SIXTY-FIVE

“HOLD that picture!”

Sophia froze the security camera image of my Phantom in the hooded raincoat—the one who’d slammed through Gus’s iron gate and knocked me on my assets.

We were no longer squinting at a tiny phone. We were watching the surveillance footage on my laptop’s fifteen-inch screen, where I quickly discovered the devil is in the details, and there were several significant little devils I’d missed the first time.

This Phantom figure wasn’t very tall when measured against the size of the gate, the figure’s shoulders were narrow, and the raincoat was not completely black. The sleeves had cuffs with a gray and black flower pattern. All of which suggested a woman, not a man.

Stopping frame by frame, we zoomed in close on the Phantom’s hand gripping the gate. It appeared my menacing Phantom was wearing pink nail polish.

“Thanks,” I told Sophia. “Now let’s go back in time.”

She jumped the recording back to six AM the day before we found Gus poisoned. In fast motion we watched deliverymen come and go along with the mail carrier. Neighbors moved up and down the sidewalk.

Then, in the early evening, Gus had a visitor.

“It’s Perla,” Sophia said, slowing the recording to normal speed. “You can’t miss that hair.”

Or lack thereof. Perla’s pixie cut was extreme but attractive with her high cheekbones. Strands of gray-white hair heavily salted the raven black color.

For a woman in her sixties, she was in superb shape with a strong, athletic build. She wore chunky-heeled boots and loose, outdoorsy clothing—khaki pants with an open Windbreaker over a Henley. From the quality of the cut and the material, they looked more like J.Crew or Patagonia than Old Navy.

Perla used her own key to let herself through the gate. She wasn’t in the habit of wearing makeup, let alone nail polish, and I could see, measuring her height against the gate, that she was much taller than the Phantom figure in the raincoat.

Perla’s visit with her father lasted nearly two hours.

“Longer than her hospital stop today,” Sophia said. “Perla had to rush off to explore a just-discovered fallout shelter inside the Brooklyn Bridge . . .”

I nodded. Perla was a doctor of urban archaeology, so I wasn’t surprised. Her work took her to some of the oddest places in the five boroughs.

The recording of the next day’s activities revealed more deliveries, mail, and the neighbors again. At around two o’clock Gus had another visitor. This one was about the same height as our Phantom.

Sophia didn’t have a clue who the tony, middle-aged woman with the cat glasses was. I didn’t know her name, but I’d seen her before—in front of Gus’s gate a week ago, demanding entry.

As we watched the footage, Gus buzzed the woman in, but she didn’t stay long. After fifteen minutes she stormed out the gate and angrily hailed a taxi.

“From her body language, it doesn’t look like her conversation with your father went well.”

“I don’t recognize her,” Sophia replied. “What I can tell you is that those glasses are Bulgari, and that particular jeweled frame is only sold in Italy, so she’s either Italian or visited Italy recently.”

“You’re getting good at this detective thing.”

Sophia downed another shot and patted my shoulder. “I have a good teacher.”

On the morning of the day Gus drank the poison, we discovered the last visitor Gus had before Hunter showed up in the late afternoon.

“Matt’s mother!” Sophia and I cried out together.