Linwood Barclay - Trust Your Eyes

She’d have to be ready.

Waiting for Allison, Nicole had plenty of time to contemplate her situation.

Doris Fitch lived in a low-rise apartment complex in the Northridge area of Dayton, close to 75. Nicole had found a vacant apartment across the street that allowed her a view not only of the Fitch apartment, but the lot where she parked her car, a black Nissan Versa.

It wasn’t possible to sit here by the window and watch the woman’s place twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Nicole needed provisions. She needed sleep. But she’d covered herself in this area. The surveillance equipment was voice activated. The moment it was engaged, the recording equipment began. If the Versa moved, a tiny beacon would alert Nicole.

Still, it was prudent to stay close. She worried that the second she took her eyes off the apartment a cab with Allison Fitch in it would stop out front.

Nicole’s cell rang.

“Yeah?”

“Hey,” Lewis said.

“Yeah,” Nicole said.

“Something’s come up,” he said.

“I’m occupied.”

“You have to go to Chicago.”

The way this son of a bitch was talking to her lately. She didn’t like it.

“Can’t,” she said.

“Not up for debate. It’s as important as what you’re waiting on now.”

“What’s in Chicago?”

“You got your laptop in front of you?”

“Hang on. Okay, go ahead.”

“Go to the Whirl360 site. You know it?”

“Yeah.”

“Go to New York. Orchard Street. I’m guessing you know the address.”

Nicole thought, Huh? She opened a browser, went to the site, entered the relevant address. It took a few seconds for the images of the street to load.

“Okay, so I’m on the street,” she said. “What’s the deal?”

“Pan up.”

Nicole clicked and dragged her finger down across the laptop’s track pad, altering the perspective on the image as the focal point moved from street level to the building’s third floor. To the apartment she had been in one time.

She saw the window.

She clicked to blow up the image.

“Tell me I’m not seeing this,” she said.

SHE never even thought about flying. She could drive to Chicago in four hours. Take I-70 West, skirt the north side of Indianapolis, grab I-65 all the way to Gary, then follow I-90 the rest of the way.

She hoped that if Allison Fitch decided to visit her mother over the next day, she’d make it an extended visit.

Lewis had given Nicole a name: Kyle Billings. Thirty-two years old. Had worked for Whirl360, at their Chicago head office, for three years. According to the information Nicole had, Kyle was responsible for, among other things, overseeing the program that deleted selected portions of the streetscapes when they were posted online. Vehicle license plates, people’s faces. It was supposed to happen automatically, and Kyle Billings was the lead person entrusted to make sure it did. He’d devised the program.

Nicole needed Kyle to go back into that program and delete an image on Orchard Street before anyone else found it. How the hell had Lewis been tipped to this, she wanted to know. Some guy had shown up at the door, a Whirl360 printout in hand. Lewis was on it, trying to figure out who the guy was.

What a clusterfuck.

First, killing the wrong person.

Then Allison Fitch getting away.

Now this.

Focus.

Wasn’t that what she’d done in Sydney? Focused? Concentrated on the task at hand. Put everything else out of her head. No crowd. No television cameras. No commentators.

Just her and the bars.

That was what she had to do now. Think about what must be accomplished today. Not what she had to do tomorrow. Or the next day. Or the day after that.

Today.

What she had to do today was find Kyle Billings, and use all her powers of persuasion to get him to go into the Whirl360 database of streetscapes, erase that image in that third-floor window, and purge it from the database forever.

She knew Kyle Billings would do exactly what she wanted.

Kyle Billings had a wife.

“Thomas?”

“Yes?”

“It’s Bill Clinton.”

“It is?”

“That’s right.”

“Oh, hi. It’s good to hear from you.”

“How are things going?”

“They are going very well. I’m memorizing more streets every day. Have you been getting my updates?”

“Of course, of course. You’re doing very well. Just terrific work. Everyone’s amazed by what you can do.”

“Thank you so much.”

“But, Thomas, there is something I’m a little worried about.”

“Yes?”

“I understand the FBI came to see you the other day.”

“That’s right. Remember we talked about this? I think they were just making sure I was staying on task, you know?”

“Sure, sure. But you have to be very careful these days, Thomas, about who you talk to. FBI, CIA, even the Promise Falls police. Even people who are close to you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just be very prudent about what you tell anyone. Never reveal anything very personal. For example, your father just passed away, and I understand that you might find that upsetting, but you need to present a strong front, or you might be perceived as being weak. This would be true for any traumatic incidents in your life. You keep them to yourself, and you move forward. Do you understand?”

“I believe so.”

“That’s good. And you also need to cover your tracks. Like erase your computer history-”

“I already do that.”

“And your call history, too.”

“Sure. I do all that, Bill.”

“I can’t begin to tell you how proud I am of you, Thomas. Everyone at the agency is very impressed.”

“I won’t let you down. Since I have you on the line, I wanted to tell you about something. When I was memorizing the streets of New York, I saw-”

“Thomas, I have to go. Maybe next time, okay?”

“Okay, Bill. Okay. Good-bye.”

Thomas wouldn’t tell me anything about his chat with the landlord after Julie left. He said he was too annoyed with me. He went back up to his room and closed the door. I could hear him in there, chatting with one of our former presidents.

So the following morning when he came down to the kitchen, rather than beg him for details, I asked nothing. Except for what kind of cereal he wanted.

Halfway through the bowl, as I was pouring myself a second cup of coffee, Thomas said, “Don’t you want to know about my conversation?”

“Who with?” I asked, figuring he meant Bill Clinton.

“With the landlord. Mr. Papadapolous.”

“If you want to tell me. You didn’t last night, so it’s up to you.”

“I think I woke him up,” Thomas said. “He seemed very angry. And I had some trouble understanding him. He had some kind of accent.”

“I’d bet Greek.”

“Why?” Thomas asked.

“Never mind. Carry on with your story.”

“I told him who I was, and that I am a consultant to the Central Intelligence Agency.”

I put down my coffee. “Jesus, Thomas, no.”

“I didn’t want to lie. And I think identifying myself that way made him more agreeable to answering my questions.”

I figured it was only a matter of time before the FBI returned. They might have overlooked Thomas bombarding the CIA with e-mails, but telling people he was working on behalf of a federal agency? This could only get worse.

“I asked him who had lived there before,” Thomas said.

“Go on.”

“Two women.”

“That’s what the woman down the hall said,” I reminded him.

“I asked if they were sisters, or a mother and daughter, or just friends, and he said they were roommates, but not very good friends, because sometimes one of them didn’t always pay her rent on time and the other one had to come up with the extra money.”