Silent Night - By Tom Barber Page 0,23

time.

‘Right. We’re in,’ Rach said. ‘Where did he meet the man, Lisa? And what time?’

‘You heard the lady,’ Marquez said, talking to Cantrell. There was a quiet murmur. Then Marquez came back. ‘Corner of 72nd and Broadway. Around 9:30 last night.’

‘Which side?’

Pause.

‘South-east.’

Rach nodded, and her fingers went to work.

One of the newest improvements in the NYPD’s fight against crime was to have high-tech security cameras placed all over the city. It was now impossible to walk around the Lower Manhattan area without your movements being recorded and documented by CCTV. The software was some of the most advanced available and one of its key functions was clothing recognition. It allowed effortless tailing of a suspect. If you wanted to follow someone, all you had to do was freeze a frame and draw a box over a piece of clothing that the suspect was wearing. With one command, the computer would scan through its recent footage and pull up any other recording of the article of clothing in seconds. Worlds away from the old school methods, it saved hundreds of man hours trawling through grainy CCTV recordings and meant the cops could track a suspect’s movements with relative ease, either in the present or in this case, the past.

Rach found the relevant camera, and the shot came up on the screen.

It was a vantage point from a post, probably three quarters up a street-light, 72nd/Broadway in white letters on the upper right of the screen.

It was a current feed, showing crowds of people and vehicles moving across the intersection, the usual daytime hustle and bustle. Rach scrolled back to last night, everything moving in reverse at hyper speed, the day turning into night. Although the screen was now darker, the plethora of street lights and festive lighting meant the whole area was clearly illuminated.

‘Check the time,’ Shepherd said, pointing at the bottom right corner.

Rach looked down and saw it showed 20:54:02.

She pushed a key and the clock started whirring forward, past 21:00:00.

Everything in the shot moved in a blur, cars stopping at lights then moving off at high speed, people scurrying in and out of shot.

Rach paused at 21:29:32, then hit Play.

‘Right. Here we go,’ Shepherd said.

They watched in silence.

The intersection was dark but still busy. There was a constant stream of people and cars, but nowhere near the same quantity as during the day. People were wrapped up against the cold, but there was no sign of anyone wearing a red coat.

‘Any luck?’

‘Hang on, Marquez,’ Shepherd said.

They waited.

Then Cantrell appeared.

He walked into the shot from up the street, his hands stuffed deep in his pockets, his collar pulled up and a cigarette in the corner of his mouth. Taking his right hand out of his pocket, he took a final drag then dropped the cig to the sidewalk, crushing it with the toe of his shoe. He was facing south-east, towards the camera, his face lit up by a streetlight. Shepherd had the man’s file open on the desk. He glanced at the mug-shot, then at the slender man on the screen.

‘It’s him,’ he said, loud enough so Marquez and Jorgensen could hear. ‘Cantrell just entered the shot. So far, so good.’

Then the man in the red lumberjack-style jacket arrived.

He had his back to the camera and was carrying a box under his arm. He joined Cantrell on the corner. They didn’t shake hands.

Nothing happened for a few moments as the two men seemed to talk, their heads moving slightly as they spoke.

Then the man passed over an envelope which Cantrell quickly tucked into the inside breast pocket of his jacket.

He took the box and immediately walked off, headed east, out of the shot and towards Central Park.

‘Cantrell wasn’t wearing gloves,’ Rach said. ‘That’s when his prints got on the box.’

‘He’s telling the truth,’ Shepherd told Marquez. ‘The trade happened like he said.’

‘Can we ID the guy in the jacket?’

‘He has his back to the camera,’ Rach said. ‘Hang on.’

They watched the shot. Now Cantrell was gone, the man in the jacket raised his gloved hand, hailing a taxi. He climbed inside and shut the door, but his hat was obstructing the view of his face. The car sped off, out of frame, and just as soon as they’d arrived, the two men were gone.

‘Shit,’ Rach said.

‘What about other cameras?’

‘That’s the only one at the intersection,’ Rach said. ‘‘I’ll run clothing recognition.’

As she worked, Shepherd’s cell phone started ringing. He pulled it and looked down at the display. It was