t move. Anticipation hums in the air between us. Two minutes pass. Six. Tomasetti scrolls, I go to the coffee station and pour two cups. I’ve just set them on the desk next to my laptop when I see the flare of headlights on the screen.

“Here he comes,” Tomasetti says.

The glare makes it impossible to distinguish the make or model of the vehicle, let alone the license plate number.

“Come on,” Tomasetti hisses.

But the driver parks on the other side of Rachael’s Lexus, so that all we can see is the roof and a portion of the hood. A dark sedan. Four-door. A male disembarks. Too dark to see his face. Average height. Muscular build. He moves with the ease of a self-assured man. Comfortable with who he is. Confident. No hesitation or uncertainty.

The door of the Lexus swings open. Rachael gets out, slams it behind her. She rounds the hood, meets the man on the other side, out of sight. The footage is too grainy to see his face or discern his expression. But even to my untrained eye, his body language speaks of tension. He’s much larger than her. I recall the autopsy report. Rachael Schwartz was five feet six inches tall and weighed in at 120 pounds. This man is taller by six or eight inches and outweighs her by seventy or eighty pounds. In a physical confrontation, she wouldn’t stand a chance.

They exchange words. Some gesturing. Hands on hips. The tension remains, but it’s more subtle now. Two adversaries facing off, aware of appearances, indications of weakness. Some elusive element simmering beneath the surface. After a moment, the male motions toward the bar. Rachael turns and looks, then shrugs. Reluctant. He motions again. This time, she throws up her hands and they start that way.

In that instant, they face the camera dead-on.

“Show us your face, you prick.” Tomasetti clicks the mouse, freezing the frame. He tries to enlarge it, but the resolution becomes too grainy. Cursing, he clicks again, moving them forward frame by frame. It doesn’t help.

“Any chance you have a computer guy who can bring that into better focus?” I ask.

“We can damn well try. I know one of the computer forensic guys. I’ll give him a call, see if he’ll meet me first thing.” He checks his watch. “Let’s see if Schwartz and her pal leave together.”

It takes us twenty minutes to find their departure. Sure enough, Rachael and her male counterpart walk out of The Pub an hour later. This time, we catch a glimpse of their faces. It’s blurred, but something pings in my brain. Something about the male. The way he moves? The way he walks? The set of his shoulders? His clothes? What?

“Freeze it,” I say abruptly.

Tomasetti clicks the mouse.

“I think there’s something familiar about that guy.” I reach over and usurp the mouse. Back up the footage. Play it forward. “I don’t know. Something…”