Out of the Dark

23 Backtracing an Outbreak

There were seventeen 24 Hour Fitnesses in the Greater Los Angeles Area. But here Evan was at the Magic Johnson Signature Club on the second floor of the Sherman Oaks Galleria. The gym was sandwiched between an upscale day spa and a wide staircase leading to a high-end movie theater.

Evan had arrived here by calling the gym towel manufacturer, which prided itself on producing hygienically clean textiles, a catchphrase with which he had been previously unfamiliar. Posing as an occupational-health safety inspector, Evan claimed he was backtracing an outbreak of Staphylococcus aureus, which seemed to be tied to laundry infection at a gym. If he provided a serial number from a specific towel, might the company be able to tell him to which location that particular batch of towels had shipped?

They might.

So now here he was in the open-air second level outside the gym entrance, wearing generic worker coveralls, replacing a wall outlet beside a shaggy ficus by the elevator. The impostor outlet he was installing, which was conveniently wired into the existing power source, contained a covert stationary video recorder. The tiny lens sat between the two plug receivers, flush with the plastic plate. Motion-activated, it recorded time-stamped footage to a microSD card hidden inside the unit.

Evan tweaked the button-size lens, angling it on the glass-doored entrance to the gym so it captured the people streaming in, seeking to break a pre-workday sweat.

The clientele, from what Evan could glean, consisted mostly of aspiring actors, dedicated muscleheads, and disciplined young moms in Lululemon eager to park their offspring at the on-site kids’ club. The front desk featured an efficient check-in procedure — no card or key fob required. You just pressed your finger to a scanner on the counter and in you went.

Evan tightened the screws on the impostor outlet, pocketed his screwdriver, and moved the ficus another few inches to the right, its broad, glossy leaves whispering conspiratorially.

When he returned in a few days’ time, he’d review the DVR footage until he spotted who he was looking for.

Muscley One.

A man with half-skull tattoos wrapping his forearms would be hard to miss.

Evan thumbed the elevator call button and rode the car down to the parking garage. He was running late for his flight, which he’d booked out of Las Vegas to obscure his trail. He’d stopped at a safe house earlier to switch out his Ford pickup with a backup vehicle. A fresh passport and supporting documents waited in the glove box.

As he pulled out of the shopping mall, he shot up Sepulveda and arced around onto the freeway, seating the pedal as low to the floor as he dared.

He had a plane to catch.