Chapter 174 CHAPTER 174
The Empty Car and the Toast of Victory
Morning came slow over the outskirts of the city, a pale wash of light that made the dew on the grass look like tiny, scattered diamonds. The police car’s sirens had long since gone, but a small knot of uniforms remained at the side of the old service road, clustered around a dark sedan with one door hanging open.
The vehicle’s engine was cold; the scent of petrol and damp upholstery mixed with something less easy to name, an atmosphere of hurry and absence.
Detective Mbanelea crouched by the driver’s side, his gloved fingers tapping across the dashboard like a metronome. He had the kind of face that had worn patience as a habit: neat, lined, practiced. He read the scene the way some men read a book; details gave away intent, and intent told a story.
The car told him that someone had left in a hurry. There were two half empty cups in the cup holders, cheap coffee from a kiosk, an empty cigarette pack crushed under the driver’s seat, a smear of mud on the floor mat. On the back seat, a camera bag had been zipped shut but not latched with the tautness of someone nervous.
“Who called this in?” he asked, standing as Sergeant Ann approached with a thin, water dotted envelope between her gloved hands.
“A neighbor reported a car parked by the verge all night, said it looked abandoned,” She explained. She had been first on the scene, an early riser who could read people by the way they left their trash. “There was no owner, so we logged it. Came to process, then found…” She tapped the envelope. “…his registration. It belongs to Jude, Camera operator. Freelance.”
Mbanelea’s jaw tightened. Jude. The man who filmed the gilded parties and the sharp edged socialites; a man who had a way of being present and invisible all at once. He had been the one Lila used to capture her triumphs on tape, the one she’d paid to bury footage. The thread pulled taut in Mbanelea’s mind tightened again.
“Any sign of a struggle?” he asked.
Ann shook her head. “No blood, no broken glass. But the laptop’s missing. The bag was zipped, but the pouch for the laptop, it was empty. Charging cable gone. Whoever took him knew exactly what to look for.”
The words landed like a stone. Someone had taken the drive and the machine that held all the captured moments Jude cherished. Someone wanted what Jude had and had done so without leaving the car’s interior in disarray. Professional. Calculated.
Mbanelea put his hand to the doorframe and squinted into the open cabin. A packet of memory cards spilled from an inner pocket onto the rear seat. Their labels were scrawled in black marker: “MASQ_9YRS_FINAL,” “EVENTS_OCT,” “LILA_PRIVATE.” He frowned. Jude had kept copies. Hadn’t he destroyed one already? Hadn’t Lila paid to make sure the footage didn’t exist anymore?
“Bag those,” he said to Ann. “Catalog everything. Send the car to forensics. We’ll get tire marks, fingerprints, the whole story. And bring me the dash-cam footage from the nearby traffic pole. Somebody must have seen a tailcar.”
Ann nodded, voice careful. “Do you think he ran? Or was he taken?”
Mbanelea’s eyes narrowed against the pale sunlight. “We’re not assuming. We’re following evidence. But his laptop is gone, and that means someone either wanted his footage or wanted to erase a record.”
Word traveled with a quickness that police liked and despised in equal measure. Within the hour, the news channels had a tasteful banner across their rolling reports: CAMERA MAN MISSING—POLICE INVESTIGATE POSSIBLE BLACKMAIL CONNECTION. Lila, who always thrived on the way the world watched her, heard the news like a private bell tolling too close to her planned calm.
She had scheduled the afternoon as a celebration: a quiet victory party, no big event, no press, a small circle of friends, a bottle of aged champagne and the knowledge that the one thing that could ruin her arrangement was now either gone or neutralized.
She sat at her powder pink vanity and examined her reflection as if it were currency. Tonight she would be incandescent. She let the mascara run the smallest smear beneath one eye and smiled at the idea that this smear could be read as character: lived, a little dangerous, not careless.
Downstairs, the lights were set to the soft gold she liked for flattering photographs. A playlist of old jazz spun on the speakers, the sort that made people unconsciously tilt their heads back and speak in confidences. Her guests would arrive shortly. Her phone remained on silent deliberately. She preferred to stage her surprises.
When the call finally came, it was a rattle of static and a voice she recognised immediately. The camera man’s number, Jude flashed on her phone, the name already in her mind as a problem solved.
She let it ring twice and then picked up with a coolness like a silk glove. “Jude. You’ve been quiet.”
On the other end, his voice was hurried, threadbare. “Lila, they found the car. Mbanelea’s here. The laptop is gone. I think someone came for it. I…”
“You made me to pay you to destroy one file,” Lila said, the practiced cadence of someone who never allowed panic to touch their tone. “Jude, I paid you to make sure no copy survived. You did that, yes?”
There was a stammer. A soft, frightened laugh. “I— I did my part. I destroyed the drive, but I kept backups…because I was broke…”
“You kept backups,” Lila echoed, amusement curling over cold disdain. “What did I tell you about backups, Jude? Did I teach you nothing about discretion? Do you know how many people would love to have what you have? You were careless, Jude. Very careless. Now you’re running from me, from the police, from your work and trouble.”
His voice climbed with pleading then dropped again with a gravel of threat. “Someone called me this morning. They said they had copies. They said they’d make me disappear if I didn’t return what they…” He swallowed audibly. “Listen, Lila, I don’t have it. They took my laptop. I need money. I’ll pay whatever…”
“You’ll pay?” Lila’s laughter was soft and delighted. “You’ll pay, Jude? For your trouble? That’s adorable.”
The call was a knife, he was a hostage, extorted; he thought there was still time and barter and a gentle reasoning. He was still in the world where small men could be soothed.
“All right,” she said finally. “You’ll get the money. But not from my account. Arrange a transfer to the usual place. And Jude, no surprises. No calls to the
police. No one touches the footage but me. Understand?”