“How far does this video feed go back?” Doug asks.
“It’s motion-activated, so I’m hoping for two weeks, at least.”
“Keep going back through it. Let’s see how many times Jace Everett has come to this address. And who else may have paid her a visit,” Doug says, his voice demanding.
“Yep . . . You said you guys found something tonight?” Zac doesn’t seem bothered by Doug’s brusque tone. He also doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who moves too quickly for anyone.
“This.” Doug sets the tiny gray jump drive I found at Jace’s on the desk in front of Zac, along with the ransom note. “It was hidden well.”
Zac doesn’t even ask how I found it. “Okay . . . let’s see what we’ve got.” He clears whatever he’s doing until a black screen appears. After he plugs the jump drive in, his fingers begin moving so fast over the keyboard that I can’t even read what he’s typing before the words disappear into hacker’s oblivion. “There’s only one file on here. A video file.” He pauses, glances from me to Doug. “This isn’t going to be a gory beheading or some shit like that, is it? Because the last time you made me open one of these secret files—”
“Play it, Zac.”
My stomach drops. I really have no idea what could be on here, but my gut says it has to do with Celine.
“Okay . . .” With one key stroke, a video begins to play.
I gasp as a chestnut-haired woman on a mauve couch, surrounded by shelves upon shelves of antiques, comes into view. “That’s Celine. That’s from inside her apartment!”
“From her IP camera,” Doug answers, as if expecting this. “Recognize that angle?”
She sits cross-legged, a heavy-looking hardcover book in her lap, jotting down notes as she reads. The apartment is dim, the corners occupied by shadows, with the only light coming from the lamp beside her. “It’s from one of the shelves beside her desk. But why would she have a security camera in her apartment?”
“Single woman living in New York City, valuable items in her apartment, from what you’ve said. It’s not that surprising, actually. She probably tucked it between her books on the shelf and turned it on when she went out at night. And look at that.” Doug’s stubby finger touches the bottom of the screen, where the time stamp reads October 8, more than a month before her death.
“Well, she’s not out, here.”
“You’re right, she’s not.”
I’m struggling to wrap my head around this as I watch Celine on the screen, alive, a painful ball lodging itself in the base of my throat.
“The software for it is still on her computer, but the feed that was being directed to a cloud was wiped clean,” Zac explains.
“Celine deleted all of the videos?”
“Not unless she had mad tech skills that you forgot to mention. But someone who knew what they were doing did. They erased all of the metadata to prove any videos ever existed.”
“Celine was never a fan of computers.” How she even set a camera up is beyond me. She must have had help. “So it’s possible to delete camera feeds? Like that one from Jace’s camera? Because if you could—”
Doug cuts me off with, “Deleting evidence is illegal.”
“So is hacking into computers and camera systems,” I counter. “You’re having a case of a guilty conscience now?”
“Searching for hidden evidence that could lead us to an answer is one thing. But I won’t destroy evidence, and no amount of money will change my stance on that.”
Doug’s tone—the gravity in it—surprises me. I assumed there was nothing he wouldn’t do for the right amount of money. While it certainly doesn’t benefit me, I think I’ve found a new level of respect for the PI.
Of course, right now there are bigger issues than my criminal activity. “Someone did destroy evidence here, though, didn’t they? What if . . .” My voice trails off as Celine suddenly looks up on the monitor, her attention toward the door. She sets her book down and walks over to the panel on the wall, hitting the “answer” button on the intercom. Her lips move, but there’s no sound.
“Can you turn it up?”
“The audio’s not set up. She didn’t have a microphone on it.”
Whoever is coming, I don’t think she expected the visitor, because she’s quickly pulling her T-shirt over her head as she disappears into her bedroom, out of range of the camera. In less than fifteen seconds she reappears, buttoning her jeans and smoothing a flattering black sweater over her curves. She yanks the elastic out of her hair and has just enough time to finger-comb it before she opens the front door.
Jace steps in.
A second bitter wave of vindication courses through me. This time we can see his face, clearly.
She smiles up at him and steps back to let him in, reaching out to touch his arm. He doesn’t lean down to kiss her or hug her or anything that would suggest a romantic relationship, but when she lifts to her tiptoes to lay a quick kiss on his mouth, he doesn’t pull away.
I squint. The angle is a bit off, but I can tell they’re having a conversation as they walk over to the couch. A casual-looking conversation. Celine moves her book out of the way to allow room for Jace. He tidily folds his jacket and lays it across the arm, just like he did the day he came to get those papers signed.
By her mannerisms—her light giggles, the way she tucks her hair behind her ear, the way she touches his knee several times, though only a quick touch—it’s obvious that she cares for him, that she’s flirting with him. But I also know Celine well enough to see that she’s nervous.
It looks like he’s smiling at her as he talks, but it’s hard to tell.
And then he must say something to her that isn’t friendly or nice or casual, because her face crumbles. Even from this angle, even in the dim light, I can see whatever spark of excitement had surged through her the second he was buzzed in is now extinguished.
She’s surprised, she’s stammering, she’s ducking her head, she’s shaking her head in denial. He’s calmly answering her, but the hairs on the back of my neck are still standing on end.
This goes on for a good twenty minutes, with her continuously swiping the tears from her cheek. Is this a fight? Were they together? Are they breaking up?