CHAPTER TWO

      WALLY O’NEILL, a civilian tech employed by the FBI, was working with Craig and Mike, viewing the security footage from the jewelry stores. They could have looked at the videos alone, but Craig was glad they had Wally’s help. He was a whiz when it came to cameras, computers...anything digital.

      The security footage showed that all the robberies had been carried out in much the same way.

      Quickly, for one.

      Three men—or they looked like men, anyway—in dark jeans, hoodies and ski masks suddenly converged on the door and entered the store. They burst in with guns out. Not one of the recording devices allowed for sound, but Craig was certain that the first man to break in roared that no one had better set off the alarm or someone would die.

      No alarms had been set off, but in the last two robberies, people had died anyway.

      “Okay,” Mike said, “since they’re dressed alike, maybe they come from different directions or time it so each one is slightly ahead of the next guy to avoid calling attention to themselves. I mean, half the kids in America walk around wearing hoodies with their heads down and hands shoved in their pockets, but the ski masks are a real attention getter. I’m betting they don’t put those on till the last minute.”

      Mike was probably right about that, Craig thought. In New York City, with crowds everywhere and people walking in every direction, their own agendas in their heads, there would be no particular reason to notice someone dressed like that. And Jersey? Pretty much the same story.

      “They don’t split up when they leave, though,” Craig pointed out.

      “There’s gotta be a getaway car idling somewhere nearby.”

      “They committed the murders in Jersey. They’re either getting bolder—or they’re not the same crew.”

      “That again,” Mike muttered.

      “I might be right.”

      “You might be wrong.”

      “Yeah, I might be. In fact, I hope I am,” Craig said.

      Wally cleared his throat. “Uh, guys? What do you want me to do now?”

      “Roll the last two,” Craig told him.

      Wally hit a key and brought up the crime-scene photo from the alley. He quickly apologized. “Sorry, pushed the wrong button.”

      “It’s all right. We’re going to have to go over that, too,” Mike said.

      They all stared grimly at the photo. The woman was dark haired and wearing a cover-up over her clothing—her way of staying clean while she swept and dusted, Craig thought.

      She was lying on her side, almost as if she were sleeping. Except that a pool of blood billowed out from beneath her hair.

      Mike looked at his folder. “Ana Katrina Martinez, forty-seven. Small-caliber bullet fired at point-blank range right through her forehead. Cartridge not found and the bullet is still in her brain. The ME will supply it to ballistics right after the autopsy.”

      Craig felt a swell of emotion. Ana Katrina Martinez wouldn’t care what kind of bullet had killed her, and neither would her family. They would only care that her killer was caught. Even dead in a pool of blood, she had a kind face. Craig thought she had smiled frequently in life. “Why her?” he muttered angrily.

      “Because someone was a grade-A sociopath with no concern for anyone other than himself,” Mike said. “You’d have to be,” he added gruffly, “to kill someone just because she was no longer useful. Hell, they were probably still in their ski masks—she couldn’t have identified them.”

      Wally cleared his throat. “Stay with this image or roll the footage?”

      “Roll the footage,” Mike said.

      “So in the city they leave everyone alive,” Craig said. “Then they go to Jersey and leave a woman dead in an alley.”

      “And a man dead at his desk,” Mike added.

      “I can’t help but think it’s different perps.”

      “Just different states. I’ll bet you a twenty. No, I’ll go a hundred.”

      “It’s a bet I hope I lose,” Craig said.

      “What are your thoughts on the matter, Wally?” Mike asked.

      Wally looked up at them with surprise. Craig figured that his expertise was often sought, but not his opinion.

      “I’ve enhanced the footage as much as possible. If they’re copycats, they have the clothing and the ski masks down perfectly,” he said. “I don’t know—I just don’t know.”

      “Let’s watch again—then we can start with the interviews,” Mike said.

      “Whatever you want,” Wally said.

      “What about the murdered jeweler?” Craig asked.

      “You’ll see that on the footage,” Wally said.

      They didn’t see the death of Ana Katrina Martinez on the computer screen; no camera had captured that.

      They did see the death of the elderly owner of the first store. He looked up, said something and appeared to be willing to do whatever the men wanted.

      Then he was shot, and he crumpled over.

      Mike looked at the files again. “Arthur Kempler, eighty-four. He owned and managed Kempler’s Fine Jewelry for over fifty years. Never had so much as a parking ticket.”

      “They didn’t need to kill him,” Wally muttered.

      Neither Mike nor Craig disagreed with him.

      “Go back to the first robberies,” Craig told Wally.

      Wally nodded. “Right away.”

      In the earlier heists, they saw the thieves exit by way of the front door, the same way they had come in.

      Only in New Jersey had they used the rear exits, at least so far.

      “In those first five robberies—as the cameras show—they went back out into the street,” Mike said. “And they were casual about it. I figure within a few steps they had their ski masks off, and in another few steps the hoodies were gone and no one would have known they’d been wearing them at all. They didn’t hide from people—they used them. They melted in with the crowd until they got to their getaway car or the subway and left the area.”

      Craig shook his head. “Okay, let’s look at all the footage again. I’m telling you, these aren’t the same thieves.”

      “How can you be so sure?” Mike asked. “Look at the New York footage. Three of them each time. Walking in and making it all happen fast. Then New Jersey. Same outfits, same number of guys—except in the first one, the bastards shoot the owner, and in the second, one of them grabs that poor woman and drags her out the back door.”

      “No, go back—go back and look at the height differences. There—look at the first tape. Two the same height, one shorter. Now go to the first store that was hit in New Jersey. None of them are the same height,” Craig said. He looked at Wally. “Wally, sorry, run them again. Slow them down.”

      Wally obliged, and they watched the footage again.

      Mike sighed. “How the hell are you seeing that? Maybe they’re the same size—or maybe they’re not. They could be wearing different shoes, for all you know. The perspective’s so crazy