Fatal Reaction

offices in so many cities that I’d had to use the face book more than once just to make sure I’d know who was on my side when I walked into a meeting.
    “He’s a good-looking son of a bitch, I’ll give you that much,” mused Elliott, studying the picture. “That’s probably why she married him, don’t you think? Women are always suckers for looks.”
    “And men aren’t?” I countered, trying to pretend he wasn’t talking about Stephen.
    “He sure matches the description of the guy who was seen with Danny at Kamehachi. Do you mind if I borrow this long enough to have some copies made?”
    “Keep it. I’ll get another.”
    “We’ll have to see if we can get Joe to find out if his footprints match.”
    “You can’t tell Joe.”
    “Why not?”
    “Because what Tom told me about his relationship with Danny is protected by attorney-client privilege. What I just told you is off the record.”
    “You’ve got to be kidding. This guy is lying to his wife, he’s lying to his partners, and you’re worried about giving your word?”
    “Wouldn’t you be?”
    Elliott Abelman stared at the ceiling as if seeking divine guidance. It didn’t matter. We both knew I was right.
    “Let’s take a look at the tape and see if it puts him in the building around the time of death,” he suggested. “With any luck we’ll spot our friend leaving the building. That way we can go to Joe without sullying your reputation.”
    Elliott handed me the tape and I slipped it into the machine. The film was taken by a fixed-location camera mounted on the ceiling of the lobby and aimed at the front door of the building. It captured almost the entire area of the lobby with the elevator doors in the extreme left of the picture. There was no furniture, only a meaningless abstraction in a frame hung above a pillar-style ashtray on the wall opposite the elevators and a large ficus tree on either side of the doors which I strongly suspected of being artificial. The images were grainy and in black and white. A digital readout of the time appeared in the lower right-hand corner of the picture.
    Elliott adjusted the tracking and explained that the tapes were automatically changed every six hours. The one we were about to see conveniently spanned the hours between eight A.M. and two P.M. the Sunday that Danny died. We watched the tape at regular speed for a minute or two, but it was so tedious that Elliott reached for the fast-forward button. Even speeded up it was like watching paint dry. People went in. People went out. But mostly the lobby stayed empty. At six minutes after nine a man in spandex shorts and a tank top struggled to get his bicycle through the door. At nine forty-three a woman in jeans and a T-shirt dropped an apple out of her grocery bag without noticing, and it lay untouched until a man in coveralls who looked like a building engineer picked it up, rubbed it on his sleeve, and took a bite as he walked out of the picture.
    Tom Galloway stepped out of the elevator at ten twenty-six, well within the window of time that the medical examiner had given during which death had occurred. I reached across Elliott’s lap and pushed the button to slow down the tape. In the picture Tom was dressed in chinos and a denim shirt. He wore a sweatshirt draped over his shoulders with the sleeves tied loosely across his chest. His hair looked wet and freshly combed, but there was nothing in his demeanor that spoke of any urgency or agitation. Indeed, his body language had seemed much more tense this morning when I’d found him waiting for me in the hallway outside my office door.
    Elliott pushed the rewind button and we watched Tom walk backward across the lobby and back into the elevator. Then we watched the section of the tape again in slow motion but noticed nothing new. I shook my head.
    “Maybe Tom left by the front door and then came back later,” I offered.
    “Let’s see who else comes to pay a call,” said Elliott, pushing the fast-forward button. An elegantly dressed woman with a mane of blond hair walked into the lobby at ten thirty-six, consulted a piece of paper in her pocket and left again, presumably having come to the wrong address. Two men arrived a couple of minutes later, one carrying a box from Dunkin’ Donuts and the other a copy of the Sunday paper. While they waited for the elevator I could read the banner headline announcing Sarrek’s sixty-three victims.
    At ten fifty-one a large bald-headed black man