Page 43 of The Grave Artist (Sanchez & Heron #2)

Carmen sat down at a table in the coffee shop.

Heron joined her a moment later with two steaming mugs.

The place was not a chain and seemed to date to the pre-Starbucks era. Mismatched tables and chairs, faded posters of coffee estates in Central or South America, a bulletin board that customers used to post cards for guitar lessons, house painting, math tutoring.

This was the place where Ms. Person of Interest disappeared after the funeral at Cedar Hills and never returned.

Shortly after arriving, they’d learned there was a back door to a parking area and, better yet, a working camera aimed outward into that part of the lot.

According to the barista, many people used that exit.

With luck, they might score Ms. POI’s tag number.

They’d have to wait to find out, though. The manager was not there, and only she could give them access to the security system. She would be in soon.

They sipped their coffee—filtered brew, nothing fancy. Heron claimed it was quite good. She knew that hackers may avoid liquor but were connoisseurs of all things caffeine. He would recognize superior java when he tasted it.

He put his mug down and checked his tablet. “Nothing from Switzerland.”

“HTW.”

“DGT,” Heron replied.

Carmen frowned.

The hacker said breezily, “Don’t go there.”

“That’s funny, Heron. For a minute I thought it was referring to whatever you two got up to on your infamous moonlit night.”

“Anyway, no, it’s not Aruba,” he said, not taking her bait. “I’m getting real-time updates from the Swiss authorities, monitoring all the traffic into CERN.”

She recalled that CERN housed the world’s largest nuclear collider—and was a place Tristan Kane was apparently quite interested in.

Disturbing, to say the least.

Heron continued, “But there’ve been no breaches. Digital or physical.”

“Right.” Then she asked, “What the hell does he have in mind?”

Heron shrugged. An appropriate gesture. After all, what was the point of speculating?

“What does an accelerator do?” She could google it but wanted a quick and succinct answer rather than scrolling through screenfuls of information.

“Smashes atomic stuff into other stuff to make smaller stuff.”

Heron could be a bit too succinct. “And how is that helpful?”

“CERN cost five billion, so somebody must’ve thought it was worthwhile.”

A troubling thought popped into her mind.

“What?” he asked, clearly reading her expression.

“I’m pissed off,” she announced, nodding at his tablet. “The Swiss are cooperating. Why not the Italians?”

She and Williamson had both sent multiple requests for information on the cases in Verona and Florence. All were ignored. “I’ve worked with MI-5 and -6 in England, Police Nationale in France, Bundespolizei, Germany. Never a problem. But nothing from the Polizia di Stato and the Carabinieri—”

“The military police that helps out in civilian criminal cases,” Heron cut in.

Carmen lifted an eyebrow. “How do you know them? Get into trouble over there too?”

“Video game I play.”

“Well, the Italians are as good as the other LEOs, so I can’t understand why they’re not taking the crimes seriously. Or taking us seriously.”

“Excuse me, ma’am?” A barista, a slim man with elaborate body art, gestured toward the door, through which a stocky woman with short blonde hair was walking quickly. She wore jeans and a black blouse and had already donned her beige work apron.

Mary Nance, the manager, had spoken to Carmen from her mobile on the drive here and was aware of what they needed. She had come in a half hour early to meet them.

After introductions, she said, “This is about that officer who was stabbed at the cemetery?”

“That’s right,” Carmen said.

“Terrible.” Nance’s face showed concern.

Carmen understood why—sympathy for the victim, but more than that. “You don’t need to worry. The person in here wasn’t the attacker, but we think she may have some helpful information. Can we see that video?”

The relief was clear.

“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.

“Bad news. There are more registered vehicles in California than any other state. That includes well over a quarter million Camrys. And guess what? The vast majority of those are white. I hope Declan doesn’t mind the grunt work.”

She imagined him doing the large language model computer equivalent of cracking his knuckles before getting down to business. She chuckled. “Just the sort of thing he lives for.”