Foresight and hindsight.
Most people think they’re opposites or at least that they’re quite different from one another. They’re not. They’re actually the same thing, only separated by time. When I started walking up those steps, had I had a little foresight I could have run, but by the time I pause in front of Diane’s office, it’s too late.
In hindsight I realize I should have run.
See what I mean? It’s all in the timing.
Rising from her desk, Diane says, “Good morning, Steps,” in the warmest of voices; she’s devious that way. “Did you get some breakfast?”
I hold up a half-eaten granola bar in one hand and a Diet Pepsi in the other.
“Oh,” she says pointedly. “That’s healthy.”
“This,” I say, thrusting out the granola bar, “is healthy. This”—I wave the soda bottle—“is caffeine. I didn’t sleep well. We didn’t land till sometime after midnight.”
“Twelve thirty-seven A.M., I saw.” Then she drops the hammer. “Since you’re here, let me introduce you to Miss Heather Jennings … but … wait … I believe you two already know each other, don’t you?”
Evil.
Devious.
Heather swivels in her seat and gives me a generous smile.
She smells good, like coconut and citrus; all tropical-island-like. Suddenly the hangar is stuffy and hot, and my cheeks are flush with warm blood as my palms begin to sweat. She’s beautiful, smart, sweet; impossible to hate. Damn her.
“So,” Diane says, turning back to Heather, “I’ve made reservations at the Hearthfire Grill for six o’clock, if that works?”
The Hearthfire? That was our restaurant.
“That’s perfect,” Heather says, rising from her chair and hitching her bag up onto her shoulder.
“Do you need a ride?” Diane asks.
“No, I drove my Honda up.”
“The convertible?”
Heather nods, a grin on her face.
“I just love that car,” Diane trills. She’s practically pawing Heather’s arm; it’s disgusting. “Do you remember how to get there?”
“Sure, I can find it. I’ve got my GPS. Besides, Steps took me there a half dozen times.” Turning, she eyes me from top to bottom, a coy smile on her face, neither approving nor disapproving. “Is it still his favorite restaurant?”
“They know him by name. I’m surprised he doesn’t have a reserved parking spot.”
“I go there maybe three times a month,” I say in protest, but then realize I’m really not part of this conversation.
“Thanks, Diane,” Heather purrs.
“My pleasure, hon.”
Then, just like that, she’s down the stairs, across the hangar, and out the door, taking the coconut trees, oranges, limes, and the tropical breeze with her.
“Nice to see you two are still so chummy,” I say, wiping my brow and pouring on the sarcasm in my very best how-could-you? voice. “Dinner at the Hearthfire Grill? That’s nice. Special.”
“It is, isn’t it?” Diane replies, her eyes all a-twinkle.
*
The surveillance video from Bellis Fair Mall is sitting on my desk when I flip on the light: a single disk in a white paper sleeve. I expected more, but a note attached to the disk indicates that mall security reviewed five days of video and copied only those segments where there was a car parked in the spot I indicated. “Thank yooou, buddy,” I say softly as I slide the DVD into the computer. Instead of spending hours scanning through irrelevant video, my search has been reduced to seven short clips.
The first video shows a mother and her daughter in an eighties-style station wagon with wood-grain siding. Wagons, vans, SUVs, and the like are always good vehicle choices for killers, but I know from previous video that Leonardo is a dark-haired male, average in every way.
Clip two is what appears to be a teenage boy in a beat-up red and white Bronco, and this is followed by a family in a motor home, a man in a black sedan, another man in a burgundy sedan who parks for a while and then leaves without ever stepping foot out of the car, two women in a Subaru with bikes on the roof, and lastly, a white fifteen-passenger van loaded down with boys on some kind of outing. The top of the van bristles with canoes and pixelated lumps that might be suitcases; more gear is strapped to the back.
I watch each clip carefully, dutifully, before going back to number four—the man in the black sedan. I watch him exit the vehicle and point his arm at the hood; the lights flash briefly as the car locks. Starting at the driver’s door, he walks around the front of the car, down the passenger side, and back to the driver’s door, where he checks the door handle.
Hello, Leonardo.
There’s no doubt it’s him. Each time I’ve seen his shine at the mall he does the same thing before leaving his car: he walks in a slow, methodical circle around the entire vehicle.
Is it a ritual? Some type of protection circle? Is he checking the car; the tires? Or is he just obsessive-compulsive, driven by his own mind to go through strict, repetitive routines before doing anything? Jimmy and I have discussed it a dozen times, but we’re still not any closer to an answer. As for me, I’m betting on the obsessive-compulsive disorder … with a little bit of psycho wack-job thrown in.
The car is too far away to make out the plate. That’s the joke when it comes to security cameras; in almost every case they’re either too far away or too cheaply built to show any real detail. Casinos and banks invest in better-quality equipment and generally have better placement, but they’re the exception to the rule.