Neighborhood Watch
MILES
After spending most of the night helping tear apart everything we know about Julian Rooke, his clients, and the kind of person Celeste Alati might be willing to stake her reputation on, followed by nowhere near enough sleep, there are only two things I want in the world.
The chipotle chicken panini from Black-Eyed Sue’s, and Reese.
Most people notice faces. I notice who looks comfortable together. Who keeps checking over their shoulder. Who smiles because they’re happy and who smiles because they need everyone else to think they are. It makes me good at my job.
And, okay, I notice Reese. She’s wearing a short-sleeved wrap dress in a bright floral print, tiny gold bee earrings, and sandals.
The dress fits her in ways I am trying very hard not to catalogue with the same precision I use on surveillance, but I can’t say I haven’t noticed the curve of her waist anyway.
Reese notices completely different things about everyone than I do.
Which is precisely why people-watching with her is one of my favorite pastimes.
We’re currently eating our paninis at one of a handful of patio tables overlooking Main Street in Cloakwood.
The hot summer weather is finally leaning toward fall, so the evening is the perfect temperature, and lots of people are out.
I point at a man in his early thirties carrying a reusable grocery bag. “Gray polo. Grocery bag. Go.”
Reese studies him for about two seconds as she’s wiping her hands on her napkin. Then she says, “He is absolutely proposing to his girlfriend tonight.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Yeah?”
“She’s been convinced for months he’s incapable of planning anything romantic because every anniversary gift he’s given her has come from a gas station.”
I chuckle. This game of trying to figure out the backstories of strangers and what makes them tick is something I’ve played since I was young.
As a kid, sometimes I played it with my siblings, but usually not.
When there are six of you in a public place and you’re all looking at the same person, couple, or family, clearly talking about them, people tend to get a bit uncomfortable.
When Reese and I started hanging out in college, she was actually the one to start this game with me. Apparently, she’d been doing it her whole life, too.
“Okay, what’s your proof he’s about to propose?”
“He keeps checking the grocery bag to make sure the ring box is still there.”
“He could be checking his groceries. Maybe he’s got ice cream he’s worried will melt.”
Reese shakes her head. “Nope. If it were groceries, he’d look once. He’s looked three times in the past—oh, four times now.”
“Okay, I’ll give you that. What else?”
“He keeps practicing smiling. That’s an ‘I’m trying not to throw up from nerves’ smile.”
“And the flowers? Are they in the grocery bag, too?”
She shakes her head. “There aren’t any.”
“He forgot flowers?”
“No. He knows his girlfriend loves penguins way more than flowers. They’re going to the aquarium after dinner because that’s where they had their first date. He plans to propose in front of the penguin habitat.”
“The penguin habitat, huh? And what’s your proof for that?”
She forks a chunk of cantaloupe from her fruit bowl. “He’s wearing sensible shoes, Miles. That is not the look of a man trying to impress someone. That’s the look of a man who’s about to try to make someone he loves feel known.” She sticks the cantaloupe in her mouth.
I smile and take a bite of my panini. Reese has no idea she is the most restful part of my life. Which is ironic, considering she has enough energy for three people.
The nearly five hours of sleep I managed to get before meeting Reese hasn’t been nearly enough for me to untangle everything from last night and this morning.
ISID has confirmed exactly which seven asset identities were stolen, six teams are working to keep the surviving assets safe, and we finally have a possible route into Rooke’s sale.
Me.
Or, more specifically, Maxwell Shaw.
I spent the better part of the night doing what I do best—following people instead of just data.
Celeste Alati has a history, contacts, habits, preferences, people she trusts, and people she avoids.
Databases can tell me all of that. What they can’t tell me is what makes her decide someone belongs in the first category instead of the second.
And by Saturday night, I have to figure it out.
“That guy right there,” Reese says, motioning to a guy walking like he’s not in a hurry down the sidewalk on the other side of the street. “Light blue shirt.”
It's a wrinkled button-down with sleeves rolled to the forearms. He’s also wearing dark jeans, brown leather sneakers, and a messenger bag slung over one shoulder.
I smile. He’s perfect for planting a seed.
Maybe someday when I can tell Reese what I actually do for a living, she’ll remember conversations like this and the news won’t come as such a shock to her.
“He’s an international intelligence operative.” He’s not. But he’s just right for my story.
Reese laughs so hard she almost snorts.
“Him?”
I nod. “Him.”
“He looks like he sells insurance. And then coaches his first grader’s soccer team.”
“That’s just his cover.”
“Ahh. I see Mackenzie rubbed off on you, too.” Reese nods at the guy. “Okay, so what’s your proof?”
“If I was looking for someone who didn’t belong…” I gesture toward Messenger Bag Guy as he gets into line at Muffin to See Here, “…I’d never pick him. It’s part of what makes him an excellent field operative.”
“Okay, so he’s ordinary-looking, but what’s the proof he’s a spy?”
“Out of habit, he’s checking reflections instead of turning his head.
And he keeps drifting toward the curb—not to watch traffic, but to keep his sightlines open.
” I gesture at the older man who’s less than twenty feet from us, on our side of the street.
“He’s also trying not to look at the guy reading the outdoor menu. ”
“Why’s he trying not to look at him?”
“Because they know each other— that guy’s an intelligence operative, too.
” He’s not, either. I’d be able to tell if he was.
But it’s clear they know each other, because they seem to be moving at the same pace, almost like they’re timing things to cross paths.
“They’re both on surveillance. Different assignments.
They spotted each other twenty minutes ago, but they’re professionals. ”
She laughs. “Of course they are. Okay, so, what’s going to happen?”
“They’ll accidentally cross paths in…” I glance at my watch. “…three minutes. Then one will ask the other for directions.”
Reese shakes her head. “I’m not buying it. I think they both already know exactly where they’re going.”
I nod. “But they’re not actually exchanging directions. They’re exchanging confirmation that neither assignment has gone sideways.”
“Oh, I see.” She’s trying to hold back a smile.
Maybe someday, when I can finally explain to Reese what I really do for a living, “You’re a spy?” won’t be the first thing she says. Maybe it’ll be “That actually explains a lot.”
We eat our paninis and keep an eye on the two men as I tune in to the conversations going on around us. Force of habit. When we first came out onto the patio to eat, I scoped out our fellow table-sitters to check for threats and possible connections. Also force of habit.
Two of the three older women to our right are trying to convince the third that she can’t fake a hip replacement to get out of hosting Thanksgiving this year, unless she also stops going on walks with them.
The young parents of a toddler behind us are telling her that ketchup is not a beverage.
The group of college students at a table is discussing whether failing statistics is statistically the professor’s fault.
And the man on the first date is telling the woman how he organizes his spice rack alphabetically for efficiency’s sake.
About two and a half minutes after my prediction, the older gentleman reading the Black-Eyed Sue’s menu crosses the street, and Messenger Bag Guy leaves the bakery.
When they meet on the sidewalk, they stop long enough for Messenger Bag Guy to ask Older Gentleman something.
Older Gentleman responds, then they both keep walking.
I could not have planned their timing more perfectly.
Reese turns slowly to me, awe on her face. “How did you know?”
It’s the exact kind of question I’m going to have to answer about Celeste Alati before Saturday.
Not whether I can get her talking to Maxwell Shaw.
I can get people talking. The harder question is how I’ll know when she stops seeing him as a stranger and starts seeing him as someone worth opening a door for.
“Wait. You know them, because they also live here in Cloakwood, right? Let me guess. They’re neighbors of yours?”
I shake my head. “Never seen either of them before.” I take a bite of my sandwich.
“It was the eye contact, wasn’t it? They made eye contact with each other from across the street.”
Close. But not this time.
“Or one of them smiled before they were within talking distance.”
Good catch. Also not it. I stay quiet so she’ll continue guessing.
“Wait. You guessed they knew each other while they were still further away from each other. They were walking at the same pace?”
Oh, that was part of it. She’s so good at this.
“No…” Reese says slowly. Then, much more animatedly, she says, “Maybe it wasn’t anything they did when they met—it was what they were paying attention to before they met!”
I actually pause chewing. Now that’s interesting.
I’ve spent hours studying who Celeste Alati knows, who she trusts, who she does business with, and who she’s willing to be seen beside.
But Reese is talking about something different— what Celeste notices.
What holds her attention when she thinks nobody is watching.
I file that away for Saturday.
“I got it, didn’t I?”