Surveillance Notes

I clocked the scene the moment I stepped across the street. Midday. Quiet block. Too quiet for a coincidence. John stood outside the café like a man pretending he was waiting for a thought to finish. Coffee untouched. Eyes alert. Then Juan Morales appeared from the left—Dr. Rivera’s live-in assistant, if my notes were right. He didn’t hesitate. That told me plenty. You don’t walk straight into someone’s space like that unless the meeting was already agreed upon. They didn’t shake hands. No introductions. Just a lean-in—subtle, practiced. John’s shoulders angled inward, Juan’s stance open but guarded. The kind of body language you see when two people know each other better than they’re letting on. A few words exchanged. Low volume. Juan glanced toward the café window, then back to John. John smiled, but it never reached his eyes. The whole thing lasted less than a minute. Too short for catching up. Too tense for small talk. When they split, they went opposite directions without looking back. That’s not how casual encounters end. That’s how you leave when you don’t want witnesses—or questions. Whatever passed between them didn’t happen by accident. And whatever it was, it had nothing to do with coffee.