Judy sat with a book in hand, reading with rapt attention.
Suddenly, the ferry jolted—it had reached the shore.
Several vendors lined the dock, hawking goods to the tourists disembarking. Though none were selling Batman merchandise, they were all wearing clown masks.
This movie's popularity is off the charts.
Shaking her head with a faint smile, Judy disembarked.
Out on the street, a reserved taxi was already waiting.
"Coty Street," she said upon getting in. Then she leaned back, closed her eyes, and began thinking about how to breach the interviewee's mental defenses later.
She didn't notice the identical taxi trailing behind her.
...
"Barnhill, this woman's behind all the misfortunes Harvey's been having lately? She looks pretty unremarkable to me,"Paris remarked, hands on the wheel.
"What did you expect? There's no Wonder Woman in real life. Judy's attractive enough, just doesn't know how to present herself," Barnhill replied.
"Oho, sounds like she's your type. I almost forgot—you're into strong women, aren't you? Want me to help you hook up with her, have a wild time, and get 003 to snap a few pics for the boss?"
"Shut up. I'm not a perv like you."
"Perv? Come on, man. Life's short. Gotta enjoy it while you can."
…
Paris and Barnhill were private detectives with the BlackCube Detective Agency. Their latest assignment, courtesy of Supervisor Goodrich, was to conduct 24/7 surveillance on Judy.
They'd tailed her from Roosevelt Island to the New York Times office, and from there to her home in Hoboken.
Judy lived in a modest wooden villa in the quiet town of Hoboken—a textbook American middle-class neighborhood, just across the river from Manhattan.
The town itself spanned less than two square miles, with a population of about 50,000. Around 80% were white, nearly 10% Asian, and only about 3% African American.
Security here was decent. While not as secure as high-end gated communities, it was a far cry from the rougher neighborhoods of Brooklyn.
At the very least, you didn't need to carry spare change—or a gun—just to step outside.
She lived with her husband, and they had no children. He worked in New Jersey and had a daily commute of roughly an hour and forty minutes. Typically, he'd get home around 7:30 p.m.
Paris had parked across the street from Judy's house. A small wooded area lay on the opposite side.
Their vehicle was now a Toyota Camry—a deliberately inconspicuous choice in American suburbs.
Barnhill glanced around, frowning. "We can't linger here too long. Middle-class neighborhoods like this often have community associations. If someone spots a strange car idling, they'll probably call the cops."
"Relax. It's handled. I know the head of the security company in charge of this area. We served together in the Israeli military—good guy. He gave me a work permit. Technically, we're part of the neighborhood patrol. Temporarily."
"No kidding. And he's not worried about getting into trouble?"
"What's he got to worry about? I told him we were hired to protect an upstanding journalist from potential threats. And he charged me five grand."
"Five grand?! Where's the receipt? You know we can't reimburse that without documentation."
"Hah, this is why I'm the team leader and you're not. No receipt, of course. But I recorded the whole thing—him taking the money. It's leverage and reimbursement proof for the boss."
"Unbelievable. And this guy's your friend? Poor bastard."
"Sacrifices must be made—for the greater good. And the bonus."
"Oh yeah, real noble of you," Barnhill snorted. "So selfless."
As they passed the time with idle banter, their eyes never left Judy's house.
It was past 8:00 p.m.
Barnhill frowned. "That's strange. According to our intel, her husband should've been home by now."
Paris shrugged. "You're overthinking it. Could be traffic, overtime, grabbing a drink with coworkers. Doesn't matter. Our job's to watch Judy. Don't tell me you're falling for the tough-girl type?"
"Bullshit," Barnhill snapped. "I'm just... curious. It's weird. That's all."
Paris didn't reply.
Barnhill glanced over, surprised by the silence. Just as he opened his mouth again—"Paris—"
He was cut off.
"Shh—patrol incoming. Don't say anything. I've got this."
"Okay."
Boom boom boom.
A heavyset patrol officer stepped out of his cruiser, one hand resting on his belt, the other knocking on the car window.
Paris rolled it down, greeting him with a friendly smile.
The patrolman shined his flashlight inside, relaxing slightly when he saw two white men.
"Evening, gentlemen. Who are you, and why are you parked here? Please show your driver's licenses and keep your hands visible."
"Easy, officer," Paris said calmly. "We're with Kandi Security Company, part of the patrol team. Just taking a short break on the roadside."
He slowly pulled out a work permit and handed it over.
The patrolman radioed Kandi Security, read off the ID number, and confirmed their credentials. Once cleared, he relaxed and lowered his hand from his waist.
"All right, fellas. You're doing good work. Just so you know, someone reported you've been parked here for three hours. Didn't your boss send someone to check?"
Paris chuckled. "My boss is family. So—"
The officer nodded in understanding. "Got it. Well then, I won't disturb your rest. Take care."
"Bye-bye!"