Free The Missing Piece by Kevin Egan Page A

top of a column. He opened a third file, which was a low-angle view of the magnetometer lines inside the lobby.
    â€œThese first several files are the obvious shots of the front entrance, the rear entrance, and the doors on Worth and Pearl,” said Tyrone. “The others are from cameras set deep inside the courthouse in places that I’ve either never seen or don’t recognize.”
    â€œI’ll look at them,” said Gary.
    â€œAre you sure you want to?”
    â€œI’ve gotten past a lot of shit, Felix. I can handle it.”
    â€œThat’s good, because I want to present these feeds as a single narrative of the gunmen exploiting a security breach as they enter the courthouse, move through the courthouse, and exit the courthouse. No one knows the courthouse as well as you.”
    Tyrone left in his usual rush and promised to phone tomorrow to check on Gary’s progress. Gary opened the first camera feed on the left monitor and the second camera feed on the right. He ran the first feed to the point where the hand truck reached the top of the steps, avoiding his own image because seeing himself walk, in the last few hours of his life when he could walk, was too much to bear. Besides, he’d been waiting months to see these feeds, and he needed to focus on the task at hand, not descend into self-pity.
    He froze the first feed, then switched to the high-angle shot from the top of the column until the hand truck and its entourage, with Foxx and McQueen trailing behind, passed beneath. He then opened the third and fourth feeds. The third showed the six officers, the two workmen, and the hand truck skirting the mags in the aisle reserved for court employees and attorneys with security credentials. The fourth feed showed two men standing side by side in separate mag lines. Each wore a white T-shirt, while one wore green gym shorts and the other dark jeans. The officers working the mags called them forward. As the two men passed through the mags, Gary knew that these videos would show much more than Felix Tyrone ever could guess.

 
    CHAPTER 8
    Ivan and Jessima met at one of their supply closets each day at lunchtime. Ivan’s was on the third floor, at the end of one of the six corridors that connected the courthouse’s circular core to its outer hexagon like the spokes of a wheel. Though the same size as all the other supply closets, Ivan’s was cramped with cartons of CFL bulbs destined to replace the dying incandescents. Jessima’s was on the fifth floor, directly across the corridor from the entrance to Judge Conover’s chambers. It was well organized with shelves and hooks and easily accommodated her cleaning cart at the end of the day. Ivan’s had the virtue of privacy, Jessima’s the virtue of space. And so they more often met at Jessima’s.
    Jessima ate her sandwich quickly, then chewed half a piece of gum as she stripped naked. She hung her jeans on one hook, her bra and panties on another. The floor felt gritty against her bare feet, so she slipped back into her new pair of sneakers that made her the exact right height for Ivan. Sometimes, like today, she put her smock back on, as well. It cut nicely across her thighs and tapered gently at her waist. She left the top three buttons open and spread the collar to expose her breasts.
    Ivan knocked. Jessima cracked the door just enough to pull him inside.
    Ivan lifted her onto the sink and licked at her nipples as he unzipped his coveralls. Jessima ran her hands up and down his arms. He looked so skinny in clothes, but was surprisingly well-muscled when naked. She tilted herself forward, opening up to accept him. Then she hung, pinned between him and the edge of the sink, her hard nipples scraping against his chest hair. He squeezed her ass, bit her earlobe. Her sneakers kicked.
    Yes yes , she panted in his ear. Then, now now .
    He eased off. She slid to the floor, turned her back to him, and gripped the