flashed across her friend’s face, Margrit gritted her teeth, trying to rein in her temper. “Security cameras. The club’s got security cameras.”
Cam and Cole exchanged glances again, Cam’s lower lip protruding as she tilted her head in acknowledgment. “Think they’ll let us look at them?”
“They’ll let the cops, if they won’t let us,” Margrit said.
“How did you get involved in this, Margrit?” The question was delivered through Anthony Pulcella’s teeth, an aside she wasn’t meant to answer. He’d been off duty long enough to arrive at the club in a Knicks jacket and jeans, less formal than the on-duty suit he usually wore. “I got your message. Sorry I haven’t called. They put me on point for this investigation.”
“Congratulations,” Margrit said without irony. “It’s okay.”
“Dinner tomorrow,” Tony continued. “If I can make it, I’d like that.”
Margrit pulled a brief smile. “Another reason we’re always on and off. Incompatible schedules.”
“We’ll talk about that, too,” he said under his breath.
“As soon as we get a chance,” Margrit agreed. “Look, they wouldn’t let me watch the security videos without you.”
“Of course they wouldn’t. You’re not an authority.” The conversation took them from the Blue Room’s front door into brightly lit back corridors, following the club’s tension-ridden manager, a woman in her fifties who clearly wanted to be elsewhere. A reedy, pimply-faced kid scrambled to his feet as she pushed the door open and gestured them into a small room filled with video screens.
“This is Detective Pulcella, Ira, and the woman who saw the suspect. Go ahead and play the tapes for them. Do you need me here, Detective?”
Tony gave the woman an apologetic smile. “I’m afraid I might, if it’s clear he hasn’t left the premises. We may need to close the club down, and I’ll need your cooperation and expertise to make that happen smoothly.” The woman’s expression loosened a little at the flattery, and Tony turned his smile on Ira. “Can you cue the tapes?”
The kid gave Tony a superior look. “Already done, man. You think I been coolin’ my heels all this time? Over there.” He pointed with a pencil toward a small set of four screens shoved into a corner. “Top corner’s the front door. Other three are all angles of the Blue Room.” He jabbed at the bottom of one screen with his pencil. “There’s the landing she was on. Got it?”
“Got it.” Tony shanghaied Ira’s chair and offered it to Margrit, then leaned over her as the videos began to play. Ira stalked out, clearly offended at the dismissive treatment.
“Okay, that’s us getting into the Blue Room. Do we need to watch this? I don’t know how to fast-forward this thing.” Margrit prodded a button, then pulled her hand back. Tony reached around her and hit the fast-forward, sending the video people into convulsive, jerky motion. On screen, Margrit finished her beer and drank Cole’s in epileptic spasms.
“How much have you had to drink tonight, Grit?”
“A couple of bee—Oh, come on, Tony.”
The detective glanced at her. “Nothing personal. Two beers?”
“One beer, and half of Cole’s,” she muttered. “Um-hmm.”
Margrit scowled, then straightened in Ira’s chair.
“There.”
The blond man edged through the dance crowd on the upper level, the video blurring and leaving a trail of dark pixels behind him as he moved. He rounded the corner to the stairs, head lowered to watch his feet, and disappeared from one screen, reappearing in the next. His head was still lowered, hair glowing white in the grainy black-and-white video, face foreshortened and features indefinable. The third camera, facing Margrit, caught him in profile as he trotted down the stairs, stretched-out pixels still following him like mist-obscured wings. “Goddammit,” Tony muttered. “Look up, you son of a bitch.”
The cameras swiveled as if responding to Tony’s command, their sweep of the room offering new angles. The second screen showed the man in profile, the third catching him full-on as he reached out to tap Margrit’s shoulder. He was still looking down; she stood at least half a foot shorter than he was. Tony paused the tape, studying the differences in height. “He’s what, about six foot, or six-one?”
“He’s taller than that,” Margrit said with a hint of impatience. “I told you this morning. He’s six-three or four.”
“Grit, you’re short, and I can see he’s not that much taller than you.”
“I was wearing three-inch heels.”
Tony glanced at her bare feet. “What happened to them?”
“You’ll see.”
He sucked his cheeks in, staring at her a moment, then hit Play again. The video Margrit turned, shrieked silently and flung the beer into the blond’s face. His head reared back, his features visible for barely an instant before his hands covered them and he doubled over in obvious pain.
Tony paused the tape again and looked at Margrit, amused and admiring. “You never did that to me when I tapped your shoulder.”
“You’ve never been suspected of murder.”
Tony flashed a grin and resumed playing the tape. On-screen, Margrit ran two steps down the staircase before her heel snapped. She lurched, executing a roll she hadn’t known she was capable of. Her chin tucked neatly against her chest, her body compacting itself into a ball, while her skirt rode up high enough that the curve of her bottom was revealed. Watching herself, she was perversely glad she’d been wearing lace undies instead of granny panties.
Her spine barely hit the stairs, as far as she could see, and after two complete somersaults she landed, crouched, on her toes, hands spread and balance forward. Tony took his attention from the screen to stare at her. “How in hell did you do that?”
“Pure blind luck,” Margrit said, gaping at her image. The recorded Margrit whipped around and looked up the stairs, reminding them both what they were supposed to be watching.
The man was gone.
“Well, goddammit,” Tony said mildly, and leaned closer to study the other screens briefly. “I don’t see him. Rewind it.” He reached past her and punched the button himself.
In the rewind, as Margrit tumbled up the stairs, there was nothing, then a blur of blackness, and then the man in the space he’d occupied. “What the hell was that?” Tony played it forward, this time both of them watching the suspect.
Margrit threw the beer in his face. He doubled over again, falling into a crouch as he wiped his eyes frantically. His head wrenched to the side as Margrit stumbled, and he made one quick, aborted attempt to catch her, the movement so fast his image blurred again—white this time, the color of his shirt. He missed by a finger’s breadth, frustration contorting his features as he fell back into his crouched position.
Then all his energy seemed to rechannel. He uncoiled like a striking snake, the blur of black pixels that followed
