Still breathing hard from his recently completed run, Greg pushed open the door to his apartment. He had left the radio on. WESA, the local NPR station, was devoting its tiny allowance of local morning news to the prospects of a settlement in the sanitation strike. Entirely uninterested, Greg switched it off, turned on the TV, and tuned into a DVR of the previous evening’s Penguins–Flyers game. Showering as quickly as possible, he settled in to watch the match: fast moving skates slicing across manicured ice, black and gold smashing into white and orange, the crowd roaring through the TV screen.
Let’s go Pens! Let’s go Pens!
He failed to notice until well into the third period that someone had texted him. He didn’t recognize the number. Mildly curious, he opened up the message.
Can we meet?
To which Greg replied:
Maybe. But I don’t know who you are.
It’s Andrea Velasquez.
Greg found himself raising an eyebrow.
Sure. Do you know the Beans of Steel coffee shop?
Just as he hit send, a roar erupted from the TV set. Greg turned just in time to see a triumphant pile of Penguins swarming behind the Flyers’ goal.
The only score of the game and he’d managed to miss it. But then again, that was the joy of DVR. He hit the rewind button, tingling with anticipation.
Andrea got to the coffee shop about an hour later. Her weekend gear, Greg noticed, was little different from what she wore to work. Steelers hat, dark sweater under a quilted coat, jeans, and, in the absence of her Doc Martens, the same ratty pair of Converse sneakers she’d worn previously. The soles were caked with black street slush, which she stamped off as she came in through the door.
Greg bought her a chai tea latte and ushered her to his table, right next to the fireplace that looked like a smelter. Andrea seemed grateful for the heat.
‘I’m glad to see you’re out of police custody,’ he said. ‘Does this mean you’re off the hook?’
‘Nah,’ Andrea replied, scowling. ‘I’m guessing someone told the detectives they don’t have enough evidence, so they sprang me. They weren’t happy about it, though. That Cassidy guy definitely wants to nail my ass – and not in a good way.’ Andrea shuddered at the thought, though Greg couldn’t tell whether the thought involved jail, or relations with Cassidy, or both.
He hid an amused smile behind a quiet sip of coffee.
‘And the woman? The police sergeant?’
‘Not so much, I think. Or maybe she’s just playing the “good” cop. She seemed like she might believe me when I told her I used their murder weapon every day, so of course my freakin’ prints were all over it.’
‘They ask you anything else?’
‘Just more like before. Why did I lie to them, that kinda crap.’
‘And did you tell them the truth this time about why you lied?’
Andrea had the decency to blush.
‘Yeah. They sprang me not long after.’
‘Then maybe you don’t have anything to worry about. If they thought they had a case, you’d still be in the slammer.’
‘Yeah, well, tell that to Ms Emily frickin’ Pasquarelli.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘She’s only gone done and suspended me. Sent me an email saying that “in the interests of all concerned” it would be “better if I didn’t come to school for the time being”. “Interests of all concerned”, my ass. Biatch is going to fire me.’
‘Is that why you wanted to see me?’
‘Yeah.’ Andrea looked at him pleadingly. ‘I was kinda hoping you could put in a good word.’
‘With Emily?’
‘Who else? She’s totally into you, dude. So I thought you might …’ Andrea lapsed into silence, suddenly embarrassed.
Greg smiled at her gently.
‘I’m sure Ms Pasquarelli is just being careful. It’s probably nowhere near as bad as you think it is.’
‘But …’
‘But I’ll put in a word anyway.’
Andrea beamed with gratitude.
‘Thanks, man. I owe you.’
‘Then you can pay me back by giving me a ride. Do you mind dropping me off at the school?’
‘Sure thing. You working the weekend?’
‘Not exactly. I got stopped on the street by that woman detective yesterday. She said something that got me thinking. Thought I’d check it out. You can come along if you like.’
Andrea looked hesitant.
‘I’ll cover for you with Ms Pasquarelli.’
‘Then, sure. Why not?’
Andrea Velasquez’s beaten-up Chevy was almost certainly older than she was. A worn-out orange that might once have been red, it climbed its way out of Bloomfield and then plunged down into Oakland, accompanied by the steady roar of a cracked muffler. From Oakland they crossed into the genteel avenues of Shadyside, vast houses peering down at them across vaster lawns. The Chevy and its unhinged engine stood horribly out of place among the expensive foreign imports lined up at the intersections. Andrea, ignoring disapproving stares from dog-walking pedestrians, gunned the vehicle at each and every stop sign until they reached Joseph Avenue. With a final, defiant roar, the Chevy’s motor shut off just across from Calderhill’s main entrance. It was exactly where Lindsay Delcade had parked the morning of her murder.
‘Won’t you get a ticket?’
‘On a Saturday? Nah. They only ticket you here during the week.’
‘Hmmm.’ Greg was thinking about Bryan Delcade.
Stacey, the security lady, buzzed them in.
‘Morning, Mr Abimbola. Wasn’t expecting to see you here today.’ Stacey gave Andrea a slightly disapproving glance but said nothing otherwise.
‘Good morning, Stacey. Don’t you ever take a day off? It is Saturday.’
Stacey sighed theatrically.
‘Mouths to feed,’ she said. ‘Bills to pay. You know how it is.’
‘Seldom has a truer word been spoken,’ Greg agreed, smiling. He leaned companionably against the front desk. ‘Actually, seeing as you’re here, can you do me a favor?’
‘Sure thing. What do you need?’
Greg tapped the monitor showing the security cam feeds.
‘Can you keep your eyes peeled on the loading bay for the next few minutes? Tell me if you see anything unusual?’
‘Yeah. I can do that.’
‘Brilliant,’ Greg said. And then, to Andrea: ‘Come with me.’
He led the way down to the basement and, from there, to the custodian’s room.
‘So, what are we doing?’ Andrea asked. ‘Revisiting the scene of the crime?’
‘Kind of.’ Greg pointed to the hook by the battered metal door. As on his previous visit, there were two large keys hanging from it. ‘Can you unlock the door and let us out onto the loading bay?’
Giving him a quizzical look, Andrea did as asked. The door unlocked with an audible click. The hinges, though, were well oiled. Despite its slightly rusted appearance, the gray metal swung open smoothly and without a sound. Biting cold air flooded the room. Andrea shivered, winter picking at the holes in her canvas sneakers.
‘Right,’ Greg said, all business. ‘All I want you to do is go out the door, head back to Joseph Avenue and wait for me by the front entrance. OK?’
‘Course. I can do that.’
Andrea stepped through the door and onto the broad ledge that ran around three sides of the loading bay. Then she skipped down the steps to road level and turned right, disappearing from sight.
Greg followed more slowly, taking care to shut the door behind him. Eschewing the steps, he walked along the ledge instead, his right shoulder brushing against the red brickwork of the building. The ledge ended abruptly, leaving what would have been a four-foot drop but for a fortuitously abandoned packing crate that took the edge off the descent. Greg stepped down and wandered past a couple of dumpsters. Thanks to the sanitation strike, they were filled to overflowing with almost two weeks’ worth of uncollected garbage. He made his way to the front entrance, patches of still-white snow crunching under his boots.
‘You took your time,’ Andrea said, stamping her feet against the cold.
‘I’m old. I believe in stately progress.’ Greg pointed to the wide steps in front of them. ‘Shall we?’
Stacey buzzed them in.
‘So,’ Greg asked the security lady, ‘did you see Andrea leave the loading bay?’
‘Sure did.’
‘Did you see me?’
‘No.’ Stacey frowned. ‘That can’t be right. How’d you gone done that?’
Greg leaned against her desk, peering down at the video monitors.
‘The camera in the loading bay is focused – shock, horror – on the loading bay,’ he explained. ‘You can see the delivery trucks, garbage collection and whatnot just fine. What you can’t see, at least, not properly, is the raised ledge that runs around the edge of the bay. If you come out of the custodian’s room and walk along the ledge, rather than take the steps down to the asphalt, the camera won’t pick you up. So, ta-da! Here I am, sight unseen.’
Stacey nodded, impressed despite herself.
‘Well, who’d a thunk it? You should have been a policeman, Mr Abimbola.’
‘What? And actually work for a living? Not on your life.’ He flashed Stacey a quick grin before turning to Andrea. ‘Come on, Ms Velasquez. We need to lock up the custodian’s room before we leave.’
Heading down to the basement, Andrea asked, ‘How’d you know you could get out of the custodian’s room without anyone seeing you?’
Greg looked chagrined.
‘Honestly? I should have seen it earlier. It was staring me in the face. While you were otherwise engaged with Pittsburgh’s finest, I went through last Monday’s security footage. It showed you coming into the loading bay and going up the steps toward the custodian room. Thing is, it didn’t show you entering the custodian’s room. It didn’t even show the door opening. You just disappeared from the shot.
‘It was the woman police detective who got me thinking about it. She “stopped by” to ask me some rather pointed questions about my possibly killing Ms Delcade. When I told her that the security footage showed I left the school Monday night and didn’t come back, she reminded me that the security footage had never shown Lindsay coming back to school either. Yet there she was.
‘Lindsay Delcade was many things, Andrea. But I’m pretty sure cat burglar wasn’t one of them. She had to have walked into the building somehow. That’s when I got to remembering about how you disappeared from the camera shot.’
‘So you think she got into school through the loading bay?’
‘Absolutely. Through the custodian’s room.’
Andrea laughed bitterly.
‘Biatch didn’t get far, did she?’
They had reached the custodian’s room. With a noticeable effort, Andrea relocked the big metal door and hung the spare key on top of its partner. When she turned back to face Greg, the expression beneath the Steelers hat had morphed into a frown.
‘Yeah, OK. She climbs up onto the frickin’ ledge – which would be a pain in the ass by the way – and gets to the door like you say, like, totally unseen. But how the fuck does she get in? Dude, door’s freakin’ locked. There’s no way.’
‘Unless someone opened it for her.’
‘Oh. Well, duh.’ Andrea smacked her own forehead sarcastically. ‘But who, then? Cause I’m telling you, Mr Bimbo, on my family’s life, it wasn’t me.’
‘It would have to be someone who was already in the building, which, accepting it’s not you, of course, is a very small pool of people.’
‘Who?’
Greg, thinking of Demetrius Freedman, did not answer. Not directly, anyway.
‘Maybe whoever let Lindsay in wasn’t in the building. Maybe whoever let Lindsay Delcade into the building came into the school the same way.’
‘But you still got the problem of how did they get in? They’d need a key.’
‘Right,’ Greg agreed, morosely. ‘And if they came in after hours, they’d set off the alarm.’
Andrea laughed.
‘Did I say something funny?’
‘There’s no alarm, dude.’ She pointed at the battered rectangle of gray metal. ‘That thing’s for the dinosaurs. Ain’t nobody ever bothered to wire it up. Too much of a pain in the ass. Alarm is armed and disarmed at the front desk. We’re always getting deliveries out of hours, especially in the morning, first thing. Vernon and me are often here before security to let them in. Can’t be doing that if we have to wait for the front desk to crawl outta bed and disarm the system.’
‘So, if I want to get into the school without tripping the alarm, all I have to do is come down to the loading bay?’ Greg tried not to sound disapproving.
‘If you have a key, yeah.’
‘So who has the keys?’
Andrea pursed her lips, thinking.
‘Vern and me, obviously. Then Principal Ellis and Ms Pasquarelli – biatch has keys to everything.’
‘What about security? Do they have keys?’
‘Nah. They work the front entrance and the back door to the gym, no need for them to be down here.’
‘Do you ever see Principal Ellis or Ms Pasquarelli down here?’
‘Occasionally, but only if something’s gone wrong.’
‘And when was the last time?’
‘Monday, when they both came to look at the furnace. Faces so sour, Sanchez took one look at ’em and ran like hell.’ Andrea smiled at the memory.
‘And have either of them ever used their keys?’
‘Ms Ellis did last year. There was some screw up with the sets for the school play. Vern and I were somewhere else at the time. She, like, paged us, but by the time I got down here she’d already let in some carpenter dudes. They had maybe two hundred feet of lumber and enough paint to cover the entire damn building.’
Greg wasn’t quite sure what two hundred feet of lumber would look like, but he was having trouble imagining someone tramping through the custodian’s room with it. The place was crowded with furniture and shelving, and you’d have to work your way around the metal bulk of the furnace.
‘Why didn’t she use the roller door?’ Greg asked. ‘That’s what it’s for, isn’t it? The big deliveries?’
Andrea snorted.
‘Yeah, if the drive chain doesn’t come off the cogs. Principal’s no fool. She wasn’t about to operate it without me or Vern being there. By the time I arrived, dudes were already coming in and out through here with this stuff. They didn’t seem to mind, so I left them to it.’
Greg stared at the door, lost in thought.
‘Does this help me, Mr Bimbo?’ Andrea’s voice was high and tentative, like a child who thinks she’s done something wrong.
Greg forced his mind back into the here and now.
‘Maybe a little. It widens the pool of suspects. The video shows you left the building at eight nineteen on Monday night.’
‘And everything was normal.’
‘Right. So, either someone already in the building let Lindsay Delcade in using one of the spare keys; or one of the actual keyholders – Vernon, Emily, or Principal Ellis – opened the door from the outside.’
Andrea looked unhappy.
‘None of them looks more like a killer than me, though, do they? Vern’s totally sexist and a little bit racist, but he’s an old man. He couldn’t hurt a fly, even if he wanted to. And the principal and Ms Pasquarelli are good, upstanding, middle-aged, white women. Police aren’t gonna believe it was any one of them over me.’ A sudden spark of hope flashed across her face. ‘What about whoever was in the building?’
‘Maybe,’ Greg agreed. He still didn’t want to tell her about Demetrius Freedman. Not yet, anyway. He sighed heavily.
‘What?’ Andrea demanded.
‘Oh, nothing. It’s just a lot of tricky problems.’
Not the least of which was what to make of the person statistically most likely to have killed Lindsay Delcade: her husband. Bryan Delcade had been parked less than a block away around the time his wife was murdered.
But of all the possible suspects, he was the only one who couldn’t have got into the building.
Shit.
He was sitting on actual evidence in a murder investigation: Bryan Delcade’s magenta-topped parking ticket. He should call the police detective, Cassidy. The man’s contact information was sitting in his desk somewhere.
An image of Brendan Cassidy’s flushed, angry face flashed across his mind, furious at being told he was arresting the wrong woman.
Stick to teaching Swahili or whatever it is they pay you to do.
‘Say, Andrea?’
‘Yeah?’
‘You still got that woman detective’s business card?’