“If I can, I will.”

Pryce explained about the busted security cameras at the neighboring Dreamz Motel and how he was checking out other surveillance cameras in the area that might have picked up something useful from the night Amy Ong had been murdered. He told Delaney he was hoping the cameras attached to the rear of the apartment building might cover the motel’s lot or even some of the rooms.

“Remind me when this all went down?”

“Last Saturday night.”

“You’re in luck,” said Delaney. “We only keep the footage for a week. Another couple of days and Saturday’s recording would have been wiped.”

Delaney gestured to a leather swivel seat identical to his own. “Pull up a chair, and let’s have a look.”

He clicked a couple of buttons on the keyboard, and one of the four images filled the screen with a view of the back alleyway. At the bottom of the screen were white digits showing the date and time and the word REAR1. What Pryce saw was an excellent real-time view of the alleyway and the hedge but none of the motel. Delaney hit an arrow key, and the screen changed to an alternative view of the alleyway, this time from camera REAR2.

Pryce felt his pulse quicken. The second camera’s view of the alleyway was more restricted than the first had been, but this one picked up part of the Dreamz Motel’s parking lot and office and about a third of the rooms. Pryce counted four doors along from the office. The room Amy Ong had died in.

“Jackpot,” he said.

“Yeah?” Delaney hit some more keys, and the date stamp in the bottom right corner changed from today’s date to the previous Saturday’s. “What time you looking for?”

“Why don’t we start at seven p.m.?”

“You got it.”

Delaney scrolled through the recording, and they watched cars and people arrive and leave the motel at an exaggerated, almost comical, speed. He hit the play button when the footage reached early evening. The minutes between 7:00 p.m. and 8:45 p.m. showed nothing of interest. Then, at 8:46 p.m., a sports car pulled into the lot and parked next to Tommy Getz’s Chevy.

A heavily built man got out of the driver’s side. Frank Sherman. He walked around the rear of the vehicle and opened the passenger door. Pryce held his breath. A petite female of slim build with long dark hair and wearing jeans and a white tank top emerged from the car. She had a purse slung over her shoulder and was carrying something in her hands. The whiskey bottle. Pryce breathed out slowly.

“That her?” Delaney asked.

Pryce nodded. He felt a chill wash over him. It was like looking at a ghost. Except this was the flesh-and-blood and full-of-life version of Amy Ong, completely oblivious to the fact she would be dead within a couple of hours.