He pulled a pair of sunglasses out of his pocket and slid them on. The polarized lenses immediately adjusted for the ambient light, and Armbrand grunted in satisfaction as they cut through the window glare.
“She’s getting measured by the shop manager,” he told the others. “Looks like she wants some new lacy floofies.”
“‘Floofies’?” Weyand said, cocking an eyebrow and glancing askance at Armbrand, who flushed. Weyand grinned, then added, “Old girlfriend?”
“Um,” Armbrand said, clearing his throat, “actually, no. My older sister calls ‘em that. And yes, she’s married.”
Weyand and Smith desperately stifled guffaws.
After a purchase in the lingerie shop, Kaplan headed home. Shortly after arriving in her apartment, the windows went dark.
“Yeah, I confirm,” Weyand said, hidden in an alcove down the hall from her door. “The slit under the door just went dark.”
“Well, I guess it stands to reason,” Smith decided. “She’s gonna be up most of the night, banging johns.”
“True,” Armbrand agreed. “I suppose, if I was in that line of work, I’d take an afternoon nap, too.”
“Then probably a shower and some dinner, before her ‘guests’ arrive,” Weyand speculated.
“I’d say so, yeah.”
“So now we’re just kind of here, watching and waiting?” Smith wondered.
“Yup. Hell, if we can get a list of her johns, we might be able to bust them while we’re about it.”
That first night, she had four clients, beginning at 8 in the evening; the first two of them stayed two hours each, with an hour of inactivity between, and the last two clients only stayed an hour, but it was nearly continuous from 11 at night until three in the morning. And, according to Weyand, the last “client” could be heard down the hall.
At 3:30 am, half an hour after “Mr. Howler” left, the lights went out in the apartment and stayed out.
“I’m not surprised,” Armbrand said, raising an eyebrow. “Damn.”
Surveillance Time – Team Rassmussen
Derek Beckham lived on the unofficial boundary between Imperial Park South and Imperial Park East. It was definitely a more upscale apartment than Kaplan had, and his lifestyle showed it; it had a bit more of an upper-crust air, without being quite as expensive as true upper-crust would be.
Though he had few actual arrests to his account, and those mostly for aiding and abetting, Beckham was in fact a high-end con man, which was how he had met Joey Bronze.
The Rassmussen team surveilled him for several days, adopting tactics similar to the Armbrand team. Some discreet inquiries, accompanied by a few minor payoffs to informants, ascertained he typically rose around seven or eight in the morning and had a leisurely breakfast at home, to include a whole pot of coffee, over which he liked to linger, if delivery services comments were anything to go by. He typically emerged, fully dressed in elegant clothing – he was something of a dandy, which made sense, given his con targets – and headed deeper into Imperial Park East around mid-morning, though the informants around his apartment building didn’t know where he went.
“Which means we have to find out,” Rassmussen pointed out to Jones and Osborn.
Where he went, it turned out, was a fashionable café a few blocks east of the southeast corner of Imperial Park East.
“Man, that guy loves his caffeine,” Jones decided, as the trio subtly watched Beckham in the café from three separate vantage points, conversing privately – and unnoticed – in VR. “Entire pot of coffee at home with breakfast, according to his deliveryman, and now he’s already gone through two frou-frou coffees while reading – I didn’t even know anybody still published newspapers…”
“Demetrius says it’s a new fad among the nouveau riche,” Rassmussen said. “It’s more expensive to get your news that way, instead of in VR, so it shows off that you can afford to.”
“I note he isn’t buying the papers, just reading ‘em while he drinks his coffee,” Osborn said, mild disgust evident in his tone.
“Yeah. And damn! He just ordered another coffee!” Jones said. “How the hell big is that man’s bladder?”
Finally Beckham finished his reading and drinking, and having paid for his coffees as he went, he rose and headed out.
Rassmussen, Osborn, and Jones followed.
Subtly.
Beckham ended up at the Waffle Stomper diner around noon. Going inside, he took a seat at the counter and ordered a huge burger topped with a fried egg and a side of fries, along with…more coffee.
“If that guy doesn’t vibrate outta there, I’m gonna be shocked,” Jones declared in VR as they watched through the diner windows from different locations.
“Either that, or his bladder will explode,” Osborn decided. “That can’t be healthy.”
“It doesn’t say good things about his kidneys, I expect,” Rassmussen agreed.
At the end of lunch, Beckham finally ducked into the men’s room – along with Jones, to make sure nothing unusual went down – and relieved his bladder.
“Damn, guys,” Jones said in VR, so his colleagues could hear but his perp could not. “It’s Arntigier Falls in here! Half his belly must be bladder…”
“Anybody else in there with you?” Rassmussen asked.
“Nah. Well, couple guys in the stalls. Nobody else at the urinals. And nobody trying to make contact with him. Shit! He’s still going!”
“Emphasis on going,” Osborn said dryly.
“Okay, finally,” Jones said. “He’s zipped and gone to wash his hands. Heads up; he’ll probably be headed out soon.”
“Yup, here he comes,” Osborn said. “I’m on him.”
“Tag team like usual,” Rassmussen ordered.
After lunch Beckham met with a well-to-do businessman named Ching, in a private club. Rassmussen called back to ICPD Headquarters to connect with the club’s security manager, and soon he was able to meet with the security manager to tap into their video within the club and watch what was happening.
