CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE 6 page

Gladys hesitated, her brow knit into a complex tangle of lines. She glanced around the room. “What is this about, dear? If it’s something work related, I can’t really…”

“I’m trying to find someone…anyone…who can talk to me about Miguel Ramirez. You mentioned that you knew him through church. How well did you know him?”

Gladys twisted her lips in a thoughtful pout. “Well, we talked after Mass sometimes. When my husband died a few years ago, he came by once in a while to help me mow my lawn. It was so sweet of him. I was too…you know, too heartbroken to see to it myself.” She shook her head. “But I didn’t know much about his personal life, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Is there anyone here who might know more?”

Gladys straightened herself up, one hand going to her hip. “Miss Mars, these people are here for church. You can’t just ask—”

“You sounded very sure that Miguel was innocent,” Veronica interrupted. “If that’s true, don’t you want his name cleared?”

Gladys fell silent for a moment. At the tables around them, people chattered on, oblivious to the tension at the snack table. A small child darted between them, grabbed an Oreo, and ran off to join his friends again.

She gave Veronica a strange, searching look. “He’s already been deported. It doesn’t matter.”

Veronica took a deep breath, frustrated.

“It does matter. I’m trying to save the place you work millions of dollars. I could also restore the reputation of someone you believe is a sweet young guy who couldn’t have done what he’s been accused of.”

The woman’s eyes dropped down to the dirty linoleum floor. Veronica knew the details of the crime were probably common knowledge among the staff of the Neptune Grand.

“I don’t want to bother anyone, or get anyone in trouble,” Veronica continued. “But unless I can find some way to either rule him out or find him, this case is going to fall apart.”

Gladys looked up, her lips pressed tightly together but shaking. She took a deep breath. Then she held up her hand, calling out to someone across the room. “Bianca, honey. Can you come here for a second?”

Veronica watched as a young woman in a yellow sundress turned toward them from the table where she sat. Her black hair was cut short, and she tucked the ends nervously behind her ears as she approached.

“What’s up, Gladys?” She crossed her arms over her chest in a gesture that seemed more self-protective than hostile.

“Well…if you have a few minutes…” Gladys gave a sad little smile. “This young lady has some questions about your husband.”

—

Veronica and Bianca sat together on an oak-shaded bench in Founder’s Park, just across the street from the cathedral. Eucalyptus and palm trees dotted the expanse of the neatly manicured lawn. Paved trails wove through the greenery, joggers and speed-walkers hurrying past. Their bench faced a playground where Bianca and Miguel’s four-year-old son, Gabe, shrieked with laughter as he chased another boy.

Bianca angrily wiped a tear from her eye. “I can’t believe I didn’t know.”

The feeling is mutual, sister. Veronica had been prepared to question churchgoers about Miguel, but finding out that he had wife—a wife who had no idea that he was accused of any crime, much less a vicious rape and beating—had left her reeling.

“It’s strange. If local law enforcement ran any kind of identity check on Miguel, you and Gabe would have come up,” Veronica said, leaning forward, bracing her forearms against her knees.

Bianca sniffed. “Not necessarily. ‘Miguel Ramirez’ wasn’t his real name. And we weren’t…we weren’t legally married.” Her voice dropped, ashamed. “We always really wanted to be. But he didn’t want me to get in trouble if he got caught. No one at church knows the truth—we told everyone we were married in San Diego.”

Bianca pulled her phone from her purse and, after pulling up the photos, handed it to Veronica. The screen showed a smiling Miguel with Gabe on his shoulders, somewhere down by the Boardwalk. Carnival lights flashed in the background, and Gabe held a towering cotton candy high over his head. It was hard to reconcile this image with that of the sinister-looking alleged perp in his mug shot. But then, that was the nature of mug shots. They could make Bruno Mars indistinguishable from Rondo Hatton.

“He told me he was undocumented before we even had our first kiss,” Bianca said softly. “He knew what it could mean for me. For us.”

“Couldn’t he apply for citizenship once you were married?” Veronica asked.

“It’s not that simple. You have to go back to your home country to apply for a green card, but there’s a law that anyone who entered the country illegally is banned from reentering for ten years. So we decided to risk it and stay here. I’ve been constantly afraid he would get pulled over for a bad taillight or something. That’s all it takes for them to get you.”

“Are you in touch with him now?”

“Of course I am.” Bianca tucked her hair behind her ears again and frowned. “But if you’re hoping I’ll put you in touch with him—no way. Just no way. Miguel can’t possibly have done this…thing you say he’s accused of. Look, Ms. Mars, Miguel is the gentlest man I’ve ever met, okay? He never raised his voice with me or with Gabe. He never even slammed a door. I’m sure that’s exactly what you’d expect me to say, but it’s true.”

“Maybe so. But with him out of reach, no one here has a good incentive to prove him innocent. Think about it—if you were, say, a lazy, corrupt deputy, would you put much effort into finding an accused criminal once he’d disappeared into Mexico? Or would you throw your hands up and assume he’s guilty so you can move on with your day?”

She’d phrased it carefully. She wanted Bianca to hear the word innocent before she heard guilty. She wanted Bianca to trust that she would take either possibility very seriously.

“Mommy! Watch me!”

Gabe’s high-pitched voice wafted back to them from the playground. He started to climb up the miniature rock wall—a three-foot ledge with hand- and footholds bolted to the side. Bianca’s eyes followed him closely as he scaled the wall. When he’d gotten to the top, he waved. She waved back. When she spoke again, her voice was soft, broken.

“I grew up getting the shit beat out of me on a regular basis. Grew up watching my mom get the shit beat out of her too. I used to watch her cover for my dad at the hospital. Bruises all over her body, broken wrist, broken nose, and she told the cops she walked into a door. I swore up and down I’d never let anyone treat me like that. Never.”

Veronica fought the urge to reach out and touch the woman’s hand. She knew it would not be welcome.

“Whoever said this about him is lying.” Bianca tugged at a lock of her hair, looping it tightly around a finger. “You said there was DNA evidence?”

“Yes. If we could get a sample from him…”

The woman shook her head tightly. “He’s in Michoacán, on his sister’s farm. It’d take you weeks to find him and get him tested.” Her eyes stared out over the playground. Gabe ran along the playscape to the fireman’s pole, leapt onto it, and squealed as he slid to the ground. “There’s another way, though, right?”

Veronica didn’t answer. She’d been hoping Bianca would have the idea for herself—and she didn’t want to say anything that might accidentally change her mind.

“Gabe, mijo, come here for a second, please.” Bianca gestured for the boy to come over. The child ran over, tripping on his shoelaces once but getting right back up.

“You can take his, can’t you?” The woman scooped the boy up and pulled him in her lap.

Veronica hesitated. “I could,” she said. “Do you mind?”

Bianca’s nostrils flared. “Do it.”

The little boy stared up at her with wide, baffled eyes. Veronica used the tweezers she kept in her purse to pluck five glossy black hairs from his head and put them into a plastic bag. This sample, of course, wouldn’t be admissible in court. It would be too easy for a lawyer to claim—for a while at least—that there was no proof Gabe was Miguel’s son. However, it would determine her next step. If the samples matched, that would be enough to get the FBI interested in tracking down Miguel Ramirez, or whatever his name really was.

And if they didn’t…Well, it wouldn’t completely rule Ramirez out. But Veronica would start looking damn hard at other suspects, other possibilities. Because she sensed that, like all survivors, Bianca Ramirez was a kind of amateur detective herself. Anyone who’d spent a childhood waiting for the other foot—or the other fist—to fall knew how to sense danger. And she didn’t get the feeling that this was a woman who’d tolerate a threat in her home for very long.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

On Thursday, not quite a week after Veronica’s visit to St. Mary’s, she and Logan joined about thirty journalists, activists, civic voyeurs, and well-wishers in the cramped lobby of a midtown office building to bear witness to the official announcement of Weevil’s lawsuit.

“Thank you so much for being here.” The lawyer’s name was Lisa Choi, a rising star who projected the riveting charisma and no-bullshit focus of Helen Mirren on Prime Suspect. Veronica had been shocked to learn that the nationally lauded prosecutor with the Hillary pantsuit and black-framed glasses was just thirty-two years old—three years her senior. “Today we have filed a lawsuit against the Balboa County Sheriff’s Department. In January of this year, my client Eli Navarro was attempting to render aid to a citizen whose vehicle had broken down. He was shot at point-blank range for his trouble, and he still suffers chronic pain and disability from this unwarranted attack. Yes, Mr. Navarro is lucky to be alive. But luck certainly wasn’t in his corner when the Balboa County Sheriff’s Department arrived on the scene.”

Weevil stood to Lisa’s right, looking uncomfortable in the same slacks and button-down shirt he’d worn for his criminal trial. Keith and Cliff lingered on the sidelines, trying to draw as little attention as possible. Both men had long, contentious histories with Lamb, and Veronica knew that Lisa wanted the trial to be perceived as all about Weevil, not a political vendetta.

“The night my client was shot, deputies of the Balboa County Sheriff’s Department planted evidence on him to falsely indicate that he’d been attempting to rob the woman he was trying to help. Mr. Navarro was later found innocent of all charges. For all of us who believe in equal justice under the law, that’s a start. It’s a good start.” She paused for effect and turned to Weevil, whose stoic face was flushed from the effort of suppressing his emotions. “However,” Lisa continued, “this still fails to undo much of the damage that’s been inflicted upon his career, his health, and his mental well-being. It fails to undo the injustice perpetrated on my client and on the community of Neptune at large.” She looked around the room at that, as if challenging someone to disagree. “When we lose faith in our officers of the law, it harms all of us. It cripples our criminal justice system. It threatens the most vulnerable parts of our community. It allows money and power to subvert justice.”

“I miss money and power,” Logan whispered in Veronica’s ear.

Veronica pressed her lips together to suppress a laugh, then turned her attention back to Lisa. What she’s doing—that could have been my life, if I’d wanted it.

Veronica had gone to law school in part to get away from the PI life, convincing herself she wanted to be comfortable and detached and…and what? Normal? Whatever that was supposed to look like. In the end she hadn’t been able to stay away.

Did she have regrets? Maybe. But she’d had half a year to accept the choices she’d made—to stay in Neptune, to work in her father’s profession, to give up law. Now it all felt inevitable. But there was no denying a twinge of envy as she watched Lisa command the room.

“We will show that the officers who planted that gun on my client are not, as the department has claimed, outliers, but that they are part of a pattern of corruption infecting the department at large—a pattern reaching all the way up the chain of command.” She hadn’t named Lamb outright, but Veronica knew the journalists in the room would immediately zero in on the sheriff. “The Sheriff’s Department has been manufacturing its own twisted version of justice for years now. My client was only the most recent victim of this pattern. Our aim is to expose as much of this endemic, unchecked corruption as possible so Neptune can once again have a justice system worthy of the name.”

Glad she’s on our side, but I hope she’s got a bodyguard. Veronica glanced over at her dad, who stood next to a potted ficus on the other side of the room. Someone had tried to kill him for daring to ask too many questions. Now Lisa Choi was asking those same questions, with a bullhorn.

“I’m ready to take any questions you might have,” Lisa concluded.

The room exploded in a chaos of TV, radio, and print reporters’ urgent voices.

“What kind of damages are you seeking?”

“Are you suggesting that Sheriff Lamb knew about the planted evidence?”

“Are you planning to name Mrs. Kane in the suit as well?”

Veronica had heard enough. She gave Logan a little nod, and together they pushed out the glass doors, onto the covered sidewalk. It was almost three p.m. and visible waves of heat rolled up from the concrete. She was temporarily blinded by the sun’s glare reflecting off windshields in the parking lot.

“Well, that was romantic,” Logan said as she rummaged for her sunglasses in her bag.

“Why, darling, what could be more romantic than uncovering systemic corruption through a grueling process of investigations, subpoenas, and litigation?” She tilted her head and grinned. “But I guess, if you want, we could do something more, you know, light and fun?”

He did a mock double take, wiggling his index finger in his ear as if clearing it out. “I don’t understand. What’s this ‘fun,’ and how do you do it?”

“I’ve heard some people do it two days a week,” she said. “Maybe we could take a drive up the coast? Have dinner later tonight?”

“Dinner, like, at the same place, at the same time?” He raised an eyebrow. “Now that sounds suspiciously date-like.”

“Yeah?” She leaned up to kiss him. “Play your cards right, maybe I’ll take you home after.”

Before he could say anything else, her phone trilled from the depths of her bag. She dug it out and checked the screen.

It was Preuss Insurance.

“Let me take this real quick, okay?” She held up one finger toward Logan, then answered the phone.

“Hi, Veronica, this is Joe Hickman. I’m calling to let you know that the hair you sent in—Ramirez’s kid? The DNA doesn’t match.”

Her heart picked up speed. She moved the phone to her other ear and took a few steps away from Logan.

“I knew it. Have you talked to the victim’s lawyers yet?” She hadn’t talked to Grace since she found out Ramirez had a family; she’d wanted verification first.

“Not yet. Now that we know he’s in Michoacán we’ve sent someone down there to take a sample from Ramirez himself.”

“Great, so now I’ll focus on finding Grace’s boy—”

“I’m sorry, Ms. Mars. I don’t think you understand,” Hickman interrupted. “We hired you to determine if Ramirez was guilty. Based on what you’ve found, we’re reasonably satisfied that he’s not.”

She paused, her shoulders going rigid. “So you’re saying I’m off the case.”

“No, I’m saying the case is closed.” His tone was firm. “We do get several cases a year that require the assistance of a private investigator, and we’ll certainly call you the next time that happens. It’s been a pleasure working with you.”

She kept her voice measured. “Of course. Let me know if there’s anything else you need.”

As she hung up, she caught sight of Lisa Choi, still declaiming from the podium. She thought about her dad, nearly dying to get at the truth about the Sheriff’s Department; about Cliff, who defended people the rest of Neptune wanted to throw away.

Grace’s words floated back to her. I thought you were a big hero. She had an image of Grace as a child, waiting for Veronica to come back. Waiting for her to open that closet one more time, and tell her it’d be okay.

Veronica’s decision came clearly in that moment, as unavoidable as it was surprising. Concepts like heroism and moral certainty were so far from her normal worldview, naive at best, delusional at worst. Yet here she was, determined to keep working the case. She shoved her phone in her bag, and turned to Logan, a hundred apologies on her lips. But then she saw he was looking at her with a knowing smile.

“Our plans just got canceled, didn’t they?”

“Logan, I’m so sorry. I’ve got to—”

“I know.” He leaned in to kiss her cheek. “I’ll see if Dick’s around tonight. Maybe he’s up for a romantic drive.”

She gave a wan smile. “You get going. I’ll grab a cab home later.”

He gave her a final lingering look, then nodded, heading across the parking lot to where he’d parked the convertible. As soon as he was out of sight, she pulled out her phone again, and dialed Grace’s number.

The phone rang three times before the girl picked up.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Grace. This is Veronica Mars. Can you talk?”

There was a short pause.

“Okay.”

“I just have some follow-up questions for you about the night of the attack.”

“I already told you everything I remember.”

“I know. The thing is, Grace, we’ve managed to get DNA evidence that proves it wasn’t Miguel Ramirez who raped you. I know you were really certain it was him, but…”

Grace exhaled sharply. “DNA evidence? How? I thought he was in Mexico.”

“He is, but his son’s here in the US and we were able to get a sample. They’re working on getting Ramirez’s DNA just to be sure—it might take a few weeks, but they’re pretty sure it’ll clear him.” Veronica chose her next words carefully. “No one’s accusing you of lying, Grace. You went through a lot. It’s possible your brain injuries scrambled some of the details. I mean, maybe you’d seen Ramirez around the Grand before, and so he popped up in your memory when you were trying to reconstruct the attack. Or maybe it was someone who looked a little like him, or…”

“Don’t act like you’re trying to help me.” Veronica could just make out the tremble in the girl’s voice. “All this time you’ve been trying to prove I’m lying. Don’t ever think I’ve forgotten: You’re working for them, not me.”

“No, I’m not working for them. Not anymore. As far as they’re concerned I’ve done my job and I’m off the case. Which means right now they’re probably on the phone with your lawyer, telling him your suit is falling apart. But I still want to figure this out, Grace. And if I’m going to help you, I need to know the truth.”

The girl was silent for a long moment. When she spoke again her voice was steady.

“So what does that mean?”

“That means I need the name of the guy you were there to meet that night.” The deputies who questioned her were assholes, but they weren’t wrong. In 99 percent of cases, the assailants were boyfriends or husbands. Without ruling Grace’s out, the case couldn’t move forward.

“You’re just like those cops, you know that?” Grace said. “They kept asking and kept asking, trying to catch me in a lie. They came to my hospital bed and talked to me while I was high on morphine before the nurses finally chased them off. And here you are, playing good cop, acting like you’re my friend. Good cop, bad cop. It doesn’t make any difference—none of you give a shit about me.” She took a ragged breath. “Forget it, Veronica. I’ve already told you what happened. If you don’t believe me, you can just join the fucking club.”

With that, Grace Manning hung up the phone.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The Eagle’s Nest was even more dazzling in person than on video. Fragrant herbs and flowers overflowed from recessed planters. At the central bar, backlit rows of top-grade liquor lined a crescent-shaped wall. The ocean was visible beyond the other buildings downtown.

It was still early, and the bar was almost empty. Two men in suits, their ties loosened, sat talking quietly in chairs that looked out over the vista. A young woman with hair knotted in a tortured-looking bun read a paperback at the bar. Other than that, the only person was the bartender—the exact person Veronica was looking for.

Alyssa Winchell was in her late twenties, with dark hair cut in a bob around her cheekbones and a silver hoop in her left nostril. She stood behind the bar, yawning as she dried a glass. Veronica sat on one of the high wooden stools, a few seats down from the girl with her book.

“Hey, hon, what can I get for you?” The bartender put down the glass and braced her weight against the counter.

Veronica handed her a card. “I’m looking into the assault that happened here back in March. I was wondering if you had a moment to answer a few questions.”

Alyssa’s eyes widened. She stared at the card for a moment, then looked up. “Shit. You’re that private eye who busted the girl who faked her kidnapping, right?”

My dear stepsister, Veronica thought drily. Aurora Scott—her mom’s new husband’s daughter—had used Hayley Dewalt’s disappearance to stage her own, hoping to reap the reward money.

“That’s me,” Veronica said. “Do you have a minute?”

“Sure.” The woman leaned in toward Veronica. “I don’t know how useful I’ll be—I already told those cops everything I know. Total dicks, if you ask me,” she said. “They treated me like I was some kind of criminal because I couldn’t tell her ID was fake. It’s not worth my job to serve eighteen-year-old kids. If I’d known, I wouldn’t have. But—I mean, the license looked fine. And you’ve seen her, right? She looks like she’s older. What nineteen-year-old carries a fucking Fendi handbag?”

Chatty, defensive, observant. My new favorite witness.

Veronica smiled sympathetically. “Yeah, well, they were probably just trying to cover their own asses. That whole investigation’s been a royal clusterfuck from the get-go.”

Alyssa smirked. “Typical douche-nozzle cops.”

“Hear, hear!” Veronica drummed her knuckles on the wooden bar top. “So, did the victim come in pretty often?”

“Oh, yeah, she was in here a lot. Three, four times a month.”

“Did you ever see her meeting anyone in the bar?” Veronica asked. “Did she talk to anyone?”

A sly smile crossed Alyssa’s face. She glanced up the bar at the reader, still immersed in her novel. Then she looked back at Veronica.

“Nope. Never saw her talking to anyone here, except the staff. I mean, plenty of guys tried to talk to her, but she made it pretty clear she wasn’t interested. She’d just come in, have a few drinks, pay her tab in cash, and leave. She was a good tipper.”

“That’s so strange,” Veronica said, injecting a note of earnest confusion into her voice. “Why would she come in here all the time if she wasn’t meeting anyone?”

“Yeah, well, I’ve got a theory about that.” Alyssa leaned in a little. Veronica hid a smile. Chatty, defensive, observant, and a gossip. Jackpot. “I mean, I’m guessing you’ve seen the surveillance tape. You saw what she was wearing, right?”

Veronica nodded.

“The girl was flashing some serious labels. And that was totally normal for her. She’d come in here on a weeknight, dolled up like she was going to a movie premiere.” Alyssa looked at her significantly. “You’ve heard about her boyfriend?”

“I heard she had one,” Veronica said carefully.

“Yeah, well, my impression: older dude, married. Kind of guy that loves to throw his cash around,” she said. “Eventually he gets a little soft around the gut—maybe in the sack too—but as long as he can buy his girl some diamonds, he feels powerful.”

Veronica frowned. “Did Grace ever talk to you about him?”

Alyssa shook her head. “Nope. She was pretty discreet about personal stuff. Sweet girl, though. If she was in on a slow night we’d talk sometimes. She’s smarter than she looks.”

“What makes you say that?” asked Veronica.

“I’ve met more than my fair share of dumb, mercenary bitches working here.” Alyssa tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “But Grace uses words like pivotal and Brechtian when she talks about TV shows. She can’t dumb herself down even when she’s trying.”

The reader at the end of the bar waved her hand, trying to get the bartender’s attention. Alyssa held up one finger toward Veronica, a just-a-minute gesture, and went to see what she wanted. For a moment, Veronica just sat and watched as Alyssa pulled out half a dozen liqueurs, chatting easily with the customer while she mixed, shook, and poured the complex drink. Then she came back, smiling apologetically. “Sorry about that. What was I saying?”

“Do you remember any other particular nights she was in here? Did anything ever stand out to you?”

Alyssa thought for a moment. “I don’t remember specific dates, if that’s what you’re asking…” She bit the corner of her lip. “Actually, she was in here the night of the fight.”

“Fight?”

“Oh, man, it was epic.” Her eyes flashed. “Somehow both Jimmy Ray Baker—a stubble-faced slab of man meat—and Oneiroi were in town the same night, and guess where they both were staying?”

Veronica gratified her with an open-mouthed gape, only half feigned; it was kind of funny. Former rodeo champion, super patriot, and noted NRA-apologist Jimmy Lee Baker was one of the top-charting country singers in the US. His latest No. 1, “Welcome Home, Sergeant Jake,” was an over-the-top weeper in which a high school football coach reconnects with his legless former star tailback at a Veteran’s Day parade. Oneiroi, on the other hand, consisted of three emaciated junkies in corpse paint who shrieked black metal suites about insect-headed succubi.

Alyssa grinned at Veronica’s expression. “I know, right? I don’t know what started it, but Baker’s bass player lost his shit and took a swing at one of the Oneiroi fans. Everyone was wasted, so of course it instantly turned into a full-on brawl. Grace left just before it happened. I remember telling her afterward that she’d missed the best show of the night.”

“What night was that?”

Alyssa frowned. “It was back in December, I think….I can’t remember the specific date.”

“Thanks so much. You’ve been really helpful.” Veronica dropped a twenty in the tip jar—an investment in future goodwill—and eased herself off the stool.

She had one more stop to make. Her dad still had some old friends from his days as sheriff, including a retired deputy who just happened to be a security guard at the Grand. It looked as though she needed to cash in a favor.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

In the cab on the way back to the office, she called Mac. “What are you doing tonight?”

“I have a feeling the answer might be ‘working late.’ What’s going on?”

“I’ll tell you as soon as I get there.”

When she arrived at the office twenty minutes later, the neon Mars Investigations sign was off but Mac was, as always, at her computer.

“Thanks for staying,” Veronica said without preamble. “I’ll add you to the list of people I owe big. My boyfriend’s on top but you’re bum-to-belt-buckle with him.”

“Yeah, I’m not sure how I feel about that image,” Mac said.

Veronica caught Mac up on the phone call and all it meant for the case. “Okay, so we’re not working for Preuss anymore,” she said. “But that doesn’t mean we have to stop working.”

Mac looked at her for a long moment. Then she gave a quick nod. “You’d better see what I’ve been doing, then.”

Her monitors were filled by all the different angles of the Neptune Grand’s security cameras, playing at double speed. Grace entered the front door and crossed the lobby. She got in the elevator, then, a few beats later, she got out again at the Eagle’s Nest.

“I’ve been watching all the footage between ten p.m. and seven a.m.,” Mac said. “As far as I can see, exactly forty-two people leave in that time span. I’ve got screenshots of all of them, and I’ve been logging all their movements.” She showed Veronica her tablet, where she’d scrawled a complicated timeline with her stylus.

11:01—PSU BASKETBALLERS SNEAK IN POOL.

11:07—BALLERS CHASED OUT OF POOL.

11:13—RED-HEADED MAN GOES TO BATHROOM IN BAR;

MANNING ORDERS 2ND DRINK; SANTIAGO (GUARD)

TALKS TO COHEN (CLERK) AT FRONT DESK.

11:16—RED-HEADED MAN RETURNS TO BAR STOOL.

11:20—RAMIREZ PUSHES CART UP THE SERVICE HALLWAY.

The words were color-coded, indicating if the subjects were staff or guests, and in places the text was cramped, the increments of time becoming ever smaller as Mac filled in every minuscule movement she could track.

Date: 2015-12-18; view: 535