Page 89 of The Grave Artist

“Sure. Come with me.”

Nance led them down a corridor past a storeroom filled with bags of coffee beans and sugar, plastic utensils and other disposable wares. In the cluttered office, Carmen was amused at the frame on the wall, a shadow box holding what would have been the currency used to make the first purchase. It wasn’t a bill, but two quarters and a dime.

Definitely pre-Starbucks.

Nance booted up a Lenovo several years out of date and the screen flickered to life. She logged in and found the security system files, then began searching for the date and time in question.

The trio stared at the scrolling screen, on which a clear, high-def image of the counter was visible in one window, the parking lot in another.

Heron said, “Good system. I know it. Over a hundred thousand are sold every year.”

Carmen noted his body language as he spoke, a compressing of the lips and tightening of the shoulders. She could guess what he was thinking. He’d told her that someday, nowhere on earth would be free from surveillance. But he’d also acknowledged his own hypocrisy, admitting that he’d welcome the technology if it helped them stop criminals.

“This is her,” Heron said.

The interior video depicted Ms. Person of Interest approaching the counter. The veil was lifted but she still wore the wide-brimmed hat, obscuring her face.

He nodded at the computer. “Can I?” He was a deft scrubber of video.

Nance vacated the chair, and he took her place.

“Do you know her?” Carmen asked, hoping she was a regular customer.

Nance didn’t.

At Heron’s suggestion, she left the office and asked one barista, then the other, to come in and look at the video. The inked barista was the one who had served her, but he could not recall her ever coming in before. The same with the other employee.

Heron typed some commands. Seconds later, a printer in the corner spat out several pictures of Ms. POI from various angles. “Keep those,” he told Nance. “Show them to the other employees when they come in for work. Let us know if anybody recognizes her.”

“Of course.”

Carmen stared at the screen. She lifted a frustrated arm, scoffing. “Hell. Everyone else looks up at the menu on the wall. She keeps her eyes down. I’ll bet she knows there’s a camera.”

Heron said, “Maybe we’ll get lucky ... ugh, no dice.”

Carmen knew he’d been referring to their hope she would pay with a credit or debit card. Ms. POI remained unhelpful, paying cash.

After collecting her order, she stepped quickly to the back exit.

Heron maximized that window. A recording that depicted a twenty- or thirty-foot section of the parking lot began to play. Their target walked into view, the red stripes down the back of her heels clearly visible.

And finally their elusive target cooperated.

At least to an extent. They saw her climb into the driver’s seat of a white Toyota Camry. A moment later the vehicle backed out, turned and then sped forward and down a side street.

Heron whispered, “Shit.”

Carmen too was disappointed. They could see neither the front nor the rear plate. California required both.

Heron pulled his tablet from his backpack and looked at a map. “No cameras in the direction she headed.”

They thanked the manager and returned to Carmen’s SUV. She said, “At least we have the make, model and color of the car.”

After they climbed into the big vehicle, Carmen saw Heron looking at his tablet and shot him a questioning glance.

“Thought I’d look to see how many such vehicles are prowling the California highways.”

A good question. And the answer would indicate how much work they’d have to do searching for the one Ms. POI was driving.