The Spike (A Marty Singer Mystery Book 4)

by Matthew Iden

  “Eight wide-angle cameras, three-point-six millimeter with night vision, good out to sixty feet, all patched into this central display for live review,” Rhee said, gesturing to the segmented picture on-screen. “The feed simultaneously goes to this hard drive”—he backed up his chair so we could see the small black box resting on the floor—“and is automatically recorded with a date and time stamp.”

  “Does it say which camera is doing the recording?” Amanda asked.

  “Yep.” Using the computer’s mouse, he tapped a few times and the feed for the camera covering the maintenance door in the rear of the building took over the whole screen. He pointed to the words CAMERA THREE in the bottom-right-hand portion of the picture.

  “Do they run continuously or by motion detection?” I asked.

  “Either one. Or a mix. Continuous recording will fill the hard drive in a week, though, then you have to offload or erase the data.”

  “What about motion detection only?” I asked.

  “You’ll get two months.”

  “Maybe the mix,” I suggested. “Cover the front and back door continuously and set the others to motion. You’ll get a month, month and a half out it, then.”

  “And with so many people coming and going, the cameras covering the front are as good as being on continuous,” Amanda said. She’d studied everything Rhee had been doing and seemed to understand the security and tech aspects equally.

  “Good point,” Rhee said. “Here’s a nice little feature, too. Since this is hooked into your network, you can have the system email you when one of the motion sensors goes off. You can even patch into the active camera remotely.”

  “What if you’re not by your computer?” I asked, then instantly regretted it as all three of them looked at me. Even Diane, who was probably my age, had a look on her face that was equal parts pity and amusement.

  “Your phone, Marty,” Amanda stage-whispered. “You can get the alert on your phone.”

  “Damn it,” I said.

  “Just testing us. Right, Singer?” Rhee asked, grinning at me over his shoulder. I gave him the finger and he laughed. “You want me to set your phone to get the alerts?”

  “Is that okay with you two?” I asked Diane and Amanda. They nodded and I handed my phone to Rhee.

  “I hate to mention this,” Diane said, “but some of the ladies who watch the front desk aren’t the most…vigilant.”

  “They play Solitaire on the computer all day,” Amanda said.

  “We can set the motion detectors to play a sound when they sense something,” Rhee said, without raising his head from my phone. “For the front door, you have the old camera on the dedicated monitor, so they’ll at least be able to see when someone’s on the porch, even if they’re ignoring the other seven cameras.”

  “What if they turn the sound down?” Diane asked, looking worried.

  “Fire them,” Amanda and I said at the same time. Rhee grinned again. “Look,” I said, “I understand they’re not getting paid big bucks to sit at a desk all day, but we’re not playing around. If this clown Karla’s hiding from decides to do something worse than pushing his way into the clinic—like waiting by the back door to attack someone—then the least your receptionists can do is keep the volume on.”

  Diane nodded. Rhee handed me my phone and showed me how to access the cameras remotely. When I saw how clear it was—how easy all of this was—I wondered how crooks got away with anything anymore. Who needed cops when you could just record it all and send it to a magistrate?

  Diane and Amanda each took turns playing around with the security interface on the computer, then Rhee looked around at us. “Is that it? Think you got it?”

  We said yes, Diane and Amanda thanked him, then he and I walked out to his car, an Acura Integra so hyper-modified that it was difficult to tell what was left of the original.

  “You and I know a couple of cameras ain’t going to stop someone who really wants in,” he said. As we walked, he reached into his precisely ripped jeans and pulled out some matches and a pack of cigarettes. He shook the pack until one slid out, then tapped it butt-first against the front of the pack.

  “I know. We’re working on some other strategies, but they don’t have two nickels to rub together. That system we just put in almost broke the bank.”

  He lit the cigarette and I wrinkled my nose at the acrid smell coming off the match. “They do abortions?”

  I shook my head. “No. They refer, I think, but they’re not set up for it clinically. It’s more of a shelter with some added services. A place to sleep, counseling, job training, day care, some transportation.”

  He took a drag, blew it to the side. “Good. A videotape won’t discourage some numb-nuts from shooting the staff or chucking a bomb through the door.”

  “I know. It’s barely enough to stop this guy that wants to break in to see his girl so bad.”

  We had reached his Integra and I resisted rolling my eyes when Rhee pulled out a bandana from a back pocket and rubbed away a smudge on the chrome of the driver’s-side door trim. Satisfied, he put the bandana away. “What are you going to do when you get an alert telling you it’s more than a breeze going down the alley behind their building?”

  “Hop in the car, come down here, and inquire of the miscreant as to the nature of his intrusion,” I said.

  “And if he don’t want to tell you?”

  “Then I may have to assert my right to know. Vigorously.”

  “Out of range of the cameras, right?”

  “Naturally.”

  “That’s what I want to hear,” he said and he got into his car.

  I leaned down to look in. “Thanks, Rhee. I appreciate it.”

  He gave a chin-lift of acknowledgment. “No sweat. I got a little sister. Had her own run-ins with some guy she was dating. Smacked her around, thought he was tough.”

  “Was he?”

  Rhee grinned sharkily. “Nope. She’s a second gup in hapkido. Went red belt on his ass.”

  “If you say so.”

  “Come on, Singer. Hapkido. National martial art of Korea.”

  “Okay.”

  “Let’s just say she softened him up and I finished him off,” he said, making a flat gesture with his hand. “But if she wasn’t so good with her hands or I wasn’t around, maybe she’d need a place like this. So I’m happy to help.”

  We bumped fists through the window, then he said, “This guy that broke in before, he’s the one that busted Amanda’s arm?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You need some help, ah, asserting yourself and there’s time to call, I’m in.”

  “You got it.”

  I watched him drive away with a roar, the Integra’s glasspack muffler damaging my hearing and threatening to break all the windows in a one-block radius, then went back inside. Amanda and Diane were still playing with the camera system. Diane was especially entranced by the doodad.

  Amanda turned to me. “Thanks, Marty. And thank Chuck when you see him again, will you?”

  “Sure. I think he’s looking forward to helping out more.”

  “That’s wonderful,” Diane said, though I don’t think she understood the nature of the help Rhee had been offering. Amanda gave me a knowing look. I smiled back.

  “What else would you recommend, Mr. Singer?” Diane asked.

  “The downtown YMCA offers self-defense classes you should make mandatory for your staff. I know the managing director down there. She’ll give you a discount if you can get everyone to come in at once.”

  “That would be wonderful,” Diane said, “though I hope it doesn’t come to that.”

  “It’s just a way to protect yourselves in a pinch, not as a solution in and of itself,” I said. “I’d also like to bring a local MPDC sergeant around to explain a couple of things. The real way to get harassment to stop is to catch the jerks doing the harassing and press charges. Some time in lockup is the best way
to get them off your back permanently.”

  “And the police officer will explain those things?” Diane asked.

  “Right. The cameras are a good first step in evidence gathering. But then the way you respond to harassment or even an attack might help in court. If you know some of that before an altercation, you’ll have a better chance of pressing a charge and making it stick.”

  “Can’t you just do it, Marty?” Amanda asked. “I trust you to explain it better than someone we don’t know.”

  “Thanks, kiddo. Don’t worry, I’ll be there and I can answer questions,” I said. “But I’m retired. I can’t arrest anyone. If we get your local ward cops in here to explain things instead, they’ll remember you when you make that call.”

  “Get a good rapport going, keep lines of communication open,” Amanda said. “They might give us the benefit of the doubt if it ever comes down to our word against his.”

  “Exactly.” I gave her an appraising look. “Jeez, it’s like you went to college or something.”

  We talked about the YMCA classes and the best time to get the FirstStep staff together for training. In the middle of our conversation, the front buzzer sounded and we all turned to look at the computer monitor to see Julie Atwater looking up at the newly installed camera. My heart went bahdum-dum-dum and I could tell both Amanda and Diane were struggling not to look in my direction. No one moved to buzz Julie in, however, and her expression went from mild curiosity to consternation and she reached out and leaned on the bell.

  Diane hit the button and the front door unlocked with a loud clack. Julie walked through the door with a scowl on her face that rippled in several interesting ways when she saw who was behind the desk. I tried on a stupid smile and Diane said, “Hello, Julie,” as she walked by. Julie nodded and passed through the hall door back to the offices without a word. The three of us stood in an awkward semicircle, with nothing to look at except the monitor which stayed stuck in time, recording a gray patch of empty sidewalk.

  Diane cleared her throat. “Well, I should get back to work. Thank you for all your help, Mr. Singer. Perhaps you can arrange the details of that training with Amanda?”

  “Sure,” I said, still staring at the monitor.

  Diane said her goodbyes and followed Julie through the door back to the offices. Amanda was quiet for a moment, shuffling from foot to foot, then asked, “Are you okay?”

  “Sure. I’m eating right, go for a run once in a while. I cut salt out of my diet—”

  “Marty.”

  I sighed, glanced at her. “What do you want me to say? We had a forty-five-second conversation in your office. She told me what an asshole I was, I basically agreed, and then we had nothing else to talk about.”

  “Do you have a plan?”

  “A plan?”

  “Are you going to try talking to her again?”

  I leaned against the desk, my hands in my pockets. “Because the first time went so well.”

  “How was it supposed to go, Marty?” she asked. She went to flick a stray lock of hair away from her face, a patented Amanda gesture, then realized she was trying to use her broken arm and blew it away instead. “It was the first time you’d seen or talked to each other in more than a year. She was surprised, you were surprised. What’d you expect? That she’d fall into your arms?”

  “No, not exact—”

  “You have to keep trying,” Amanda rolled on. “These things don’t get solved with just one chance encounter.”

  “I didn’t think—”

  “She’s been thinking about this as much as you have, you know. And she might seem like she’s in control, but I can guarantee you, she’s scared, angry, and nervous, too.”

  “Okay, maybe what I can—”

  “You can’t simply barge into her life and expect to pick up where you left off, which was a flaming ruin after you threw her out of your hospital room—”

  “Jesus, I get it,” I said in exasperation. “I have to try again, go slow, and be persistent.”

  Amanda got a coy little smile on her face. “Good. Glad to know some of this is getting through.”

  “Thanks, Coach,” I said sourly. “Any tips for how to start?”

  She pursed her lips, thinking. “Treat it like one of your cases.”

  “Sorry?”

  “You wouldn’t arrest someone without collecting evidence, interviewing suspects, looking over the situation, would you?”

  I folded my arms over my chest. “You want me to build a murder case against Julie Atwater?”

  “No, just the process. Think hard about how you want to approach things, don’t let them happen to you. Call her. Proceed cautiously. There’ll be some setbacks, some problems, but hopefully you’ll be able to move forward, make some progress. At some point, you might even meet for coffee or something.”

  “Then slap the cuffs on her.”

  “Marty, be serious. I’m trying to help,” Amanda said, then got a wicked look on her face. “Though if you get her in handcuffs, I’d say you’ve closed the case.”

  “Oh my God.”

  She laughed and put her hand on my arm. “Think about it and give her a call.”

  “She probably changed her number after I kicked her out.”

  Amanda sighed. “Murder case, remember? Try role-playing.”

  “Like what?”

  “You need information you don’t have, right? How’d you get it before?”

  “What, you’re my snitch, now?”

  She looked at me expectantly.

  “You…work with Julie,” I said haltingly. Amanda nodded, eyes bright.

  “So you probably have access to her contact information.” She made a keep going motion.

  “Uh, can you get me her number?”

  “I’d be happy to, Marty.” She plucked a FirstStep card from a holder on the desk, flipped it over, and scribbled a number on it from memory, then handed it to me. “I’m so glad you asked.”

  I took the card, looked it over. “You don’t sound like a snitch.”

  “It’s just a metaphor,” she said. “Anyway, I have to get to work. Is this enough to get you started?”

  “I guess so.”

  “Great,” she said, gave me a hug, then shoved me in the direction of the front door. “Don’t back out on this. You’re both worth it.”

  I walked out of FirstStep, staring at the card in my hand, bemused. It was only when I got to my car that I realized my confusion had been caught on tape…and that wasn’t something Amanda was likely to erase anytime soon.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The next day, when I didn’t get a call from a cupcake-laden Caitlin, I phoned Paul Gerson and asked him to arrange a meeting with his parents. He told me to give him fifteen minutes, which I did, then he called back to ask if a midmorning visit would work. I told him it would, hung up, and went to put on my preppy best. The result was a blue Oxford tucked into dark jeans with loafers and a tweedy something-or-other patterned blazer that hid my gun and the fact that my belt was cinched down to the second hole.

  The upgrade to my normal attire was required because the Gersons lived in McLean, a wee little burg on the Virginia side of the Potomac that routinely makes it into all of the top ten lists of wealthiest neighborhoods in the nation. It’s old money, made generations ago. The kind that is accustomed to having a place at the table on matters of state, business, and culture. Ethel Kennedy had kept a home there for decades, as had half the Cabinet members of the past three administrations. Oddly, it’s also home to CIA headquarters, but the campus was so buried in a thick forest of pines, sweet gums, and tulip poplars you wouldn’t know it was there unless you caught sight of the agency’s discreet sign along the George Washington Parkway.

  While the Parkway has its charms, I came at McLean from a different route, Old Dominion Drive, which took me through the more pedestrian suburbs of Arlington County. Modest single-family abodes and garden apartme
nts fell behind as I wound through the lawns and parks and playgrounds of Northern Virginia’s upper-middle class. And while the redbrick and white-pillared homes along the way were still out of the price range of a retired cop, they wouldn’t have cut the mustard as garages for the homes that lay on the outskirts of McLean…and those were still a tier below the estates that were tucked out of sight along the ridge overlooking the Potomac, protected by high walls, security cameras, and key-coded gates.

  The Gersons lived in a home somewhere between the second and third tier. It had a gate, but not much of a wall, and you could see it from the road—a detail which brought its value down by the price of an Aston Martin or two. The style was Swiss chalet, with an unsettling hint of Teutonic castle. It was a ponderous, traditional look, but one that I was betting had graced more than one magazine cover. I drove to the gate and buzzed the VISITOR button. The tell-tale electric buzz followed a moment later and the gate swung away.

  Although there was a triple-stall garage, a boxy white Mercedes and a steel-blue Jaguar sat in the circular drive not far from the front door. I parked behind the Jag and turned the car off. I pulled out the picture Paul Gerson had given to me of Wendy and looked at it for a moment, trying to imagine her growing up in the house in front of me. I wondered if the picture had been taken here, in the backyard, or somewhere else. My speculation was interrupted when the door opened and a tallish, older man—thinning blond comb-over, golf course fit, Bermuda tan—came out to the stoop to greet me. I put away the picture and got out of the car.

  “Mr. Singer?”

  “Mr. Gerson?”

  He nodded curtly. “Terry.” I shook his hand and he motioned me to come inside. I glanced around a stone foyer with a Turkish rug on the floor that seemed a shame to wipe my feet on and a dim light coming from burnished wall sconces. Gerson shut the door and showed me to a living room featuring a vaulted ceiling and more of the medieval decor. The room was misnamed, since the chairs and couches had almost certainly never been sat in and I was relieved when we passed through it and into a side room that was instantly recognizable as the place where people actually spent some time. A comfortable-looking couch and two well-worn chairs—one an original Eames, with a Navajo blanket thrown over the back—nuzzled a coffee table where, judging from the scuff marks, feet had been propped up on more than one evening. The furniture was placed in a semicircle around a homey fieldstone hearth. A burnt-down pile of cherry-red logs popped and snapped in the fireplace.