Page 129 of The Secrets We Hide
After a few minutes, she hit the enter key. The CD whirred again. The file opened.
The video showed an empty hallway. Marble tiles. Dark blue walls. Heavy oil paintings of horses and Greek gods on the walls. The colors were faded, the lines fuzzy, like the video was in low-def. Definitely older. The corners of the image were rounded off, as if the camera lens was positioned behind a hole inside a purse or jacket.
Emmy tapped the volume key. She heard the low murmur of voices somewhere far from the microphone.
Then she heard breathing.
The camera moved forward. Now she saw a living room.
Two giant couches faced each other over a massive coffee table. Four huge club chairs stood sentry at the ends. The walls were painted a dark rust. Heavy burlap-colored curtains were tied back to reveal giant windows overlooking a swimming pool and rolling backyard. The sunlight was waning. All the lamps and overheard lights had been turned on. A large tube TV was perched inside a built-in bookcase. There was a full bar in the corner. The fireplace had an ornately carved marble mantel. An Irish wolfhound the size of a donkey walked between two couches. He plopped over onto his side in front of the fireplace. Emmy could hear the sound of the dog’s tongue lapping against his foreleg as he groomed himself.
The camera moved again. There was a slight bounce to it, because the person holding the camera was walking.
A much younger-looking Mitch Bellingham positioned himself across from the large mirror above the fireplace. The entire room was reflected back to the camera. He smoothed down his thinning hair. Adjusted his jacket collar where he’d obviously hidden a camera beneath the lapel. There was a hint of youth to his movements. Only a bit of gray in his beard. He was more solidlybuilt than the elderly man Emmy had seen in the nursing home CCTV. Mitch adjusted the camera again. He was clearly nervous, terrified of being caught.
Suddenly, the dog gave a low growl.
Mitch turned toward the marble hallway.
A solitary man walked in. He said nothing, but his gaze was locked on Mitch as he crossed the room. He stood in front of the windows, crossed his arms over his chest like a gangster. Mitch had kept his body turned toward the man so the camera would capture every detail. Late twenties, around five-nine, with brown hair and eyes, roughly 186 pounds.
Jude said, “Shane Marcus Russell.”
Emmy had recognized him from his booking photo, but she still couldn’t recall the traffic stop from sixteen years ago. There was something feral about Russell. He bounced on the balls of his feet as if he needed to be ready to pounce. His gaze pinged around the room. He was clearly uncomfortable in the opulent setting. He looked over his shoulder at the pool and mumbled a curse under his breath.
“How about we start with a drink?”
The question had come from the hallway. Mitch turned. The camera captured the man’s entrance. Tall, dark hair with streaks of gray at the temples. Rugged good looks. Dressed as if he’d just come off the golf course.
Emmy knew him instantly. “That’s Ezekial Gilchrist.”
Jude said, “He looks exactly the same.”
Gilchrist walked behind the bar. His back was to the camera, but Emmy heard the sound of ice hitting a glass. Liquid being poured.
“Make mine a gin,” a woman said. “Neat.”
Mitch turned toward the hallway again.
Emmy watched Bernadette Grayson’s languorous walk across the room. She slumped onto the couch in front of Shane Russell’s post by the windows. She looked like a kid, her hair pulled back in a ponytail, her flat stomach showing between a cropped T-shirt and shorts. Her bare feet hooked onto the coffee table as she made herself at home.
“You got beer back there?”
Emmy recognized Reggie’s voice before Mitch turned toward him. He walked with his arms curved out from his body like a chimpanzee. Nothing about Reggie had changed in the last two decades except for the limp.
He said, “None of that IPA shit. Gimme the real thing.”
Gilchrist chuckled, probably because he wasn’t used to anyone speaking to him that way. He tossed a can to Reggie, who caught it with one hand. Gilchrist handed Bernadette her drink and sat beside her on the couch. Then he rested a proprietary hand on her leg.
Emmy guessed he’d found a way to deal with the loss of his wife.
“Mr. Bellingham, please, you’re my guest.” Gilchrist gestured toward the couch across from him. “Make yourself comfortable.”
Mitch didn’t sit. The camera moved along with his body as he looked around the room. “Is this where she died?”
“There.” Gilchrist pointed toward the wall of windows. He was ignoring Russell. They all were. The dog had gotten more attention. “Evelyn was almost to the door. Then Neil Delano shot her.”
“You don’t know it was him,” Mitch said. “You don’t got the proof.”
