He turned at the corner of the building toward the subway station, still dragging his bare foot and trying not to step on anything sharp. At the top of the escalator he measured his balance. A definite possibility, he thought. He was sober, but he knew it wouldn’t take much for someone with a few drinks and a couple of pills in them to lose their balance. And not only was he sober, but the good shoe he had on his right foot was flat and made for walking. No heels. Still barefoot, Detective Wallace rode to the bottom of the escalator, stopped, turned around and looked back up. “Man, oh man,” he said aloud. Murder or accident, it was a hell of a way to go.
He slipped on his sock and shoe and approached the subway station attendant’s booth.
He flashed his badge and spoke into the pass-through in the thick security glass. “You guys got any surveillance cameras at the street level?”
“Not that I know of,” the attendant replied pointing at the monitors on the console in front of her. “We have one at each end of the platform, one right above your head for evidence against fare dodgers, and another near the ticket machines to prevent vandalism and theft.”
“Does the one near the ticket machine have a view of the escalators?”
“No, it is on the far wall facing the machines head-on. When you buy tickets, your back faces it.”
Detective Wallace bent over and tied his shoe.
“Does this have something to do with the accident Friday night?” the station attendant asked.
“Yes.”
“It happens you know.”
“What’s that?” Wallace asked.
“Falling down the stairs.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“I haven’t had anyone die on my shift, but there are plenty of sprained ankles.”
Detective Wallace was still thinking. “Thanks for your time,” he said.
“Sure, detective.”
Wallace stepped away from the station entrance and again looked down the street in both directions. He scratched his head and gave a dirty look to the delivery driver who pulled his truck a little too close to the pedestrians in the crosswalk. He stood on the corner, eyes darting, mind running through scenarios. As the world passed around him, he found what he was looking for. He was willing to put down his weekend horse track money that he was about to get his first real clue. ***
Detective Wallace fumbled with the VCR before putting his tail between his legs and asking the young detective for help.
“Detective Nguyen?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Could you lend me a hand for a minute?”
“Sure, sergeant.”
Detective Wallace led the younger, fitter man to the empty break-room.
“Do you know how to hook this thing up?” Wallace asked, pointing to the VCR and a TV on the table.
“Sir, there is a TV in the corner with a built-in VCR.”
“I need two,” Wallace answered flatly.
Detective Nguyen nodded and went to work. “Hooking these up are pretty basic—there are three cords: one red, one yellow, and one white. They go into the holes in the back of the TV with the same colors.”
Detective Nguyen finished the procedure that any twelve year-old could do with their eyes shut and turned the TV on. “What are we watching, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Surveillance tapes,” detective Wallace answered, popping the tape in the VCR.
“Want an extra set of eyes?”
“Grab a seat.”
Both men lit cigarettes and eased into the metal breakroom chairs.
“I’m looking into the fatal accident at the Metro station Friday night. I got this security tape from Fleet Bank this morning. They have two cameras running twenty-four hours a day near their ATM at Fourteenth and Eye Street. One of the cameras is a close-up, focused within five feet of the ATM machine.”
“A mugger camera.”
“Exactly. The other camera is an overhead feed with a footprint that covers the entire corner. This is the surveillance from Friday, five minutes before the call to 911. I watched this one already, but I was interested in seeing the tapes simultaneously.”
A couple strolled in front of the ATM, hand-in-hand, laughing like young lovers do, months before the incessant fighting and bickering sets in. A minute later an older gentleman walked by with a cane and a cigar.
Detective Wallace hit the fast-forward for a few seconds and then released the button. “Then two minutes pass and there is no one until this character appears.”
“Big boy,” Detective Nguyen said.
“And Asian.” Detective Wallace added. As if on cue, Chow Ying turned his face toward the camera and held still for a full three seconds, his pony tail resting on his left shoulder.
Detective Wallace paused the VCR with Chow Ying’s face front and center. He hit play on the remote control for the TV in the corner. “Then from the overhead surveillance you see who I assume to be Marilyn Ford stumble, cross the street, and limp to the sidewalk in the direction of the subway station.”
Detective Wallace hit play on the TV on the table. “The Asian guy turns his back to the ATM, looks to his right for a moment at something just outside of the view of the camera, and then follows behind Marilyn. Both of them are out of sight once they go around the corner and under the building, but you can’t argue that it seems a little suspicious.”
“What are you thinking?”
“I don’t know. You used to work the gangs, right?”
“Yeah…used to, when I was on street patrol before becoming a detective. When the Asian gangs started making their mark a few years ago, I was brought in to help. Everyone just figures it takes an Asian to know one. There aren’t too many of us in the D.C. Police, in case you haven’t noticed. We set up the Asian Liaison Unit before Chinatown got squeezed. Now, the Latino gangs have taken over most of the activity outside the heavy drug turf, which is still black. No offense, Sarge.”
“None taken. You ever see this guy before?” Detective Wallace asked. He rewound the tape and froze it on the black-and-white, grainy shot of Chow Ying’s face.
“Can’t say that I have, but Christ, you can’t miss him. What do you figure he goes, six-four, two-forty?”
“I would say that is about right, give or take a Big Mac.”
“Sorry, I don’t know him.”
“That’s all right. Let me know if you hear anything, will you?” Detective Wallace asked.
“Sure thing. If you want me to help you out, pound the pavement a little, just give me a shout. I would be happy to lend a hand. Or my Asian face. And I could use the overtime.”
“Ah, the truth comes out,” Wallace said, jokingly. “But you’re on. I’ll keep you in the loop. In the meantime keep your eyes peeled for a large Asian guy.”
“Will do.”
Chapter 22
Jake introduced himself to Marilyn’s replacement when he came into the office. Three days in the whirl of Winthrop Enterprises and the new secretary was still over her head. Between a stack of notes on her desk, and a phone with three customers waiting to be transferred, Marilyn’s replacement managed to squeak out a “good morning.” Shelly Fink, a formerly out-of-work executive administrative assistant, was recommended by a business acquaintance of Peter Winthrop who trumpeted her as mildly competent and stunningly beautiful. It was a half-honest evaluation. Peter took Shelly in as a favor, and intended to keep her in the office until he could find a permanent replacement. In the meantime, all she really had to do was keep his schedule straight and look good. The latter came naturally. Her long brown hair stood out in an office with a heavy slant toward blondes, and her body put every secretary in the building to shame, even the knockouts two floors below in the youngest corporate law office in the city.