Heart of Stone. C.E. Murphy

lack of stamina. They stayed on the floor through half a dozen songs, until Margrit’s beer was gone and the music drove her to dance on the stairwell, still holding two bottles. She waved, trying to get Cole’s attention, then squeaked air out through compressed lips, waiting with growing impatience for one of them to tire. As revenge for having to wait, she drank half of Cole’s beer.

      Someone tapped her on the shoulder. Margrit rolled her eyes and turned. “Look, I said—”

      The blond man from the park looked down at her quizzically.

      “Son of a bitch!” The appeal of encountering him again turned to sour panic in Margrit’s belly, reality of dancing with a devil slaughtering a half-formed fantasy of taming the beast. Margrit threw Cole’s beer upward, foam and alcohol spraying into the blond man’s face. He yowled, hands flung up to protect his eyes. Margrit abandoned the remaining bottle, sending it careening over the metal railing and into the dancers below as she scrambled down the stairs. Her heel caught in the metal grating, snapping and pitching her forward.

      An instant later she was on her feet at the bottom with no clear idea of how she’d gotten there. Her broken heel was poking out of the grate of one step at a rakish angle, a lone monument to her presence there.

      Cole and Cameron appeared at her side, alarm and concern on their faces. “Margrit? What the hell happened?” Cole took her arm, as if her balance might be questionable.

      “It was—he was—didn’t you see? Up there?” She jerked her chin up, staring at the landing above. He wasn’t there.

      Margrit shook her head hard, trying to clear it as she gazed in disbelief. “I swear to God,” she said. “He was there. Just a second ago. I swear.”

      “Who, Grit?” Cole’s voice was coaxing, as if he was talking to a small child or a puppy.

      “The—the guy from the park!”

      “Jesus, are you sure?” Cameron bolted up a couple steps, as if to go charging after the man. “Are you sure?”

      “Of course I’m sure! He was there, just a second ago. Then he vanished! He disappeared last night, too.”

      “What do you mean, he disappeared last night?” Cole frowned down at her, eyebrows pinched together.

      “He disappeared! I ran about ten feet, looked back, and he was gone, poof, no sign of him. Just like now!”

      Cole and Cameron exchanged glances. Frustration born from knowing how absurd she sounded sent a childish wave of anger through Margrit. “I’m not kidding! Guys, I’m serious! Why would I make something like this up, dammit?”

      “It’s one way to get back together with Tony,” Cole muttered. Margrit glared at him as Cameron bent to work the broken heel out of the grating, then lifted it between her fingers to waggle it.

      “’Cause you really didn’t like those shoes?”

      Margrit’s lip curled, her irritation disproportionate to the gently teasing question. “They were ninety-dollar shoes, Cameron. I liked them.” When a hurt expression flashed across her friend’s face, Margrit gritted her teeth, trying to rein in her temper. “Security cameras. The club’s got security cameras.”

      Cam and Cole exchanged glances again, Cam’s lower lip protruding as she tilted her head in acknowledgment. “Think they’ll let us look at them?”

      “They’ll let the cops, if they won’t let us,” Margrit said.

      “How did you get involved in this, Margrit?” The question was delivered through Anthony Pulcella’s teeth, an aside she wasn’t meant to answer. He’d been off duty long enough to arrive at the club in a Knicks jacket and jeans, less formal than the on-duty suit he usually wore. “I got your message. Sorry I haven’t called. They put me on point for this investigation.”

      “Congratulations,” Margrit said without irony. “It’s okay.”

      “Dinner tomorrow,” Tony continued. “If I can make it, I’d like that.”

      Margrit pulled a brief smile. “Another reason we’re always on and off. Incompatible schedules.”

      “We’ll talk about that, too,” he said under his breath.

      “As soon as we get a chance,” Margrit agreed. “Look, they wouldn’t let me watch the security videos without you.”

      “Of course they wouldn’t. You’re not an authority.” The conversation took them from the Blue Room’s front door into brightly lit back corridors, following the club’s tension-ridden manager, a woman in her fifties who clearly wanted to be elsewhere. A reedy, pimply-faced kid scrambled to his feet as she pushed the door open and gestured them into a small room filled with video screens.

      “This is Detective Pulcella, Ira, and the woman who saw the suspect. Go ahead and play the tapes for them. Do you need me here, Detective?”

      Tony gave the woman an apologetic smile. “I’m afraid I might, if it’s clear he hasn’t left the premises. We may need to close the club down, and I’ll need your cooperation and expertise to make that happen smoothly.” The woman’s expression loosened a little at the flattery, and Tony turned his smile on Ira. “Can you cue the tapes?”

      The kid gave Tony a superior look. “Already done, man. You think I been coolin’ my heels all this time? Over there.” He pointed with a pencil toward a small set of four screens shoved into a corner. “Top corner’s the front door. Other three are all angles of the Blue Room.” He jabbed at the bottom of one screen with his pencil. “There’s the landing she was on. Got it?”

      “Got it.” Tony shanghaied Ira’s chair and offered it to Margrit, then leaned over her as the videos began to play. Ira stalked out, clearly offended at the dismissive treatment.

      “Okay, that’s us getting into the Blue Room. Do we need to watch this? I don’t know how to fast-forward this thing.” Margrit prodded a button, then pulled her hand back. Tony reached around her and hit the fast-forward, sending the video people into convulsive, jerky motion. On screen, Margrit finished her beer and drank Cole’s in epileptic spasms.

      “How much have you had to drink tonight, Grit?”

      “A couple of bee—Oh, come on, Tony.”

      The detective glanced at her. “Nothing personal. Two beers?”

      “One beer, and half of Cole’s,” she muttered. “Um-hmm.”

      Margrit scowled, then straightened in Ira’s chair.

      “There.”

      The blond man edged through the dance crowd on the upper level, the video blurring and leaving a trail of dark pixels behind him as he moved. He rounded the corner to the stairs, head lowered to watch his feet, and disappeared from one screen, reappearing in the next. His head was still lowered, hair glowing white in the grainy black-and-white video, face foreshortened and features indefinable. The third camera, facing Margrit, caught him in profile as he trotted down the stairs, stretched-out pixels still following him like mist-obscured wings. “Goddammit,” Tony muttered. “Look up, you son of a bitch.”

      The cameras swiveled as if responding to Tony’s command, their sweep of the room offering new angles. The second screen showed the man in profile, the third catching him full-on as he reached out to tap Margrit’s shoulder. He was still looking down; she stood at least half a foot shorter than he was. Tony paused the tape, studying the differences in height. “He’s what, about six foot, or six-one?”

      “He’s taller than that,” Margrit said with a hint of impatience. “I told you this morning. He’s six-three or four.”

      “Grit, you’re short, and I can see he’s not that much taller than you.”

      “I was wearing three-inch heels.”

      Tony glanced at her bare feet. “What happened to them?”