Hard Bitten - Chloe Neill [83]
“A lack of trust?” Ethan wondered.
“Or perhaps a fear that the Ombud’s office is tied too closely to Cadogan House,” I suggested. “Tate’s office doesn’t give the Ombud’s office all the information, which acts like a check and balance on my grandfather.”
Lindsey grimaced. “That’s a slap in the face.”
“Yes, it is,” I agreed. “I guess the cop car signals Tate’s lack of trust in us, too?”
Ethan shuffled in his chair. “Given the fact that he’s got a warrant for my arrest ready to go, I’d say so.”
My cell phone buzzed. I pulled it out and checked the caller ID. “Speak of the devil. It’s Jeff.” I flipped it open. “Hey, Jeff. Got anything for me?”
Jeff chuckled. “Of course, I do. But I’m strictly off-limits now. You know, ’cause of the little lady.”
“No disrespect meant to you or yours. Hey, I’m in the Ops Room with Ethan and everyone. Can I put you on speaker?”
“Knock yourself out. Probably helpful for all to hear.”
I put the phone down in the middle of the table, then pressed the speaker button. “Okay. You’re live. What do you have?”
“Aw, if only I’d prepared a monologue.”
We heard Catcher’s voice in the background. “Focus, kid.”
“Well,” Jeff said, and I heard the clacking of keys, “it turns out the security cameras are live, and Colin and Sean do record the video. It’s stored in the bar on a dedicated server, and there are also external backups just in case some bad stuff goes down. I was actually pretty impressed. You don’t expect bars to have that kind of security protocol.”
From the looks of the crusty back room, Temple Bar definitely did not seem like the kind of establishment with a “dedicated server,” not that I could differentiate a dedicated server from an undedicated server.
“So, anyway, I grabbed the video and uploaded it.”
I leaned forward, linking my hands together on the table. “Tell me you found something, Jeff.”
“It took some spooling,” he said. “Trucks use the alley quite a bit to make deliveries. There’s also the occasional catering-truck pickup, garbage trucks, taxis, bar drop-offs, et cetera, et cetera. But beginning two months ago, every couple of days, usually in the wee hours, a vintage Shelby Mustang—wicked car—pulls into the alley. Sometimes the car sits there for a few minutes, nothing happens, the car drives away. Sometimes a driver gets out.”
My heart began to beat in anticipation. We were getting closer, I knew it. “What did the driver look like?”
“Well, although the backups are impressive, the video is for shit. Very grainy. But I did manage to pull a still for you. I’m going to send you a pic.”
“Use this e-mail,” Luc said, reading off an address to Jeff and picking up one of the tablets from the desktop. “That way we can project the image.”
“Done and done.” Jeff had barely gotten out the words before Luc’s tablet dinged, signaling a new message. His fingers danced across the tablet, and an image popped onto the screen.
The guy was short—maybe five feet in shoes—older with slick, dark hair and bulbous features. There was nothing especially remarkable about his face, but I would have sworn I’d seen him before.
“Does he look familiar to anyone?” I asked, but got muttered “no’s” around the room.
The others might not have recognized him, but I had a sense Sarah would have.
“He matches the description of the guy Sarah—the human at the Streeterville party—met,” I said. “Make my night and tell me you got a license plate on the car, Jeff.”
“Because I am, in fact, awesome, I was able to zero into the video. I got the license of the car, then ran it through the DMV system. The car is registered to one Paulie Cermak.” Jeff read out an address. “The interwebs say his address is near the Garfield Park Conservatory.”
I made plans to pay Mr. Cermak a visit. I also opened my eyes again and smiled at the phone. “Jeff, you are a paragon of man.”
“The funny thing is,” Jeff continued, “the car’s title shows a recent sale—only a few months ago to our Mr. Cermak. But there’s no information about the prior owner or who he purchased the car from.”
I frowned