Let Me In - Adam Nicholls (e book reader pdf .TXT) 📗
- Author: Adam Nicholls
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Rico’s eyes widened. He shook his head from side to side. “What? I—I didn’t do it.”
“I know you didn’t,” Morgan said. “Your uncle already told me you were here all night. But let me give you a piece of advice: if you’re this uncooperative when the police come asking questions, they won’t be looking in your favor.”
“What am I supposed to do, then?”
“Start by answering the question.”
“What was it again?”
Morgan shifted in his seat. “When was the uniform stolen?”
“Uh… Yesterday.”
“What time?”
“Late afternoon. Why?”
Morgan craned his neck and studied the walls, scanning around for a security camera. To his relief, he found two. One was by the front door looking down at the entrance, while the other kept a watchful eye on the counter. “Do those work?” he asked, pointing.
“Not the one above the door. That’s just to scare thieves.”
“It didn’t help, did it?” Morgan said, smiling.
Rico smiled back, displaying a plethora of black and yellow teeth. It wasn’t a pretty sight, but the joke seemed to settle him, even if only a little. He pointed back at the camera with one hand that shook like a leaf in the fall wind. “That one works. My uncle was getting fed up of staff taking money from the cash register, so he keeps it on.”
“Can’t say I blame him. Where do you hang your coats?”
“Over there.” Rico adjusted his pointed fingers to a wall opposite the camera.
Given the circumstances, Morgan didn’t have much faith in his abilities to track the killer, and his typical luck meant it’d probably turn up nothing, but he couldn’t help smiling at the glimmer of hope this had given him. “Kid, go and get your uncle.”
Rico crooked an eyebrow. “Why?”
“Because I need to see that footage.”
Mr. Morales—a skeptical-looking man who held his cards too close to his broad chest—led him into the storage room where an old fifteen-inch TV hummed in the far corner. He flicked on the light and gestured for Morgan to come in, shoving aside stacks of empty boxes and kicking lunchtime debris to one side. “I don’t know what you hope to find.”
“Just find me yesterday’s tape. I’ll do the rest.”
“The tape should still be in the VCR. You just have to hit ‘Play’.”
“Thanks,” Morgan said.
“Hey, uh… listen.” Mr. Morales sniffed and shifted his weight to the other foot. His eyes swept to the door before they returned to Morgan’s feet. It seemed this man would look anywhere to avoid eye contact. “My nephew—he’s not in trouble, is he?”
“Does he have any reason to be?”
“No. He’s a good kid. But what if the cops pin this on him?”
Morgan understood. As a black kid in the neighborhood he grew up in, he’d been blamed for more than his fair share of local crimes: breaking and entering, pickpocketing, and even one very brief accusation of assault. He was innocent, of course, and had gone out of his way to prove that. Morgan often wondered if that was what had started him on his course for private investigations. It sure seemed like it.
“Does your camera have a time stamp?” he asked.
Morales nodded. “Sure. Why?”
“Then he’ll be fine. I’ll leave the tape when I’m done. Show it to the police.”
“Gotcha.”
Morgan stepped past the man and knelt in front of the waist-high TV. Morales took the hint and left soon enough, without saying another word. Morgan, meanwhile, rewound the tape to the appropriate time, going ten minutes too far and deciding to let it catch up naturally.
The first thing he saw was Rico coming in through the staff entrance just like he’d said. He had a spring in his step that day and had no problem showing his face to the camera. A more suspicious detective might read too much into that, but Morgan knew better. He continued watching as Rico headed into the back. It felt like an eternity for another person to enter the picture, but when he did, it was a relief and a disappointment at the same time.
Morgan gnawed on his knuckles, leaning in close as if it would fix the poor screen quality. He watched, his heart pounding while a hooded figure entered the establishment and approached the counter. For a moment it looked as though he were going for the unattended cash register, but instead, he stepped around the counter and reached straight for the uniform hanging from the dry-cleaning rail—cap included. Who’d have known at the time that something as trivial as a uniform theft would have such dire consequences? Did the killer know all along? He must have—otherwise he would’ve stolen more than just some clothes.
But that left another big question.
Why here?
Morgan huffed, a cramp seizing in his legs as the man on the screen ran back outside. The hooded man—or woman, but more likely a man judging by his build—crossed the street and headed into an alleyway that was barely visible through the footage. It wasn’t much to go on, but there was a chance he might find something. If not, he’d have no choice but to let Gary down gently. That wasn’t what he truly wanted, but at least he could still catch the tail end of Rachel’s birthday… maybe.
With nothing left to see, Morgan hurried back down the narrow staircase and arrived back on the shop floor. The place had livened up during his short time upstairs, just as Morales had said it would. Morgan found him at the counter, serving four customers at once while barking orders at Rico. Morgan caught his attention and gave him a thumbs-up, then made a swift exit before the temptation to grab a slice seized control.
The fresh night air hit him like a brick. He sucked in a large breath and crossed the street, looking back at Pizza Palace to confirm the angle was right. While a police cruiser turned onto the street and headed toward the pizzeria, Morgan found the correct alleyway and ducked inside, using the flashlight on his phone to brighten the area.
“What the hell are you hoping to find?” he asked himself, sweeping the beam from left to right as he navigated the alley. His voice echoed through the darkness, bouncing back at him from three different angles. He hated the sound of it.
Heading farther in, Morgan found there was nothing to see down here, save for a dumpster and a couple of black trash bags torn to shreds by cats. Food waste littered the ground, trailing to the far back where the alley opened onto the adjacent street. Morgan was no fool; he understood too quickly that this meant he was out of luck. Guilt and grief overtook him then, the realization that he couldn’t help Gary causing him to feel like a disappointment. He hadn’t promised he would find anything—in fact he’d said he probably wouldn’t—but that still didn’t make it any easier. The killer had taken the uniform and run through here, but there was no picking up the trail after that, so what was he expected to do? Morgan had no idea where to go next, but he was certain he couldn’t make something of nothing.
He just hoped Gary saw it that way too.
Less than ten minutes had passed before Morgan found himself at the bus stop. He was too impatient to sit and too stressed to stand still, so he kept to pacing back and forth while running the events through his head. It was a lot of information to process.
Even before the case came into play, it was hard to stifle the guilt of leaving Rachel on her birthday. She’d encouraged him to go with Gary, but she probably had no idea it would turn into a night-long work event. As usual, she’d be more than happy that Morgan was finding work again—despite that it was pro bono—as his home office had long ago become nothing more than a dusty old room. But cases like this got the brain ticking, and that was what kept him happy. Perhaps those feelings showed, or even contributed, to their relationship.
Then there was the case itself. Flashes of Gary’s heartbroken expression—the bloodshot eyes, his solemn tone of voice—intruded on Morgan’s memory. He wanted to be there for his best friend, but how could he? There was nothing to go on. At least not at this stage.
Shivering in the cold fall night, Morgan buttoned up his jacket and squeezed his elbows to his sides. He stared toward the end of the road, hoping the bus would hurry the hell up so he could get home to his wife. But there was no bus, only a pair of headlights creeping toward him like the eyes of a
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