black cap as I leave the ride-share and walk for a while, staring in store windows and just generally looking casual.
I make my way to the right block, and stay on the opposite side of the street. I’m watching the door of the mail establishment, counting the number of people entering and leaving. It doesn’t look busy. I see only two people in thirty minutes, and both are in and out in under five minutes each. It’s ten in the morning . . . after the theoretical morning rush, before the lunch hour crowd runs errands. Best guess, the place is empty.
I walk confidently to the door.
My eyes, hidden behind sunglasses, have to adjust to the dimmer light inside. It feels warm, and the smell of old cardboard makes me wrinkle my nose. There’s a long counter on one side, and some smaller standing tables for people to prepare packages.
I was right. Nobody home but the man behind the counter. He’s in his early twenties, tall and thin and gawky. He’s busy sorting out some packages, and says without looking up, “Hi, can I help you?”
I take the paper out and unfold it on the counter, and set the gold badge on top of it. “Detective Karen Fields,” I tell him. “That’s a warrant to view your video.”
That gets his attention. He looks up at me, and I smile. He won’t remember me, more than likely; he’ll remember the template. Black suit, white shirt, businesslike, professional ponytail. Gun visible under the jacket. Badge. But mostly the gun.
“Uh . . .” He stares at the fake warrant. “I should call my manager.”
“Okay,” I say. “But he’ll tell you that you have no choice but to cooperate. Look, I’m not here to ruin your day. I just need to access your video. I can do it from the cloud if you don’t want to give me computer access, but that means a bigger hassle. We’ll probably have to seize your computers and probably close you down for a while. What’s your name, by the way?”
“Dale.”
“Okay, Dale, call your boss. I don’t want you to get into any trouble.”
He has no idea what to do, but he picks up the phone and dials. There’s a hurried conversation. I’m so lucky the manager is out. He hangs up and says, “Okay, he says I can let you look. Uh, I need to keep a copy of that thing. The warrant.”
“Sure.” I take the entirely fraudulent warrant and go to the copier. I turn the paper to the blank side and make a copy. I wipe the panel with my sleeve, covering that with my body, and then fold up the blank paper that comes out, making sure to slide my fingers so that the prints won’t be clear on the surface. If they go to the extent of DNA, I’m screwed, but that’s not likely unless this goes completely, horribly sideways.
I staple it shut, and write Detective Karen Fields on the outside, with a phone number I make up on the spot. I slide my palm down the pen as I put it back in the holder to smear any prints I’ve just left.
Dale seems entirely satisfied. I put the original fake warrant and the badge I got at a costume shop in my pocket. “After you?”
He leads me down a short hallway to a claustrophobically small closet with a folding table, a folding chair, and a computer. He logs me in, and I’m looking at just one feed from the store that covers the door and the counter. “There you go,” he says. “What day?” I tell him, and he scrolls back to it.
“The guy I’m looking for came in early on Monday. Probably right when you opened up. He’d have paid for a courier service. You do that, right?”
“Yeah, not real common,” he says. “But we guarantee two-hour service in the metro area. Definitely narrows it down.” He scrolls to the opening time. While he’s still cooperative, I ask him to write down the cloud storage information so I can easily access it. He does.
I scroll as fast as I dare as he dithers behind me; he hears something in the other room and leaves, and I realize I’ve probably gone too far forward into the morning. I need to back up again and scrutinize every single person. There are a surprising number, but I didn’t recognize Sheryl Lansdowne in any of the faces. So I try again, focusing hard.
I nearly miss