Page 31 of The Matchmaker

“She has an early-morning consult with a wedding photographer. Not like she can do anything about any of this anyway. I’ll fill her in tomorrow,” I say as rain beats harder overhead.

“Now, I hate to say I told you so,” Borzu says, “but I’ve been on you for years to get security cameras installed around the agency.”

“The paperwork and red tape to get clearance was endless,” I remind him. “The city has their own network, anyway.”

“Apparently whoever left this note knew all about their cameras. Or at least how to get around them.”

“What do you mean?” My stomach drops. “There’s no footage of who left it?”

“Kind of?” He glances at me. “You have to see it for yourself.”

He loads a video of the intersection across from our agency. Rain bouncing off concrete. A car zips by. And then—

A hooded figure wearing all black, including a black facemask—practically blending into the night. They raise a hand toward the camera. I lean forward to make it out when there’s a splash against the screen. I flinch. The screen blurs.

For a moment no one speaks. Goosebumps trail my arms.

“What…was that?” I ask in a half whisper.

“I’m guessing foamed-up detergent.” Borzu expands the feed. Lightens it. “Whoever did this knew someone might look at the cameras and decided to get ahead of it.”

“We might as well be looking for Bigfoot,” I murmur.

“Someonemust have seen this guy.” Azar points to the frozen image. “Look at him! He’s wearing a hoodie, long sleeves, and a face covering and wandering around in the pouring rain. There’s no way he wasn’t spotted spraying the cameras!”

“It’s not a busy intersection,” Borzu reminds him. “Plus, it’s dark out with the storm.”

I think of the taunting voice on the recordings. “Any luck unearthing the podcaster’s identity?”

Borzu shakes his head. “Darcy went through the database twice this afternoon. Genevieve cross-checked all our applicants. No one stands out.”

“What about the disgruntled personalized clients from the past? Maybe Lindy or Jamaal? Things really went south with them.”

“Lindy was on a Tinder date in San Diego. Jamaal’s married with a kid, and living in Slovenia.”

“Your inbox might have some clues,” Azar suggests. “You said you’ve been getting a ton of hate mail lately. Maybe there’s something to uncover there.”

“We delete them as soon as they come in,” I say. “The subject headings are hard enough to stomach.”

“I can retrieve the deleted messages,” says Borzu. “I’ll get on it first thing tomorrow. Darcy can help me comb through them.”

“Wait.” A sick feeling washes over me. “Basit Latif. He’s beyond furious with me. I don’t think he’s the podcaster because we had our argument after the first recording had already posted. But I wouldn’t put it past him to threaten me like this. Or at least have someone do it for him.”

“Basit Latif?…Hang on a sec.” He types the name into his search engine. He taps a few more times, opens and closes several new windows, and then—“He’s in Jakarta right now. I can keep tabs on him if it helps you feel any better.”

“It would. Thanks, Borzu.”

The next couple of hours are rainy outdoors and useless indoors as we try to work out who the masked man is. When I walk Borzu to the door, it’s well past midnight. The rain has eased to a misty fog.

“The weather looks like it’s holding for a bit,” I tell Azar. “You should head out, too, before it starts coming down again.”

“I don’t know.” He eyes the skylight. “Looks like we could have a downpour at any moment.”

“Don’t you have work tomorrow? It’s your five o’clock shift.”

“Exactly.” He grabs a throw pillow, tucks it against the sofa arm, and lies back. “I pulled a double yesterday. Catching as much shut-eye as possible is strongly advised.”

“Azar—”

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