Page 36 of Paternal Instincts
“Show me.”
Once Ruiz had set up the program and uploaded everything we’d received from the arena, it was a simple matter of letting it run and trusting the process. I expressed concern that it might miss something we would catch, but Ruiz assured me that the program would be more accurate than if we visually scanned crowds since it took measurements of a person’s facial structure for comparison. Even if a person was disguised, it would hit before we would.
When the bells and whistles sounded in under five minutes, my jaw hit the floor.
I paused the video at the moment our culprit appeared on screen. The ballcap covering half his face didn’t matter. Even without a computer program, I could tell it was a match. “Voila. Jude Marigold.”
I presented Quaid with a color printout of Jude from the NexGen website so he had something to compare it to.
My meticulous husband studied both, ensuring there was no mistake. “He’s going into the building in this frame.” Quaid pointed to the iPad. “Does it catch him coming out? Is Crowley with him?”
“We did an extensive analysis both with the program and manually.” I switched to another video clip and showed where we’d discovered Jude leaving the building less than ten minutes later. “But… no sign of Crowley in any of the feeds.”
“None?”
“No.”
“You’re sure?”
“Positive.”
“Did you confirm if Nixon showed up halfway through the game?”
“Yes. We got him coming and going.”
“Demeanor?”
“Hard to say. The clips are short.”
Quaid puzzled the information for a few minutes, glancing twice at the house at the end of the driveway as his tongue danced along his upper lip. “Crow was going to the Soccerplex. That isn’t up for debate. He had a game he anxiously didn’t want to miss.”
“He didn’t make it, Quaid. That kid didn’t go in the building.”
“No, but why was Jude there?”
I motioned for Quaid to precede me up the drive. “How about we ask him?”
Unfortunately, Jude’s wife, visibly rattled by our announcement that we were with the Toronto police, informed us Jude wasn’t home. “He left earlier, claiming he had stuff to take care of at the office. What’s this about? Is he in trouble?”
Ignoring her question, Quaid inquired what time Jude left, learning it was around eight. My husband’s mind worked in overdrive as he debated our next course of action. I’d learned to read him like a book and waited for a cue as to how we might proceed.
“Do you know if he planned to go anywhere else when he was done?” he asked the wife.
The wide-eyed woman shook her head. “I assume he’ll come home. He doesn’t usually work on weekends. Do you want me to tell him you stopped by?”
“Not necessary,” Quaid said, backing up. “Thank you for your time.”
Jude’s wife stood with the door open, watching our retreat down the driveway. Once we were out of earshot, I said, “She’s going to text or call him. He now has a heads-up.”
“Let’s see if he’s at the office.”
Quaid removed his cell and called his partner, updating her as we veered toward our separate vehicles. I could have ditched the Equinox at headquarters and buddied up with Quaid since NexGen was located in the downtown area as well, but considering the complexity of the case, I didn’t think it was wise. At some point, we might need a lot of feet on the ground, all going in different directions. Having an extra vehicle available could be paramount.
NexGen occupied the third and fourth floors of a steel and glass skyrise, sharing space with other prominent businesses. The late morning sun reflected off the wall of windows on the east side of the building as we searched for parking. The day was warming up fast. Mid-June meant summer was upon us. Heat and humidity abound. Add city smog, and it was a toxic mix. The sky was rarely clear. Ayellow haze hung over the downtown area, washing out what might have been a clear blue day otherwise.
The ground floor of the skyrise consisted of a lobby, various food and drink establishments, a courtyard with tables, large planters with various trees and shrubs, and several private workstations. I assumed the space would be filled with suit-wearing corporate types on a weekday looking for a quick hit of caffeine or a bite to eat on limited time. It provided spots for meetings or a location where someone could get away from a stuffy office space and breathe.
The elevators required pass cards for certain levels, so we located a bored security guard and presented our badges so he would let us up. When the burly Black man with the suspicious gaze asked who we were after on a Saturday, he informed us Jude Marigold’s office was unmissable.
