Beyond Recognition

58

Daphne pulled up a chair in the small Tech Services room. Its walls were hidden by metal shelves containing tape recorders and video machines. The room smelled sour like sweat and burned coffee. She plugged in the car wash surveillance tape and hit PLAY.

Ben had not been at Emily’s, was not at the houseboat; Emily had threatened to file a complaint. Daphne couldn’t believe how quickly the investigation had deteriorated. She felt responsible, having convinced herself that a close look-alike to Garman’s mother would distract him. She felt as if all her training and education had failed her. She had been so convinced. She had to see the tape to believe it. She found the taped image considerably clearer than the live transmissions.

Jonny Garman entered the vehicle, took one long look at the photo of Ben, glanced around the front seat and into the back, assessing how dirty it was, and then set about squirting the inside of the windows with his spray bottle and wiping the glass clean with that towel. He conserved his movement within the vehicle, stretching to reach the far window, and performed his duties efficiently and quickly. He cleaned the inside of the windshield, both side windows, the rearview mirror, and the dashboard-in that order. To her surprise, he spent added time working on the sticky stain Martinelli had asked him to clean.

At the gap in the machinery that came ahead of the dryer, Garman climbed out of the front seat and into the back, where he attacked the rear window and both small side windows. He leaned over, nearly vanishing from sight, and then surfaced with an ashtray in his hand, the unseen contents of which he dumped in a plastic trash bag tied to his belt. As the car reached the end of the line, he shuffled out backward and closed the door.

He never looked in the glove box.

She rewound and replayed the tape for a second viewing, resorting to advancing the tape one frame at a time, hoping this might reveal an action overlooked in real time. But there was no such action on the tape. Garman did his job and climbed out of the car. The only brief moment he disappeared was when he was in the back seat, not the front-and that did her no good whatsoever. It seemed impossible.

Over the years she had come to develop certain instincts about her work, her patients. She could sense when a suspect was lying, could feel the truth. She knew when to push and when to pull back, when to work psychological games on an individual and when to talk straight. Jonny Garman would have taken the bait; she felt it to her core. The tape proved her wrong.

She ejected the tape and placed it to the side. The screen was a sky blue. She shut off the gear, the sense of failure a bitter taste in her mouth. Danny Kotch of Tech Services, who had always had a crush on her, caught up to her in the hallway and handed her Ben’s backpack, returning it, reminding her of the boy and further disappointment. She carried it to her car and tossed it onto the seat.

Daphne drove with her headlights on through early evening rain that continued to hold the city in a perpetual dusk. She was going a little too fast for conditions when the light changed. She always drove fast anyway, and her anxiety over Ben only served to increase her speed. Green to yellow: She downshifted and tapped the brakes. The rear end swerved, but she recovered with a tug on the wheel. Yellow to red: She downshifted again and gave the brakes an extra effort. The rubber met the road cleanly and firmly, and the car slowed hard.

The backpack flew off the front seat and onto the floor mat.

The car lurched to a stop at the red light and rocked on its springs.

Daphne leaned forward and grabbed for the small backpack and hoisted it by one of its black straps up onto the seat.

The light changed, but Daphne didn’t see it.

A car horn sounded behind her, but Daphne didn’t hear it.

Traffic swerved around her, taking advantage of the green light, and one of the drivers flipped her his middle finger. Daphne did not see this either. Her full attention was fixed on the backpack. In her mind’s eye she saw Garman briefly glance into the back of the Explorer as he climbed into the car to wash its windows; she measured a count of two, as Garman, then in the back seat, dipped out of sight, coming back up a moment later with an ashtray that needed dumping.

The backpack had been in the back seat-she had placed it there herself. The same backpack that was currently in the seat alongside of her. She stared at it, transfixed. For there on the backpack, slipped into a plastic window designed for just that purpose, was a small identification tag listing Ben’s name and Jackson Street address. Even the phone number was there, she noted.

Jonny Garman had not needed to open the glove box. The address he sought was available to him in the back seat, something he had probably determined within seconds of climbing into the car. She recalled the video tape and Garman’s brief disappearance as he sat up with an ashtray in hand. Ben’s backpack had been in the Explorer’s back seat. Garman would have had time to memorize the address.

The police had established an elaborate surveillance operation at the wrong address. If Garman was watching any house, it was the Santori house on Jackson, not 114 Lakewood where Martinelli was ensconced.

As she hung a U-turn in the middle of oncoming traffic, Daphne wasn’t thinking about Boldt or the investigation; she was thinking about Ben and the fact that she had not bothered to check his home, where he clearly might hide in a panic. She would not tell Boldt or the others, not yet. They would want Martinelli, not Daphne, to arrive at the house on Jackson, more worried about their trap than the emotions of a frightened runaway boy.

She owed this to Ben. She would not drive him away again.

It never occurred to her for a minute that at a distance, in the dusk, she and Martinelli did not look so very different.