The Never Game. Джеффри Дивер
technology interesting. Now, though, he was concentrating on watching his computer in the reflection in the display case glass.
Since Shaw had no legal authority whatsoever, he was present here by the establishment’s grace. Occasionally, if the circumstances were right and the situation urgent, he’d canvass patrons. Sometimes he got a lead or two. More frequently he was ignored or, occasionally, asked to leave.
So he often did what he was doing now: fishing.
The computer, with its bright pictures of Sophie, was bait. As people glanced at the photos, Shaw would watch them. Did anyone pay particular attention to the screen? Did their face register recognition? Concern? Curiosity? Panic? Did they look around to see whose computer it was?
He observed a few curious glances at the laptop screen but they weren’t curious enough to raise suspicion.
Shaw could get away with studying the wall for about five minutes before it looked odd, so he bought time by pulling out his mobile and having an imaginary conversation. This was good for another four minutes. Then he ran out of fake and returned to his seat. Probably fifteen people had seen the pictures and the reactions were all blasé.
He sat at the table, sipping coffee and reading texts and emails on his phone. The computer was still open for all to see. There were no tugs on the fishing line. He returned to the ORDER HERE counter, now staffed by a woman in her thirties, a decade removed from the waitress who had served him but with similar facial bones. Sisters, he guessed.
She was barking orders and Shaw took her to be the manager or owner.
“Help you? Your eggs okay?” The voice was a pleasant alto.
“They were good. Question: That woman on the bulletin board?”
“Oh, yeah. Her father came in. Sad.”
“It is. I’m helping him out, looking for her.”
A statement as true as rain. He tended not to mention rewards unless the subject came up.
“That’s good of you.”
“Any customers say anything about her?”
“Not to me. I can ask people who work here. Anybody knows anything, I’ll call you. You have a card?”
He gave her one. “Thanks. He’s anxious to find her.”
The woman said, “Sophie. Always liked that name. It says ‘student.’ The flyer does.”
Shaw said, “She’s at Concordia. Business. And codes part-time at GenSys. According to her father, she’s good at it. I wouldn’t know a software program if it bit me.”
Colter Shaw was quiet by nature, yet when working a job he intentionally rambled. He’d found that this put people at ease.
The woman added, “And I like what you called her.”
“What was that?”
“Woman. Not girl. She looks young and most people would’ve called her girl.” She glanced toward the waitress, willowy and in baggy brown jeans and a cream-colored blouse. She nodded the server over.
“This’s my daughter, Madge,” the manager said.
Oh. Not sister.
“And I’m Tiffany.” Mom read the card. “Colter.” She extended a hand and they shook.
“That’s a name?” Madge said.
“Says so right here.” Tiffany flicked the card. “He’s helping find that missing woman.”
Madge said, “Oh, girl on the poster?”
Tiffany gave a wry glance toward Shaw.
Girl …
Madge said, “I saw her pictures on your computer. I wondered if you were a policeman or something?”
“No. Just helping her dad. We think this is the last place she was at before she disappeared.”
The daughter’s face tightened. “God. What do you think happened?”
“We don’t know yet.”
“I’ll check inside,” said Tiffany, the mother—the generation-bending names of the women were disorienting. He watched her collect the flyer from the corkboard and disappear into the kitchen, where, presumably, it was displayed to cooks and busboys.
She returned, pinning up the flyer once more. “Nothing. There’s a second shift. I’ll make sure they see it.” She sounded as if she definitely would, Shaw thought. He was lucky to have found a mother, and one close to her child. She’d sympathize more with the parent of missing offspring.
Shaw thanked her. “You mind if I ask your customers if they’ve seen her?”
The woman seemed troubled and Shaw suspected she wouldn’t want to bother clientele with unpleasant news.
That wasn’t the reason for the frown, however. Tiffany said, “Don’t you want to look at the security video first?”
Well. This was interesting news. Shaw had looked for cameras when he’d first walked in but had seen none. “You’ve got one?”
Tiffany turned her bright blue eyes away from Shaw’s face and pointed to a small round object in the liquor bottles behind the bar.
A hidden security camera in a commercial establishment was pointless, since the main purpose was deterrence. Maybe they were getting …
Tiffany said, “We’re getting a new system put in. I brought mine from home for the time being. Just so we’d have something.” She turned to Madge and asked the young woman to show Sophie’s picture to customers. “Sure, Mom.” The waitress took the flyer and started on her canvass.
Tiffany directed Shaw into the cluttered office. She said, “I would’ve told her father about the tape but I wasn’t here when he brought the poster in. Didn’t think about it again. Not till you showed up. Have a seat.” With a hand on his shoulder, Tiffany guided Shaw into an unsteady desk chair in front of a fiberboard table, on which sat stacks of paper and an old desktop computer. Bending down, her arm against his, she began to type. “When?”
“Wednesday. Start at five p.m. and go from there.”
Tiffany’s fingers, tipped in lengthy black-polished nails, typed expertly. Within seconds a video appeared. It was clearer than most security cams, largely because it wasn’t the more common wide-angle lens, which encompass a broader field of view yet distort the image. Shaw could see the order station, the cash register, the front portion of the Quick Byte and a bit of the street beyond.
Tiffany scrubbed the timeline from the moment Shaw had requested. On the screen patrons raced to and from the counter, like zipping flies.
Shaw said, “Stop. Back up. Three minutes.”
Tiffany did. Then hit PLAY.
Shaw said, “There.”
Outside the café Sophie’s bike approached from the left. The rider had to be the young woman: the color of the bike, helmet, clothes and backpack were as Mulliner had described. Sophie did something Shaw had never seen a cyclist do. While still in motion she swung her left leg over the frame, leaving her right foot on the pedal. She glided forward, standing on that foot, perfectly balanced. Just before stopping, she hopped off. A choreographed dismount.
Sophie went through the ritual of affixing the bike to a lamppost with an impressive lock and a thick black wire. She pulled off her red almond-shell helmet and entered the Quick Byte and looked around. Shaw had hoped she might wave to somebody whom a staff member or patron could identify. She didn’t. She stepped out of sight, to the left.