Rosato and Associates: Legal Tender Part 23

I thought of R & B. Mark had been right. It was gone as soon as we were gone.

"The value is in the friendships, in the core." He breathed in deeply. "Well, here I am. I saw your memo, I knew you'd be working today. I thought I might be of some a.s.sistance. Could you possibly use my a.s.sistance, Miss Frost?"

Oh no. I didn't know what to say.

"I've worked on many securities cases. Argued twenty-five before the United States Supreme Court."

"Twenty-five?" I thought of my one dumb feather.

"I don't mind doc.u.ment work. I like to work hard."

But there were no doc.u.ments, there wasn't even a case. I didn't know what to do. It reminded me of my mother, and that gave me a solution. It would slow me down, but I couldn't run off now and leave him feeling more useless than he already did. "I certainly could use your help, Mr. Grun. I'd be honored."

"Why, thank you." He nodded graciously.

"First, let me tell you the facts."

"No doc.u.ments?"

"No. If I may, let me give you my opening argument."

"As you wish."

"It's a jury trial, so I want the opening to be just right."

"Good girl. Juries make their decisions after the opening. Be respectful. Don't talk down to them. Wear blue, I always did."

"I will," I told him, and began a story. A bedtime story in which an upstart computer company wanted to know the truth, but all the more powerful computer companies were lying to the little chip company and the government. I made up the story as I went along, taking half of it from my own predicament and the other half from what little securities law I knew.

He listened thoughtfully and in time grew very still, not flinching even when the afternoon sun edged in a brilliant square onto his face. He had fallen into that sound sleep known only to old men and golden retrievers. So I packed up my files, grabbed my clothes and briefcase, wrote him a little note, and left.

I dashed to the security gate and slipped under it, down the stifling elevator to the lobby. I'd be safe away from the Silver Bullet, out of sight somewhere. There were a million places I could go. The airport, the train station. I needed a place to collect my thoughts, stow my stuff.

29th Floor.

I had to figure out who killed Mark, and something Grun had said was sticking with me. In the back of my mind. I couldn't quite articulate it.

25th Floor.

About law firms. Collegiality. I thought of Mark, dead, and R & B, defunct. The a.s.sociates. Who had put the b.l.o.o.d.y scissors in my apartment? I flipped backwards through time, in my mind.

15th Floor.

Hattie had said something. Who had brought some stuff to my apartment? Renee Butler. She said she'd brought books I'd lent her. Had she planted the scissors?

10th Floor.

Was Butler the one? If she were, she'd put on a good act for me. And she always seemed to like Mark, but maybe that was for Eve's benefit. But how had she found Bill? And why?

Lobby Floor. The elevator doors opened. I was about to step out but caught myself at the last minute.

Three cops were standing together in the middle of the lobby. Not the blonde or black cop, new ones. With them was a man in a dark suit whose rasp I'd recognize on a bet. Detective Meehan, from Homicide.

My heart stopped. I couldn't go into the lobby. I was too scared to fake Linda Frost anymore and it wouldn't work anyway, not with Meehan. It would be over.

I wanted out of the building. The freight elevator stood open across the hall. I'd used it once, moving my stuff the day I'd left Grun. It led to the bas.e.m.e.nt and the parking garage.

I slipped out of the elevator, slid along the marble wall into the freight cab, and hit the first b.u.t.ton I saw.

Chapter 31.

I got off the freight elevator on the lowest level of the parking garage, my mind racing. Had the cops found Sam? Was Meehan looking for me? Where was Azzic? I had to get away, but I didn't want to leave town. I had to follow up on Renee Butler.

I hoisted my stuff over my shoulder and hurried across the almost-empty garage, looking around for the exit stairs. Suddenly there was a blast of police sirens. I broke into a run and streaked across the garage. The only sounds were my heels, my panting, and the sirens.

I had to find a way out. I pa.s.sed a metal MONTHLY PARKING sign on a stand and looked left. An exit ramp spiraled up like a corkscrew. I took it and ran up and up until I got dizzy and the hot yellow arrows led the way out in a blur.

EXIT, a red neon sign blinked from across the garage floor. I got a bead on it and had almost reached the cashier's booth when I froze on the spot.

There was a uniformed cop inside the booth, talking with the cashier and a red-jacketed security guard. I did an about-face and hustled back into the lot. I needed to get out of sight, but where? The sirens blared louder.

I dropped between a blue Taurus and a station wagon and scrambled away from the booth, using the parked cars as cover. I didn't know what to do when I reached the end of the line. I was trapped. I squatted low, panting, dipping a knee into spilled motor oil on the gritty cement floor. The sirens blared louder. More cops would be here any minute. I tried the handle of the Ford but it was locked. I looked wildly around, but there was no way out. Then I saw it.

Two parking s.p.a.ces over, in the ceiling of the garage. A large, square-cut hole between the beams of the garage roof. A black oblong on the sooty concrete with its lumpy fireproofing. An Acme portable hole! I would have laughed if I weren't scared s.h.i.tless.

I had to get to the hole and the dark green car parked near it, but between here and there were no cars for cover. I would be exposed. The sirens screamed. My throat tightened. I had to go, they'd find me here. I inched to the edge of the row and peeked out. The cop and the guards were still in the booth. I waited until the cop's back was turned and sprinted for the green car.

I reached it, panting hard, more from fear than exertion. There were no shouts so I guessed I hadn't been seen. I leaned against the car, relieved. It was a Range Rover, and felt st.u.r.dy against my shoulder. It would need to be. The hole in the garage roof was catty-corner to it.

I inched up and peeked through the tinted car window at the booth. The cop was joking with the pretty cashier. Go now.

I reached up and threw my clothes and briefcase on the roof of the car. Then I stuck my toe in the door handle and scaled the side of the tall car to its pebbled top and sunroof. As soon as I got there I flattened, breathing shallowly. So far, so good. No voices, no shouts. I looked up at the hole. Salvation. I eyeballed the distance from the hole to the roof. It was as far away as I was tall. I could do it, maybe.

I took an anxious peek sideways at the booth. The group was beginning to break up. I was out of time. I picked up my purse and pitched it into the blackness of the hole, like a bean bag into a clown's mouth. The purse landed inside and I pitched the canvas briefcase in after it. A soft thud. Neither rolled back out, so I figured there was room for me.

The sirens shrieked. They were right outside the building. I didn't dare look back at the booth. I hooked my clothes on the back of my neck, then scrambled to my feet and jumped into the dark hole, grabbing onto the jagged sides, hoisting myself mightily to get my chest in. I crawled forward on my elbows until my legs were inside. I lunged the final yard and was in all the way.

I had no idea why this hole was here, but it stunk. I wriggled forward, unable to see a thing in the pitch black, wishing I had a penlight or something more useful than a dog picture on my keychain. I dragged myself farther into the darkness. The stench got stronger. I reached my purse and my briefcase, realizing it was a tunnel of some kind. A very stinky tunnel. In three feet the odor grew unbearable and I was crawling in something cool. Crumbly. Revolting.

What was it? I scooped some up and held it under my nose, propping myself on my arms. I couldn't see a thing, but it smelled like s.h.i.t. Then I sniffed again and realized that it was. Manure. I recoiled in disgust, but couldn't back out. Why would there be manure in a parking garage? Then I remembered the man-made forest in the atrium of the building. Their root system must have been between the ground floor and the garage, and was evidently serviced from this crawls.p.a.ce. I was in deep s.h.i.t, no joke.

Suddenly I heard men's voices. My heart pounded, I forgot about the smell. The voices moved closer, underneath the hole. I held my breath. Directly below me, a guard was telling a farmer's daughter joke. I didn't listen for the punchline. The voices receded, then disappeared. I exhaled with relief and spit the dirt out of my mouth.

It was all downhill from there. I spent the night in muck, watching the minutes tick by on the glowing green digits on my watch. By 5:30A.M ., I hadn't slept at all, I felt so raw and anxious. My knees were killing me, sc.r.a.ped up, and my back was crampy. My hair reeked of dung, and you could grow mushrooms in my mouth. But the sirens had subsided and I was safe. Quiet descended like a blessing. Still I had to get out of the tunnel before the business day started.

I looked over my shoulder toward the lighted square of the tunnel's entrance. I tried to turn around but it was too narrow, so I grabbed my stuff and crawled in reverse, toward the light. I reached the hole and straddled it, then did a push-up and looked down. The green Range Rover was still there. Were the cops? I squirmed backward and peered out.

No cops or guards were in sight, just an elderly cashier, evidently the morning shift, filing her nails in front of a portable TV flickering in the booth. Time to go.

I collected my stuff and lowered it onto the car's sunroof. No one came running, so I took a deep breath and dropped out of the hole. I hit the roof of the Rover with a decidedly un-catlike thump and flattened as soon as I made contact. I took one sideways look at the cashier, who was watching TV, then slid on my back down the far side of the Rover, grabbing my stuff at the last minute and landing in an aromatic heap on the garage floor.

I sat there a second, forcing myself to stay calm, squinting in the sudden brightness. I was a mess. Dirt and manure soiled my suit. My pantyhose were ripped and one knee was bloodied and filthy. I reeked of s.h.i.t. I looked, and felt, homeless.

Then it hit me. The way out. The next step. I could be homeless, a smelly ruin of a woman with plastic bags and an oily canvas briefcase. I tore up the garment bags, then rubbed the manure into my hair and clothes, stifling my disgust. In two minutes, I was ready. I made sure no cops were in sight, then shuffled toward the exit. My heart was racing under my grimy blouse.

I staggered toward the exit. My heart beat louder with each step closer to the cashier, but I had no choice. I couldn't back down and I couldn't run or she'd call the cops for sure.

She turned from the TV and spotted me, her emery board poised in midair. Her hooded eyes narrowed instantly. She was no dummy and she didn't like what she saw.

Still I kept walking and when I got close enough I had a brainstorm.

Chapter 32.

Hide in plain sight. It was getting to be second nature.

I lurched directly for the booth, dragging my feet and shredded plastic bags. I stopped right in front of the window and pounded on the scratchy Plexiglas.

"Listen, listen, listen," I screeched at the cashier. I knew how to sound crazy, it was in my blood. "You got somethin' for me? You got somethin' for me? You got somethin 'for me?"

The cashier recoiled in alarm.

"I know you got money, honey! I know you got money, honey." I banged out on the windows, leaving an odiferous smudge. "Gimme, gimme, gimmegimmegimme!"

"Get away or I'll call the police!" she shouted from behind the thick gla.s.s.

Oops. I waved a loopy good-bye and staggered away from the booth, crossed the b.u.mpy median at the exit to the underground garage, and walked the wrong way up the cement ramp out of the building. I breathed easier as I climbed, tingling with a heady adrenaline. I reached the top of the ramp to the pavement outside and smiled as I inhaled the night air blowing down the backstreet behind the building. I was on a roll. And I was free, even if I smelled like s.h.i.t.

Then I saw that the stench wasn't coming only from me. Large rusty Dumpsters loomed in the dark, overflowing with garbage next to the black wells of the loading dock. The sidewalk was dirty and gum-spattered where the building faced the back end of the office building across the way. A homeless man slept like a crumpled puppet against the building, and I suppressed a twinge of guilt. I had to go. It was getting light, almost dawn. Like a vampire, I needed cover. I ran across the street to the back of another office building and slipped into the dusky shadows.

EEEEEEE! A squad car tore suddenly down the street, sirens screaming, red, white, and blue lights flashing on the top in an alternating pattern. I ducked against the wall in the darkness and almost fell backward. It was an open door, blistered and battleship gray. BUILDING PERSONNEL ONLY, it said, but it had been pried open, either broken into over the weekend or left unlocked carelessly. Another siren screamed at the other end of the street. I snuck inside the door before the cruiser pa.s.sed and locked the door behind me.

I found myself in a hot, dirty hallway that smelled thickly of urine. The bathroom tour of Philly. It was dim inside with the door closed but I could follow a light at the other end of the corridor. A rumbling, mechanical sound emanated from it.

I lifted up my stuff, which was getting heavier and heavier, and trod cautiously down the corridor, running my fingers along the wall for guidance. The wall was painted cinderblock, cool and b.u.mpy beneath my fingertips.

The hall ended in another door, defined only by the dim light that outlined its perimeter, showing through the crack between door and jamb. I tried the k.n.o.b and it moved freely. Unlocked. I paused a minute before opening it. There was no sound coming from behind it, but what would I do if there were people on the other side? Lie, badly. What could be worse than the cops? I held my breath and opened the door.

An empty staircase, lighted. No exit doors. There was nowhere else to go, so I went down, first to one landing, then the next, ten concrete steps at a time. Descending toward the rumbling, which was getting louder, and the increasing heat. At each landing was a dim lightbulb covered by a wire cage. The sirens grew fainter as I traveled down, but I was still jittery. Maybe I shouldn't have left Grun. Maybe I shouldn't have given Grady back the gun. Jerk took my screwdriver.

The stairway bottomed on a gray door, less weathered than the exterior door and partly ajar. A yellow sliver of light streamed from the crack. I stood still and listened. There was no human sound; no radio, footsteps, or dirty jokes. Just the incessant thundering of whatever machinery was down here, in what I imagined was the subbas.e.m.e.nt to the building. My blouse was damp, my nerves were on edge. The heat intensified. I pushed the door open a crack.

Nothing. Just another corridor, better lit than the one I was in. On the wall hung a tattered sign: RESULTS COUNT! DO THE JOB RIGHT! I peeked around the door but the hall was empty. The air was warmer here, more dense. Beads of sweat broke on my forehead. I felt creepy, as if something were right behind me. I peered over my shoulder. Nothing.

n.o.body but me and the machine noise. If there were any maintenance types on duty, they weren't around. I had to believe they'd come soon. I willed myself to step forward and sneak down the hall. The air grew hotter and hotter. It was hard to breathe.

I heard a scuffling noise and stiffened. I looked behind me just in time to see a small gray shadow scamper along the wall. Wildlife, without a leash. I scurried in the opposite direction until I reached an open door where the machine noise came from. A plaque on the door said TRANSFORMER ROOM. I stepped inside.

Instantly I felt my gut seem to vibrate and a tingling sensation like static pierced through me. It wasn't fear, it was something else. A low-frequency hum filled the air. I looked for the source, but it was all around. Huge gray metal boxes surrounded the room on all sides, floor to ceiling.HAZARDOUS VOLTAGE, said one of the boxes, with a red bolt of lightning.WILL CAUSE SEVERE INJURY OR DEATH. I'd had enough of severe injury and death. I got out of there in a hurry.

I hustled through the room to the adjoining one, where the machine noise was the loudest. The open door between the two said CHILLER ROOM, but the room was steaming hot for a chiller room. There was no place to hide in here, everything was too exposed. Sweat soaked through my suit, bringing up my awful smell. I wiped my cheeks on my skirt to avoid the inevitable p.o.o.p-drip into my eyes. When I stopped, I was standing in front of a tall brown machine.

It looked like a tin cabinet and read DUNHAM-BUSH. Its round thermometers had stick-needles that hovered at 42 degrees. I guessed it chilled water, maybe for air-conditioning. Pipes and ducts of various colors spanned the ceiling and I realized they were color-coded. Red meant fire, blue meant water, and a yellow pipe read REFRIGERANT DISCHARGE VENT. Suddenly I heard a clanging sound and scooted in fear behind the big Dunham-Bush box. Behind it was a room, a tiny, empty room, with its dented metal door hanging open.

A saggy cot was pressed against the wall of the room and on the floor next to it were newspapers. A wrinkled poster on the wall displayed most of a brunette's anatomy, next to a dirty gray rag mop. I heard another sudden clang, so I ducked in and hid behind the door. I waited for the sound of footsteps but there were none. Maybe the clang was mechanical, part of the ongoing cacophony. As soon as I got the nerve, I ventured out from behind the door and set my stuff on the cot.

The place smelled faintly of marijuana. Two empty c.o.ke cans sat on an orange crate at the head of the cot, and I picked up the newspaper from the floor. It was from so long ago I wasn't in it, so I guessed the room wasn't frequently cleaned. I could use this as a home base, at least temporarily. I imagined the police cruisers tearing around above me, hunting me. I'd gone underground. For real.

I plopped onto the skinny cot next to my stuff and forced my brain to come up with a next step. I was almost safe, and exhaustion sneaked up on me as my tension ebbed. I slumped over, resting my eyes. I felt myself drifting and almost began to doze. I checked my watch: 6:15. Whatever morning shift there was would be in any minute. I couldn't sleep now, I had to move on.

I imagined I was on the river, rowing. A sleek tan scull slicing a streak through a smooth blue river, running through the bright sunshine. I was exhausted, but pumping away still. Power-stroking toward the finish line. Rowing had taught me that when you thought your last reserve was depleted, you had another ten strokes left. Energy to spare. All you had to do was summon it up. Insist.

I stood up and stretched. I was groggy, disoriented, and exhausted. I figured that my mother's next treatment would be today, but it was too risky to show up at the hospital. I'd have to leave her in Hattie's hands.

I crossed to the scuzzy sink and washed the s.h.i.t off my face with a desiccated bar of Lava soap. I shampooed my hair and dried it with paper towels. Then I redid my makeup, hid my clothes in a filthy corner under the cot, and did what everybody else does on Monday morning in America.

I got dressed for work.

Chapter 33.

The office building was on the other side of town from the Silver Bullet, but it might as well have been on the other side of the world. Its tiny lobby smelled of stale cigar smoke and the pitted floor felt gritty under my new spike heels. A cheap white-letters-on-black office directory revealed only three tenants in the low-rise: LAW OFFICES OF VICTOR CELESTE, ESQUIRE; CELESTE LAND HOLDINGS; AND CELESTIAL ENTERPRISES, INC.

There was nothing else in the lobby except a grayish standard-issue desk, located in front of the elevator bank. An aged security guard hunched over the desk, studying the sports page as he fingered his ear, which barely held an oversized plastic hearing aid. A cigarette hung between his lips. It almost dropped out of his mouth when he saw me.

"Good mornin', Miss," he said, blinking as he took in my white silk tank top and black leather suit, whose skirt I'd rolled to an obscene length and paired with seamed black stockings. The personal shopper had promised "happening," which I now understood to mean tarty. So I'd completed the ensemble with my black sungla.s.ses, a helmet of newly red hair, and a slash of the reddest lipstick sample at the drugstore counter. I was hoping I looked like a professional call girl and not an amateur secret agent.

"Good morning to you, too, sir," I purred, sashaying past him as if he had no right to stop me.

"Eh, Miss, wait. Wait. Please."

"Did you want me, sir?" I pivoted on my spikes and smiled suggestively. Or what I hoped was suggestive and not merely dyspeptic. I tried to recall the serial screen hookers I'd seen in movies, Hollywood having presented so many positive images of successful businesswomen.