Page 98 of Stabby Little

Her eyebrows slant. "We don't serve murderers. I can guarantee that."

"I need to review your security footage from last week. There'll be problems if you don't let me."

She motions for me to follow her to a desk. She pulls a basket of thumb drives out of a drawer and slides them to me.

"Each of these drives contains a week of footage. You can go through them individually."

I grab her blouse. "I don't have time to comb through weeks of footage. Show me the one from last week."

"We don't organize them that way. You can comb through them while I head to the front and assist any clients who come in. If you find something, let me know and I'll make you a copy."

"You'll be in deep shit if you don't give me the dates I need."

"We don't keep those records. I can't do any more for you."

"I paid you two hundred dollars. I want my money's worth."

"I'm helping you as best as I can."

She exits the back room and leaves me in darkness. I pull up the flash drives and insert one into the computer on the desk.

I can't believe this store doesn't keep records of dates. It's a horrendous way to run a business—unless you're obfuscating your clients' identities. Then it's a perfect excuse to dispose of identifying information you don't want to keep.

For the rest of the day, I bury myself in the flash drives. I fast-forward through each one, fighting like hell to maintain my focus. Each day takes me ten minutes to comb through; the fact that so few customers enter the shop makes it easier.

When I check my watch, I see that it's already 7:43 PM. The shop is set to close soon and I need to get home.

I'm preparing to admit this mission's a bust when I see it.

The boy on the screen.

He has blond hair and wears a baseball cap.

It's the exact same boy we saw on the Rock security camera footage who the bartender said entered the bathroom after Xavier.

The footage shows Kobe walking into the shop and purchasing a prosthetic nose, a clip-on nose ring, and a black wig.

I pull the flash drive out and slip it in my pocket.

There's no time to ask the employee to make me a copy.

I don't fucking trust that she won't tamper with this, anyway.

The employee turns her eyes up to me when I exit the back room. "Did you find what you were searching for?"

"No. You need to reorganize your file system."

"I get to keep the money, right?"

"Yes." I slide an extra hundred-dollar bill on the counter. "I didn't get a chance to examine everything, so I expect you to agree to this arrangement again when I return."

"Don't tell my bosses."

"I wouldn't dream of it."

As I slide into my BMW, I finger the flash drive in my pocket and prepare the speech I'll give to Michael. But as my car weaves through the city, I realize there's something else on my mind.

The boy in the footage didn't only resemble Kobe Bailey.

---