32. Silas
Iwalk out of that church, not caring about the dozens of eyes on my back, not hearing their whispers and theories about the illegitimate son over the sound of the organ. I call Nigella as soon as I’m out the doors, not even caring about the rain as I make my way to the SUV.
“Nigella. What did they find?”
“He won’t say over the phone. I sent you the location. Did you get that?”
“I have it. It’s a half hour the wrong way from Boston. Can’t they just send me the video?”
“No. It’s deemed sensitive. He’s giving us a heads up before he calls that idiot detective, and that’s thanks to my charm.”
“Or my money.”
“Yeah, probably that.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m headed out to their building now. I’ll be there in about twenty minutes.”
“Okay, I’ll see you there.”
Between people driving like idiots in the rain and general traffic, it takes me forty-five minutes to get to the address Nigella texted. It’s an obscure space housed in a squat building that looks like it should have been taken down about a decade ago. From a decal on the wall, it used to be a tire company.
There are only a few cars in the lot, and I park beside Nigella’s Bentley, which looks entirely out of place. I hurry to the nearest door where I’m greeted by Nigella who is waiting for me in a makeshift lobby that smells like rubber.
She looks like she’s taking care not to touch anything.
“This was the only place that could do this?” I ask, not really knowing her contacts, usually pleased just to have the results.
“It’s footage from an open murder investigation. You can imagine people aren’t jumping up screaming ‘pick me’ to break the law. This way.”
I walk beside her down a hall where the overhead fluorescent flashes annoyingly. “But these guys are going to turn it in?”
She shrugs a shoulder. “Who knows?” We turn a corner, and she opens a door. “Aaron, this is Silas Cruz. You’ll recognize his name from the hefty bank deposit, I’m sure.”
Aaron, a nerdy, lanky guy who smells vaguely of hot dogs stands up and extends his hand. I shake it because it would be rude not to.
“Aaron. I guess you were able to clean up the video?”
“I was. It took some doing and no way the people the Boston PD work with could have done it. It’s good you brought it to me.”
“Is that right? Let’s see it.”
Aaron resumes his seat on the metal folding chair in the windowless room glowing with the fluorescents over his head. He has three large screens lined up in a half-circle on what looks to be a fold up table. There are two computers under the table and about a dozen wires are tangled around two extension cords plugged into a socket.
I glance at Nigella, raising an eyebrow.
She shrugs.
Aaron punches things into his keyboard and starts to explain his process as he does. I don’t give a fuck, but I don’t interrupt so he gets through it faster. A moment later, there are two side-by-side images on the center screen. The first is the one I’ve seen before, the unidentifiable man walking away from the camera in the garage. The other is that same man but clear. He’s wearing a black coat with a hood lined with fur pulled up over his head. The coat is long, which we knew, but now I can see his dark jeans and dirty sneakers more clearly.
“There.” I stop Aaron. “Go back. Zoom in on his hand.”
He does, moving the image backward then hits play. He zooms the picture in on his right hand and there, something anyone who didn’t know to look for it could overlook even on this clear image, is the gold of a ring on the man’s pinkie finger caught in the light of the blinking light in that garage.
“More. Zoom closer.”
Aaron does and I see it. I see the red glint of a ruby eye and the unmistakable point of the fox’s ear.