Jerry, the manager, was a lanky young man with more extensive tats on his arms than a manager for a national franchise coffee shop probably should have. Even one headquartered in Portland. He shook her hand firmly, snuck a glance toward her hips. Men often did this—not checking out the body; he wanted a glimpse of her gun.

The dozen people here were all busy—typing on or examining some electronic device or another. A few were reading from paper. Only one, an elderly woman, was sitting quietly, looking out the window and doing nothing but leisurely enjoying a cup of coffee.

Jerry asked, “Would you like something? On the house?”

She declined. She wanted to get to the one lead in the case that had the potential to pay off.

“Just like to check out the security videos.”

“Sure,” he said, trying for another look at her weapon. She was glad she’d kept the jacket buttoned. She knew he’d want to ask her if she’d used it recently. And talk calibers.

Men. Sex or guns.

“Now, we’ve got one camera there.” He pointed above the cash register. “Everybody who comes in’ll get photographed at least once, pretty up close. What did this guy upload? Like insider information?”

“Like that, yes.”

“Bankers. Man, don’t you just hate ’em? And two other cameras.” Pointing.

One was mounted on a side wall and it scanned back and forth slowly like a lawn sprinkler. The tables were arranged perpendicularly to the camera, which meant that while patrons might not be visible head-on, it was likely she would get a clear profile shot of the whistleblower.

Good.

The other camera scanned a small alcove to the left of the main door, with only four tables inside. This too would get good side images of the patrons and was closer to those tables than the first camera was to those in the main room.

“Let’s see the video,” she said.

“It’s in the office. After you.” He extended his arm, covered with a multicolored tattoo of some Chinese writing, hundreds of characters long.

Sachs couldn’t help but think, What could it possibly say that was worth the pain?

Not to mention how he’s going to explain it to his grandkids.

Chapter 30

CHAPTER 30

MAN, THE ALLEY ON A WARM AFTERNOON.

Gross.

New York City alleys had a kind of charm, you looked at it one way: They were sort of like history moved into the present day, like in a museum. The fronts of the apartments and—here in Little Italy—the shops changed every generation but the alleys were pretty much what they would’ve been a century ago. Decorated with faded metal and wooden signs giving delivery directions and warnings. Use Chocks for Your WAGON! The walls, brick and stone, were unpainted, unwashed, shabby. Uneven, improvised doors, loading docks, pipes that led nowhere and wires that you didn’t dare touch.