Chapter 152
Vincent was led away still shouting. As the noise of his exit faded, Zack stood up again.
“I want to speak to the press!” he announced. “There are reporters outside! I want the world to hear this!”
Jocelyn stepped directly into his path. She was shorter than him by several inches. In that moment it didn’t matter.
“Not until the police report is filed, Mr. Zack,” she said.
He glared down at her. For a fraction of a second, the mask of the grieving artist slipped. His eyes narrowed, and a flash of pure, undisguised malice crossed his face — the look of a man who has never once believed he could be caught.
“You’ll regret this,” he muttered.
ѕ𝗵𝘢r𝗲 𝗒𝗈u𝘳 fa𝘃𝗈𝘳i𝘁𝖾𝗌 𝖿𝗿o𝗆 𝘨𝖺𝘭ոo𝗏𝖾𝗹s.с𝗈𝗺
Jocelyn held his gaze. “We’ll see.”
She watched him walk away toward the police line. Her hands were trembling inside her pockets where no one could see them. He isn’t grieving, she thought. He’s performing. And he’s very good at it.
The security room was a windowless box in the basement that smelled of stale coffee and warm electronics. Banks of monitors covered every wall, casting a flickering blue light across Jocelyn’s exhausted face.
It was 2:00 AM. Her eyes felt like they were full of sand.
“Show me the service elevator again,” she said.
Torres, the acting Head of Security who had stepped up after Harvey’s immediate suspension, tapped the keyboard. On screen, the grainy black-and-white footage rewound. The elevator doors opened. A cart rolled out. The doors closed.
“Nothing,” Torres said. “No one left with a violin case. We checked the main exits, the kitchen loading dock, the roof access. Nothing.”
Jocelyn pressed her fingers to her temples. “If the violin isn’t here, and it didn’t leave, then it’s still inside.”
“We searched every room, Ms. Wolfe,” Torres said carefully. “Guests’ luggage, staff lockers — all of it. It’s gone.”
“Search the laundry chutes,” she said. “The boiler room. The ventilation shafts.” She stared at the monitor showing the stairwell to the basement. Static. Nothing moved. “Wait. Go back to 8:15 PM.”
Torres rewound the footage. Jocelyn leaned in, watching the time stamp in the corner tick forward. A cleaning cart rolled past. A staff member walked by. Then — the same sequence again.
She brought her hand down hard on the desk.
“There. Did you see that?”
Torres leaned in, squinting. “What am I looking at?”
“It’s a loop. The footage repeats every ninety seconds. There’s a ten-minute window missing — replaced by a recording.”
Torres stared at the screen. “You’re right. They didn’t just cut the feed. They replaced it.”
“Inside job,” Jocelyn said quietly. The words tasted like acid. “Someone with high-level access.” She straightened up. “And I have a very good idea who.”
She stood. The room tilted slightly. She hadn’t eaten since lunch.
“Keep looking,” she told Torres. “Find out where that loop originated.”
She left through the hotel’s back exit, avoiding the photographers camped at the front entrance. She slipped into the waiting black sedan and sank into the leather seat.
“Home,” she told the driver.
.