EDITING: Politics and Poison

Chapter Sixteen: Unrequited Love

Frank Hardy:

"No one's checked the CCTV footage, because the cameras only cover the speeches tent. So it doesn't exactly tell us who poisoned Mr. Drew's tea. Just that Deirdre handed it to him," Hannah Gruen informed my brother and I over her shoulder, as she lead the way across the lawn.

I told her grimly, "the footage could tell us more than that."

No sooner had McGuinness told us about Nancy's phone call, had I sought out someone who would know if the convention had security to prove that the Mayor had poisoned her father.

"Hopefully we can see if Lawson ever left the tent," Joe said, cracking his knuckles.

Hannah led us to the inside of the main tent. Two digital CCTV cameras had been affixed to the inner scaffolding, one on either side of the tent opening. I could see that the left hand camera had been pointed at the doorway, to record people's comings and goings. The right hand lens was focussed forward, at the stage. Set far back, I hoped it could take in most of the audience as well.

"Standard DSP," I muttered to myself, taking in the cameras. "And only third inch CCD."

Joe punched my arm. "What are you talking about?"

I ignored him, intent on my task. "Pull me up a chair?"

He did, complaining, "Why can't you do it yourself?"

I didn't reply, just handed him my car keys. "Do something useful. Go run out to my car. You know what it looks like. I have my laptop in the trunk. And a screwdriver kit. Bring them here?"

He grudgingly grabbed the keys and jogged off.

"Peace and quiet at last," I sighed, flashing a quick smile at Hannah.

She smiled back. "Does the Captain know you're going to look at the footage?"

I shrugged. "I doubt he'd care."

She mimed sealing her lips, then tucked her hands into the pocket of her apron. "I know zip about technology, so you don't have to worry about me. I don't know a mouse from a keyboard."

This was going to be a little more complicated than that, I thought, hiding my amusement.

Already tall, at over six foot, it was awkward for me to be looking at the camera.

I had to stand on one of the folding chairs, and bend significantly to level my face with the rounded lens. From this position, I could run my fingers under the base of the camera, feeling for screw holes.

I wasn't used to this make and model. In my own apartment I had a state of the art Premium DSP, with BLC backlight compensation, a four inch CCD chip, remote set up and function capabilities, and Video Motion Detection. However, I endeavored to make the best of the situation at hand.

I pulled out my phone and opened the flashlight feature, shined it over the bottom of the camera.

Hearing panting, I straightened.

Joe had returned.

"Okay, can you get me..." my fingers probed, as I investigated. "The second smallest screwdriver."

He did so, and I busied myself unscrewing the base. I instructed, without lifting my eyes from my task, "open my laptop. I have a folder for media readers. It should be the bottom one."

My stomach gnawed with hunger, as I finally freed the CCD chip. Regular emerald green, veined with gold circuits, the chip looked deceptively uncomplicated, I mused as I turned it over in my hands. It was going to be a long afternoon.

Joe Hardy: I left Frank to work the moment he told me that the chip might take hours to decode, took Hannah to grab some lunch. I couldn't decide whether Frank would want a wrap or a slice of pizza, was about to call him when Mr. Gruen appeared, wiping his hands on a towel.

His face brightened when he saw his ex-wife.

When greetings had been exchanged, he asked me curiously, "What is your brother up to?"

I was frowning at my cell phone screen. "Uh, looking at the security cameras. But he'll be hungry soon. So we're on a lunch break at the moment."

"I recommend the salad," he responded. "You can have some. On the house." He winked at Hannah. "After all, Han made it. And she's the best cook in the world. You can't bake with more love than she does. So why should I charge you? Her food makes you a better person. I can guarantee it!"

Hannah's cheeks flushed, and she said quietly, "Norman, stop. This money goes to a good cause."

"Thanks for the offer." I tried to smooth the situation. "But I don't mind paying. The issue is that my brother is fussy. And he barely eats. If I try to order for him, I always get it wrong. So I'll just call him and make sure. I won't be a second."

I stepped away from them, saw from the corner of my eye, that Mr. Gruen was laying a hand on Hannah's arm and talking fast to her. I felt a pang of sympathy, because she clearly wasn't interested.

The dial tone was severed, as Frank picked up.

"Hey Frank-" I began.

He cut me off. "I was about to call you."

"Great! Do you want-"

"I've got the footage," he rode in over me.

"We'll be right down," I promised, raised my voice, "but before you go, tell me what you want to eat! If you don't I'll bring you a slice of Hawaiian Pizza. Because I know you hate it."

He sighed, a long-suffering sigh. I could hear the smile in his voice, though. "Fine. Get me a wrap and some salad, please. Oh, and a double espresso as well. Uh, maybe some of the pasta if you can."

"Hungry or something?" I was amused.

"I've been working hard," he replied, defensive.

Minutes later, Hannah and I wheeled a trolley kindly loaned to us by Mr. Gruen, stacked with food. Hannah was unusually quiet, gnawing on her bottom lip, with a troubled look in her eyes.

I'd asked what was wrong, but she'd merely said that Mr. Gruen could not accept that their, "ship had sailed." And that she didn't want to gossip. I knew however, that her loyalties lay with Mr. Drew and Nancy. I has always wondered to what extent. But she clearly did not want to talk about it, changing the topic by saying, "your poor brother. He must be starved!"

I was tactful enough not to push it.

Frank was sitting at the foot of the stage, hunched over his laptop computer. He'd been running his hands through his hair. It stuck up awkwardly at the front.

Wordlessly, he swiveled the computer around so that Hannah and I could see it. Pressing play, he reached to the trolley and opened a container of pasta salad, dug in with gusto.

We watched the footage. Wound precisely to ten minutes before Carson's episode, the crowd was relatively attentive, stirring and whispering, but remaining seated. You couldn't hear what was going on, but heads tilted and mouths moved. Dad left to find a drink, Carson talked sternly to Deirdre. She retreated like a whipped dog and then Carson left. He was replaced by Mr. Gruen with cheese and crackers to offer. As he left to find me a steak, Dad ran up.

Our group was the only one moving. Everyone else remained seated.

Frank leaned in and typed something into a bar at the side of the screen. At his command, a figure was illuminated neon yellow, standing out from the crowd.

"That's Lawson," I said, pointed excitedly.

My brother's eyes met mine. He said, "And he didn't leave the tent once."

Hannah shifted impatiently, took a sip of her tea. "What does that mean?"

"He couldn't have poisoned Mr. Drew," Frank and I said at the same time.