The surveillance room was empty. Jane closed the metal door behind her. Scoped the place out.
How different could all this equipment be from the edit booths and microwave trucks that Jane had worked in for years? The computer console with its array of controls and lights might has well have been edit room 4 at her old TV station. It looked exactly like Marsh Tyson’s office. Or Editing 101 at J-school. Which Jane had aced.
She felt watched, even though no one else was in the room. Probably because you’re trespassing, she thought. But wasn’t this where Beefy and Co. had wanted to bring her anyway? She dropped into the ratty swivel chair, its stained upholstery snagged and worn, and rolled herself up to the main console.
Five rows of video monitors spanned the wall, a flickering grid of black-and-white images. Hallways, elevators, vending machines. Stairways, supply rooms. Kitchen, pantry. Closed doors, some with the room numbers showing. Wonder if guests knew their every move was watched and recorded? Some screens were dark, like black holes in the video grid.
The second row of monitors all showed the lobby. Front door, concierge desk. She saw the concierge on the phone for one second, then the screen shots changed and new images swam up. The registration desk. Empty. The palm tree where she’d encountered Gracie. On the lowest row, the five screens were larger, images constantly changing. A pretty expensive setup. She watched, feeling strangely omniscient.
Where was Gracie now? Where would she have gone? Back to Lewis’s room on the third floor? The floor where Jake was headed? Or did someone take her?
Wait. All she had to do was find the right screen, and she’d see whatever happened. Police, rescue, shoot-out. Happy ending. Her heart raced with the possibility. She could grab her camera right now, be ready to shoot terrific exclusive video. Would that be legal?
Did it matter?
She stood, hands on hips. Find Gracie. And where was Jake? Trying to scan, she leaned forward, squinting. On the highest row, the screens were too small to make out much. Soon as she saw a cop the image would disappear, because the screens kept changing views, rotating every few seconds, like several cameras fed each monitor.
Made sense, she guessed, because you didn’t need to look at the same place all the time, so they used fewer monitors and multiple sources. Probably also why they had two guys. Mesmerizing to watch these things all day. Eventually, paralyzingly boring.
Unless, of course, there was a shooting. Or a missing girl.
“Okay,” she said out loud. “There’s gotta be rhyme and reason.”
Five rows of monitors. Ten monitors across. Fifty screens. If this had been her setup, she might have labeled them. But no.
If there were no labels, did Beefy and Co. simply know camera placement by heart? There must be a—ha. She yanked a white vinyl binder from between two console banks. The yellowing clear plastic cover was separating at the corners, brittle and peeling away. Someone had made devil horns on the words HEWLITT SECURITY on the cover and added Mickey Mouse ears to their fancy logo of a camera lens. Not-so-happy employees, she thought. With not enough to do.
She flipped open the binder. Bingo. Spreading out a triple-fold piece of paper, she saw a blueprint of what had to be a chart of the monitors. Like a big checkerboard, each square filled in with words. Supply5. Linen5. Vending4. Corridor5A.
Looked like the five rows corresponded to each floor of the hotel. Brilliant. The middle row was the third floor, where Jake and D and a million cops were.
Maybe this was a time suck? Maybe she should run out of here and start going door-to-door. That would be rewarding, because it would feel like she was doing something. It was also inefficient and primitive. And possibly dangerous.
“Find. Gracie,” she commanded herself. Was the little girl hiding? Or being hidden? The whole thing was a juggle, because the shots on each screen kept changing.
Still, in this one room, Jane could be everywhere in the hotel at the same time. Most likely, Gracie wouldn’t be changing position, right? If she was hiding.
If she was hiding. Which was a big if. Because she might be with—
Oh, my gosh. She was an idiot.
Who had told the police that Gracie Wilhoite was missing? Besides Jane, only one other person in the building knew the girl was here. Or maybe—two?
* * *
Now it made sense, Jake thought.
Not good sense, not rational sense, but as much sense as domestic violence ever made. The man on the stretcher was Lewis Wilhoite. Gracie’s stepfather, the one who clearly had taken her yesterday.
“Is this the person who told you the girl was missing?” Jake asked Deb Kratky. He repeated the question to the room full of EMTs and cops. “Gracie? His stepdaughter? Did he say any more? Where she might have gone? And why?”
“Negative, Jake,” one of the cops said. “By the time we got here, he was down for the count.”
“So who—” Jake stopped as a familiar shape filled the hotel room door.
“Come with me,” DeLuca said. “Move it.”
Jake followed DeLuca, double speed, down the deserted corridor. The amplified warning instructions blared, repeating. All the room doors remained firmly closed. “D, you got people looking for Gracie?”
“Listen, Jake. Of course we do. They’ll find her. Lotsa rooms in here, lotsa places to hide. But listen.” D stopped in a spotlighted pool of light on the mottled carpeting. A discarded room service tray holding grape stems, ketchup packets, empty breadbasket, and a pile of dirty silverware sat untouched outside the room to his left.
“So, yeah. We have a situation. Got the shooter in there.” He pointed to a closed door black-stenciled SUPPLY RM.
“Great work,” Jake said. Done and done. Only several million questions left to answer, but at least they knew who to ask. There wouldn’t be any more shooting. And then he could get some sleep. All in a day’s work. Two days.
“What’s his condition? What’s his story?” Jake fired questions at DeLuca. “He call for a lawyer yet? What’s the plan for HQ transport for questioning? We’re the primaries, correct? You recover the weapon? Anything I should know?”
“Shooter’s cuffed, seated, basically silent. Got the gun, yeah. Twenty-two. Registered. Hasn’t called for a lawyer yet, no.”
“Great,” Jake said. “Let’s get this asshole. Shooting a guy in a hotel. Scaring this little girl to death. Now she’s hiding somewhere, I bet. Shit. Hope poor Gracie didn’t see this go down. Asshole.”
“Jake?” DeLuca said. “The shooter’s not asking for a lawyer. She’s asking for Jane.”