Creep - Jennifer Hillier [105]
The security guard lifted his head at their approach. Jerry rolled down his window.
“Good evening, sir. Can I help you?” The guard didn’t seem the least bit suspicious that two visitors had pulled up to the gate at eleven at night. He had a wrinkled, spritely face and a full head of neatly combed white hair. An ill-fitting brown polyester uniform displayed a name tag that read HENRY, and an embroidered shoulder patch said BRIAR WOODS SECURITY. Morris pegged the man as a part-time worker in his late sixties, trying to supplement his pension.
Jerry flashed his replica detective’s shield through the open car window. Unlike the meter maid they’d met earlier, Henry was suitably impressed.
“Detective Isaac.” Jerry was all business.
“Yessir.” Henry put down the magazine he’d been reading. “Did one of the residents call you? Is there a problem? They’re supposed to let me know as well.”
“There could be.” Jerry sounded just like a cop and Morris suppressed a grin. The tactic worked well, even in the business world. If you sounded authoritative enough, people believed anything. “Do you know the man on the motorcycle who went through here a few minutes ago?”
“That’s Mr. Wolfe.” The guard’s eyes widened. “He’s a resident. Why, what’d he do?”
“I’m not at liberty to say.” Jerry’s face was stone. “I can’t discuss an ongoing investigation.”
“Of course.” Morris could practically read the guard’s mind. Ongoing investigation sounded wonderfully ominous.
“What can I do to help?”
“For starters, you could let us in.”
The man pushed the button for the wrought-iron gates. They opened slowly to a low buzzing sound. “Mr. Wolfe lives at three five one three Maple Lane,” he said, though Jerry hadn’t asked for the address. “Straight ahead, first left, then a right.”
Jerry nodded. “Thank you, Henry. I’m sure you already know this, but do not under any circumstances let Mr. Wolfe know that anybody was asking about him. Is that absolutely clear?”
“Yessir.” Henry swallowed and adjusted his shirt collar.
Jerry’s gaze was focused on something attached to the side of the guard’s booth. Morris craned his neck to see what the PI was looking at.
“Say, Henry. Does that camera work?”
The security guard nodded. “It does now, but somebody broke it last year. The residents didn’t want to pay to get it fixed, so I asked my son to tinker with it and he got it working again. He’s an electrician. I didn’t bother to bill the HOA. They’re cheap and I doubt they’d pay—” Henry’s face reddened. “Not that I don’t like my job, I do, it’s just—”
Jerry put up a hand. “I’m with you. Does the camera record?”
“Sure does. I keep it rolling constantly.”
“Nobody knows it works?”
Henry lowered his voice. “Don’t think anybody cares.”
“Good work.” Jerry sounded genuinely impressed and the security guard looked delighted. “Mind if I take a peek at the tapes you’ve got?”
The guard looked doubtful. “I only have a few weeks’ worth of archives. I have to recycle the tapes—”
“That’s fine.”
“Come on in.”
Morris had his hand on the door, but Jerry turned to him. “Just me. You stay here.”
Jerry was in the booth for ten minutes.
Morris fidgeted inside the Honda, wondering what the hell was going on. “So?” he said when Jerry finally eased back into the car.
The PI was carrying a video cassette, which he placed on the backseat.
“Was Sheila on the tape? Has she been here?”
Jerry started the car, and the guard waved as they entered the subdivision. “I’ll tell you what I saw, but I don’t want you to go crazy.”
Morris felt his heart lurch in his chest. “Goddammit. She’s been here.”
“Yes, I think so.” Jerry’s jaw was tight. “The video’s time stamped for just after midnight on the night she was last seen at Tony’s Tavern, so the timing fits. She’s in the passenger seat, asleep. The image is grainy and I’ll have to get someone to clean it up before I can be sure, but I’d bet my ass it’s her. We’re lucky the security guard keeps the tape running