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Authors: Laura Disilverio
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way, I’m EJ Ferris.”
“Brad Eaton,” he said as we shook hands. “And I meant what I said: someone sabotaged the cameras.”
All sorts of questions ran through my head, starting with “Who?” dashing past “How?” and ending with “Why?” but I only asked, “Can you fix it?”
Brad gave me a pitying look. “Piece of cake.” He returned to the monitor bank and went at it with his screwdrivers, canned air, and other miniaturized tools.
I drew Joel away, out of earshot, to stand by the credenza that held the coffeemaker. The scent of stale coffee hovered in the air. Joel’s eyes were big with excitement as he said in an explosive whisper, “It had to be Woskowicz! He was on duty when the cameras went belly-up.”
“Let’s not jump to conclusions,” I cautioned, although the same idea had immediately leaped to my mind; that waswhy I’d wanted to get rid of Paula Woskowicz. “And let’s keep this between us for now, although I guess I have to tell Curtis Quigley.”
“Should we call the cops?” Joel asked.
I shook my head. “As far as we know, no crime’s been committed. None of the merchants on that wing have reported any losses or break-ins.”
“Maybe the heist is set to go down tonight, or later this week,” Joel suggested, clearly eager to volunteer for stakeout duty.
“I suppose it’s possible,” I said, “but no one had any way of knowing the cameras would still be out, that it would take so long to get them repaired.” Or maybe someone did. I remembered that the camera-repair company had been surprised to hear from me, had had no record of a service request from Fernglen. I’d written it off to poor record keeping on their part, but what if Captain Woskowicz had never called them? That would explain why he was pissed at me when I told him I’d gotten in touch with them.
The whizzing of a cordless screwdriver and a clang told me Brad had finished securing the console cover. I thanked him and pointed him across the hall to the mall operations office for payment. Strolling over moments later to let Quigley know about the sabotage, I found he was out of the office, so I wrote a brief note and left it with Pooja, feeling cowardly and relieved at the same time. Retrieving my gym bag from under my desk, I checked in with all the officers on duty to make sure there were no crises brewing, rifled our files for Captain Woskowicz’s home address, and left to rendezvous with his second ex-wife.
Seven
I pulled up in front of Captain Woskowicz’s house to find Paula waiting out front in an aging green sedan. The shadows had lengthened, and when I killed the ignition and the heater cut off, I noticed the air was definitely chillier than it had been earlier. The calendar might say one week shy of spring, but it still felt plenty wintery. Pausing to assess the building before I got out of my car, I noted a snug, two-story brick house with a steep roofline and small front yard. Frankly, it was homier than I’d expected from Captain W. From his lurid tales of his sexual conquests, I’d pictured him in whatever the modern-day version of a bachelor pad is—a high-rise condo with a swimming pool and hot tub?—not this cul-de-sac home with trimmed shrubs just beginning to bud out and a red-painted mailbox at the curb. I wondered which of his wives, if any, he’d been married to when he bought this place.
Paula exited her car and was halfway to my Miata whenI climbed out and locked it. She dangled a key on a P-shaped keychain. “Have you been inside?” I asked.
“Oh, no,” she said, brushing a strand of coppery hair off her face. “I waited for you.”
“So, you’re a teacher?” I walked beside her up the concrete walk to the front door. She didn’t look much like a teacher to me, but she’d said something about grading papers.
“Eighth-grade social studies,” she said.
“Do they still make the kids memorize the Preamble to the Constitution in middle school?” I asked.
“Brad Eaton,” he said as we shook hands. “And I meant what I said: someone sabotaged the cameras.”
All sorts of questions ran through my head, starting with “Who?” dashing past “How?” and ending with “Why?” but I only asked, “Can you fix it?”
Brad gave me a pitying look. “Piece of cake.” He returned to the monitor bank and went at it with his screwdrivers, canned air, and other miniaturized tools.
I drew Joel away, out of earshot, to stand by the credenza that held the coffeemaker. The scent of stale coffee hovered in the air. Joel’s eyes were big with excitement as he said in an explosive whisper, “It had to be Woskowicz! He was on duty when the cameras went belly-up.”
“Let’s not jump to conclusions,” I cautioned, although the same idea had immediately leaped to my mind; that waswhy I’d wanted to get rid of Paula Woskowicz. “And let’s keep this between us for now, although I guess I have to tell Curtis Quigley.”
“Should we call the cops?” Joel asked.
I shook my head. “As far as we know, no crime’s been committed. None of the merchants on that wing have reported any losses or break-ins.”
“Maybe the heist is set to go down tonight, or later this week,” Joel suggested, clearly eager to volunteer for stakeout duty.
“I suppose it’s possible,” I said, “but no one had any way of knowing the cameras would still be out, that it would take so long to get them repaired.” Or maybe someone did. I remembered that the camera-repair company had been surprised to hear from me, had had no record of a service request from Fernglen. I’d written it off to poor record keeping on their part, but what if Captain Woskowicz had never called them? That would explain why he was pissed at me when I told him I’d gotten in touch with them.
The whizzing of a cordless screwdriver and a clang told me Brad had finished securing the console cover. I thanked him and pointed him across the hall to the mall operations office for payment. Strolling over moments later to let Quigley know about the sabotage, I found he was out of the office, so I wrote a brief note and left it with Pooja, feeling cowardly and relieved at the same time. Retrieving my gym bag from under my desk, I checked in with all the officers on duty to make sure there were no crises brewing, rifled our files for Captain Woskowicz’s home address, and left to rendezvous with his second ex-wife.
Seven
I pulled up in front of Captain Woskowicz’s house to find Paula waiting out front in an aging green sedan. The shadows had lengthened, and when I killed the ignition and the heater cut off, I noticed the air was definitely chillier than it had been earlier. The calendar might say one week shy of spring, but it still felt plenty wintery. Pausing to assess the building before I got out of my car, I noted a snug, two-story brick house with a steep roofline and small front yard. Frankly, it was homier than I’d expected from Captain W. From his lurid tales of his sexual conquests, I’d pictured him in whatever the modern-day version of a bachelor pad is—a high-rise condo with a swimming pool and hot tub?—not this cul-de-sac home with trimmed shrubs just beginning to bud out and a red-painted mailbox at the curb. I wondered which of his wives, if any, he’d been married to when he bought this place.
Paula exited her car and was halfway to my Miata whenI climbed out and locked it. She dangled a key on a P-shaped keychain. “Have you been inside?” I asked.
“Oh, no,” she said, brushing a strand of coppery hair off her face. “I waited for you.”
“So, you’re a teacher?” I walked beside her up the concrete walk to the front door. She didn’t look much like a teacher to me, but she’d said something about grading papers.
“Eighth-grade social studies,” she said.
“Do they still make the kids memorize the Preamble to the Constitution in middle school?” I asked.
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