Hide (Detective Harriet Foster #1)(51)

“Nothing says that laptop was in this house,” Lonergan said.

George Ainsley stood. “Keith never left the house; neither did that laptop. You have his statement. You have your proof. You need anything more, we’ll do it officially and by the numbers. You come back again, you’d better have a warrant for his arrest and a lot more than you have now.”

The door slamming behind them was as definitive as a rough toss-out could be, but there was no time to feel any way about it. “It’s not him,” Foster said, sliding into the passenger seat of their unmarked car. She braced for the argument.

Lonergan started the car. “I agree. That nerd video thing . . . hard to play that and kill a person at the same time.”

He pulled away from the curb. Foster clicked her seat belt and settled back. “And finally, there is light.”





CHAPTER 30


Rimmer was on the run, and every cop in the city was on the lookout for him. Foster didn’t think he was smart enough to evade them for long, though. It was only a matter of time. She wasn’t sure he was a killer, but he was definitely a liar. That was what they needed to talk about.

Meanwhile, they finally had the footage of the Riverwalk from Sunday night. The camera dump from Lower Wacker where Rea had been thrown away would take a bit more time, though less than it would have normally, given that they now had two deaths to solve. Nothing got city wheels turning faster than the threat of bad press and the possibility that someone would sue the city for allowing a murderer to run free. The boss’s office was busier than usual with brass racing in and out looking for assurances that CPD was making progress. The visits, the jumpiness, no doubt prompted by threatening calls from the fifth floor of city hall. What she and the team didn’t need was for the trickle-down heat, the hot potato, to get passed off to them, though she knew full well it would.

Lonergan had disappeared again.

“He left you to do the hard work again, I see?”

Foster looked up to find Li standing there. “At this point, I’m thankful for the alone time.”

Li glanced at the screen. “That’s from the Riverwalk?” She slid over the empty chair from the next desk over.

“Yes, I’m running through it looking for . . . anything,” Foster said. “These murders. They’re out of the norm and obviously linked. Ainsley’s accounted for. He’s clear. Rimmer’s still a question mark, but if the breakup with Birch was his motive, how’s that explain Mallory Rea? Did he break up with her too? The color of both women’s hair might be something. Rimmer was hung up on Peggy’s, according to Cooke. But Rea’s hair was fake.”

Li scooted her chair closer to the desk and Foster’s screen. “So we’re looking for someone else. Roll it. Let’s see. Or would you rather wait for Lonergan?”

She slid Li a look. “Like that would ever be a thing.”

Foster started the playback. Two hours went by. Slowly, they advanced through the frames, freezing the image when a person strolled into camera view. Though the footage was black and white and bathed in shadows, they could clearly see that none matched Birch. There was also no sign of Rimmer or Ainsley. Foster kept tabs on the elapsed time in the lower right corner as Sunday night crept closer to Monday morning. At 11:00 p.m. she found herself leaning in closer to the screen. Li did the same. “Here we go,” Foster said.

Frame by frame, one fuzzy image after another. Until there it was, at three minutes after 11:00 p.m., a weaving figure entered from the left. Male. Dark. Unsteady on his feet, as if drunk. “From the direction of the marina,” Foster muttered. “Where he said he was. Same clothes. The jacket.”

“That’s Ainsley, all right,” Li said.

They watched as the figure they presumed to be Keith Ainsley flumped down at the base of the bridge. After a few seconds, his head fell to his chest and stayed there. “He’s out,” Foster said.

“Keep it rolling,” Li said.

Foster kept her eyes on Ainsley, on the stairs, on the path, on the time as it ticked off on the counter. At four minutes after midnight, two dark figures descended the stairs from Michigan Avenue onto the Riverwalk, one with a backpack and long hair, one dressed in dark clothing, a large duffel slung over their shoulder.

Li pointed at the screen. “There’s Birch.”

Foster’s eyes were glued to the screen. Keith hadn’t moved. “That could be Rimmer. This person has a slim build. Five eight, five nine?” Foster stopped the footage to get a good look at the bag. “The bag worries me.”

“You know who walks around with a duffel at midnight?” Li said.

“Killers,” Foster answered glumly. “Could be his kit.”

Li looked up. “She doesn’t look like she’s being forced.”

“Killers can be disarming.” Foster started the tape again, but the pair was out of view. She quickly cued up the footage from a different camera mounted farther east, clicking through, not finding Birch and the stranger. “We lose them somewhere between the first camera and this one,” she said.

“In-between’s where she was found,” Li said.

Foster advanced the tape slowly until the dark figure showed up again forty minutes later with the duffel, heading toward Keith Ainsley. Alone.

Li shot up from her chair. “Holy shit!”