she’s been staring at, trying to identify a totally unidentifiable man. The more men she looks at, the more convinced she becomes that this is hopeless.
She asks to take a closer look at what turns out to be another lawyer. She didn’t even know there was a law firm in the building. There are apparently nine of them.
“Do you have any idea what you’re looking for?” Sanchez asks. He doesn’t sound frustrated, just curious. “Any identifying characteristics you’re looking for?”
“Not that I know of.”
“So is there any chance we’re going to get anywhere?”
“I highly doubt it.”
But then a minute later, Sanchez notices something. He hits rewind. They watch a section of footage from the lobby. The revolving doors spin, and discharge a man, wearing a baseball cap low on his forehead, hiding his eyes. Medium build, Caucasian. But no defining features of his face are visible.
There is no audio to accompany the video. This security room is eerily quiet, just the low hum of electronic equipment, the labored breathing of Reggie across the room. Hector clicks the mouse again, and the video switches to the high-rise elevator banks. The man swipes a key card at the turnstiles, enters the elevator waiting area.
Different camera, in the elevator. The man’s face still not visible. And again at ATM’s main floor. The man moves quickly but calmly from one area to the next, never pausing, never stopping to talk to anyone, never looking around, never making eye contact. An anonymous man. Who seems to know exactly where he’s going.
The camera in Isabel’s corridor is mounted high in the corner. She sees the man striding toward her office from the far end, toward her assistant’s cubicle. Alexis’s face is buried in a manuscript. The man barely slows as he slips a Jiffy bag into the in-box and continues down the hall, approaching the camera, nearer, nearer.
“There,” Isabel says. “Rewind a sec.”
Hector freezes the footage, clicks a mouse, scrolls back. Now the man is directly below the camera. The bill of his cap still obscures his forehead and eyebrows. But at this angle, for a split-second, they can see some of his face. He’s a complete stranger.
This stranger is no ordinary messenger, and Friday clearly wasn’t his first visit to Isabel’s office; he knew where all the cameras were. Which means she’d been surveilled, stalked. Here, upstairs, this man had been on her floor. And he probably hadn’t limited himself to locating security cameras; he probably hadn’t confined his snooping to the hallways.
This man had probably sat in Isabel’s chair, at her desk. He’d put his hands, and who knows what else, on her computer.
“Is that him?” Sanchez asks. “That’s gotta be him. Do you recognize him?”
Isabel looks at Sanchez, stupefied. What had she already explained? She couldn’t recognize the guy because she never saw him in the first place.
Sanchez returns the video to the beginning, to the man’s entrance to the elevator banks. “Reggie?” Hector asks, over his shoulder. “You see this time stamp?” It’s 1:22, in the dead center of lunchtime.
“Yup.”
“Can you check the ID scan at the north elevator bank?”
Reggie hits his keyboard, pauses, taps some more. “Sorry. There must be a mistake.” Reggie types again, shaking his head. “I don’t understand,” he says. “The ID he used? It’s Isabel Reed’s.” He turns to Isabel, points a finger at her. “That’s you, ain’t it?”
CHAPTER 13
T his is not at all what Kate expected out of this operation in particular, out of this job in general, out of her life as a whole. She has her lovely little Jake and Ben, and a wonderful husband, and by any measure she leads an enviable expat existence in Paris. She doesn’t need to be standing here in Copenhagen, on the verge of being shot in the head, for something that has nothing to do with her.
There was a long period when Kate was certain that she’d made
She asks to take a closer look at what turns out to be another lawyer. She didn’t even know there was a law firm in the building. There are apparently nine of them.
“Do you have any idea what you’re looking for?” Sanchez asks. He doesn’t sound frustrated, just curious. “Any identifying characteristics you’re looking for?”
“Not that I know of.”
“So is there any chance we’re going to get anywhere?”
“I highly doubt it.”
But then a minute later, Sanchez notices something. He hits rewind. They watch a section of footage from the lobby. The revolving doors spin, and discharge a man, wearing a baseball cap low on his forehead, hiding his eyes. Medium build, Caucasian. But no defining features of his face are visible.
There is no audio to accompany the video. This security room is eerily quiet, just the low hum of electronic equipment, the labored breathing of Reggie across the room. Hector clicks the mouse again, and the video switches to the high-rise elevator banks. The man swipes a key card at the turnstiles, enters the elevator waiting area.
Different camera, in the elevator. The man’s face still not visible. And again at ATM’s main floor. The man moves quickly but calmly from one area to the next, never pausing, never stopping to talk to anyone, never looking around, never making eye contact. An anonymous man. Who seems to know exactly where he’s going.
The camera in Isabel’s corridor is mounted high in the corner. She sees the man striding toward her office from the far end, toward her assistant’s cubicle. Alexis’s face is buried in a manuscript. The man barely slows as he slips a Jiffy bag into the in-box and continues down the hall, approaching the camera, nearer, nearer.
“There,” Isabel says. “Rewind a sec.”
Hector freezes the footage, clicks a mouse, scrolls back. Now the man is directly below the camera. The bill of his cap still obscures his forehead and eyebrows. But at this angle, for a split-second, they can see some of his face. He’s a complete stranger.
This stranger is no ordinary messenger, and Friday clearly wasn’t his first visit to Isabel’s office; he knew where all the cameras were. Which means she’d been surveilled, stalked. Here, upstairs, this man had been on her floor. And he probably hadn’t limited himself to locating security cameras; he probably hadn’t confined his snooping to the hallways.
This man had probably sat in Isabel’s chair, at her desk. He’d put his hands, and who knows what else, on her computer.
“Is that him?” Sanchez asks. “That’s gotta be him. Do you recognize him?”
Isabel looks at Sanchez, stupefied. What had she already explained? She couldn’t recognize the guy because she never saw him in the first place.
Sanchez returns the video to the beginning, to the man’s entrance to the elevator banks. “Reggie?” Hector asks, over his shoulder. “You see this time stamp?” It’s 1:22, in the dead center of lunchtime.
“Yup.”
“Can you check the ID scan at the north elevator bank?”
Reggie hits his keyboard, pauses, taps some more. “Sorry. There must be a mistake.” Reggie types again, shaking his head. “I don’t understand,” he says. “The ID he used? It’s Isabel Reed’s.” He turns to Isabel, points a finger at her. “That’s you, ain’t it?”
CHAPTER 13
T his is not at all what Kate expected out of this operation in particular, out of this job in general, out of her life as a whole. She has her lovely little Jake and Ben, and a wonderful husband, and by any measure she leads an enviable expat existence in Paris. She doesn’t need to be standing here in Copenhagen, on the verge of being shot in the head, for something that has nothing to do with her.
There was a long period when Kate was certain that she’d made
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