No Show of Remorse (20 page)

There were three sets of double doors facing the street, heavy wooden doors with small frosted windows about chest high, protected by steel grates. I tried the middle set first because high up beside them was a push button. They were locked, so I pressed the button.

If a bell or a buzzer sounded inside somewhere, I couldn't hear it. I waited, then tried again. No response. Finally I pushed and held it for a long time, pressing my ear to the door. No sound but distant traffic, and the shouts and curses and monotonous, mind-numbing rap floating up the block from the Tahiti Inn.

I tugged again, but the doors hadn't magically unlocked themselves. I gave up on the middle set and tried the pair to my right. Locked, of course. Damn! I was early, sure, but still I was angry that Jimmy wasn't watching for me, and then right away I got worried, with the two feelings leapfrogging each other for first place in line. At the third set of doors I pulled on both handles—yanked hard, without hope—and one door flew open so easily it almost broke my nose.

I stepped inside and let the heavy door swing closed behind me. The only light in the small lobby area came from one low-watt bulb in the ceiling. The other two pairs of doors weren't just locked; they had short thick chains wound through their panic bars inside. I had to assume the chains came off when the building was in use. My set of doors had no chain, but the one I'd pulled open could be deadbolted to its partner from either outside or inside. Security was a big thing in Englewood.

I stood for a moment, inhaling the familiar odors of sweat and dust and cleaning compound, then crossed the lobby and went through an open doorway into the gym itself. Just a hint of the outside street lighting filtered in through the tall windows, but as my eyes adjusted I was able to see that the bleachers on both sides had been folded up against the walls. I didn't see any people, but—

Ka-chunk.

Barely audible. From behind me, out in the lobby. I froze for an instant, my right hand already reaching up under my jacket, resting on the Beretta. I stepped to the side and peered around the edge of the doorway into the lobby, but there was no one there.

There were no more
ka-chunks,
either. No sounds except someone walking by on the sidewalk outside, and the far-away noise from the Tahiti Inn. I was pretty sure now that I knew what I'd heard. I walked back across to the door I'd come in by, and pushed against it with my left hand. It moved maybe a sixteenth of an inch before it caught up on its deadbolt, now slipped into the slot of its partner door. I was locked in, from outside.

Whoever they were, either they were very good—because I hadn't spotted any tail—or they knew I'd be there and were already waiting. That would have meant Jimmy had told them, so I preferred to think they were very good. Or maybe they had someone watching him. That was even better. I didn't have to blame either Jimmy or myself.

And where
was
Jimmy? His van was still there, or at least I hadn't heard it drive away. And the driver he'd said would be with him … where was the driver? Had
he
tipped somebody off I'd be here? And why the hell lock me inside the building, with Jimmy or without him?

The questions were endless … and useless. I looked around. Both double doorways from the lobby into the gym, opposite the doors to outside, were wide open. To my left, on the south wall, there was a pay phone. The handset was hanging where it belonged, but its cord was pulled out of the bottom of the box and hanging toward the floor.

To the right of the phone was a door that reminded me of the classroom doors in my grammar school. Golden oak, with a large window in the top half. I walked over and tried that door and it wasn't locked, and I wasn't sure I should be happy about that. I went through, into a wide corridor which went forward just a few yards and then made a sharp right turn. The dismal light from the lobby bulb didn't make the turn, so the rest of the hallway was very dark. I stood at the corner a long minute, leaning into the darkness. I thought I heard faint snatches of music—
real
music, not rap—but it was very far off and most likely coming from outside the building.

I went back into the lobby and from there into the gym again. On the wall just inside was a bank of light switches in a recessed metal cabinet, and I flipped them all on, one by one. Most of them turned on lights in the gym or in the lobby. The others, assuming they were connected to live wires, activated fixtures I couldn't see.

With the lights on the gym looked smaller, but no less vacant, than it had in the dark. There were two more sets of double doors on the opposite wall and I walked across and tried them, but they were locked. On my way back to the lobby I paused at the switch panel and assured myself again that every switch was in the “on” position.

Then, with an uneasy feeling about what might be waiting for me, I went back to the only unlocked door I'd been given, and went through.

CHAPTER

32

P
AST THAT FIRST SHARP TURN
the corridor ran along the south wall toward the rear portion of the building, behind the gym. It was well lighted now and I moved quickly, the Beretta in my hand. Brightly colored posters, taped to the wall on my right along the way, warned me not to play on railroad tracks, not to smoke, not to take drugs, and never to try to solve my problems with a gun. Three-out-of-four wasn't bad, I thought.

I heard the music again, piano music. Still very distant, but I could tell it wasn't barroom music—not unless the patrons favored Brahms. At the end of the corridor I stepped into another lobby, this one running from south to north along the west side of the gym. The lights were on. The air was stale and chilly, easily ten degrees cooler than outside. The music had stopped.

The ceiling in the gym itself had been very high, but here it was only about twelve feet. At the far end, jutting out from the north wall, was a wide stairway that went up to a landing, then turned west and went up some more. So there were at least two floors, maybe three. On the wall to my right were the sets of doors I'd already tried from the gym side and found locked. To my left were three rooms with their doors standing open and hand-printed signs that labeled them
Tutoring,
then
Crafts,
then
Tots.
I went to the rooms one by one and turned on the lights, and there was nobody in any of them.

I was checking the Tots room when the piano music started up again—the same piece as before. It was coming from inside the building. Someone practicing; someone very good. I didn't think it was Jimmy; he just didn't seem the type. Besides, from the sound of it I guessed the piano to be up on the second floor. Without an elevator—and I didn't see one—he'd have a hell of a time getting a wheelchair up there.

I was wrong, though, about where the piano was.

Beyond the Tots room were a men's and a women's rest room—both unlocked, both empty. Then, finally, I came to two closed, windowless doors farther down, near the stairs. The first had a small plastic sign that said
Office.
There'd be a phone in there, for sure. But that door was locked, and by the time I'd found that out I didn't need to read
Music Room
on the last door. That room must have had some soundproofing, because that's where the distant-sounding piano was.

I stood off to the side of the door and knocked. The music stopped short and there might have been a few muffled words spoken, or maybe not. Then nothing, so I knocked again—very hard.

“Yeah? Who's there?” It was Jimmy Coletta. Loud and aggressive, like a cop. Not silent and dead, like I'd expected. “Who's there?” he repeated.

“It's Foley.” I was starting to breathe again. “Open the door.”

“Open it yourself. Why would it be locked?”

I holstered the Beretta and opened the door. “Maybe,” I said, “so some dope-smoking, Brahms-hating Gangster-Disciple doesn't come in and complain about the noise.”

The room was maybe twelve by twenty feet, with thick soundproofing material on the walls and ceiling. An electric heater sat on the floor, making it very warm. There were several small children's chairs, some black metal music stands and an upright piano that had been painted beige about fifty years ago. Jimmy sat in his wheelchair, holding a plastic bottle of drinking water. A woman sat at the piano, but was turned and facing me in the doorway. She was a brown-haired, fair-skinned woman—plain but attractive at the same time—in dark pants and a red sweater.

Jimmy held up his wrist to show me his watch. “You're fifteen minutes early.”

“Sometimes that's helpful,” I said. “Although this time, I don't think so.”

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“Wait,” I said. I nodded toward the woman. “So you're the driver?”

“Driver and wife,” she said. “Suzanne Coletta.” Her smile seemed more nervous than friendly.

I glanced around the room. “No windows,” I said. “You need some air in here.”

“Ventilation system's not working,” Jimmy said. “Money's kinda tight in these neighborhoods.”

“We closed the door because the rest of the building's so cold,” Suzanne said. She stood up. “But you're right. It's very stuffy in here.”

“And hot,” I said. Actually, it smelled like a post-game locker room.

We went out into the lobby. Me first, then Jimmy in the chair, then Suzanne. “All the lights are on,” she said, obviously surprised.

“I turned them on,” I said. “You know, you shouldn't leave the front door unlocked like that.”

“What are you talking about?” Jimmy said. He swiveled his chair to face me. “Didn't the janitor let you into the building? Mr. Beale?”

“No one let me in. One of the front doors was unlocked.”

“It couldn't have been.” His amazed look seemed genuine.

“But it was,” I said. “The panic bar was locked in the down position, so you could just pull the door open from outside. You oughta be careful. The gangs are—”

“They've never bothered us; not yet, anyway. We usually all leave together. Mr. Beale's the last one out and he locks up. But tonight I said I was meeting someone and we'd let the person in and let the door lock behind us when we left. He said no, he'd have to let you in and hang around until we left. Said it was his … his rear end on the line if the door didn't get properly double-locked. I said fine. I didn't think it would be a problem.” Jimmy paused. “He's an old guy, y'know? Thinks the place belongs to him and—”

“He was gone,” I said. “And the door was unlocked. Do you have a key?”

“We have just the panic bar key.” Jimmy shook his head. “I guess we better go release the bar now, so no one else wanders in.”

“Not necessary,” I said. “The door's locked. With the turn bolt.”

“You mean…” He seemed confused. “We don't have
that
key. Only Mr. Beale has that … and I suppose the director of the center.”

“Yeah, well, I think someone got to your man Beale. Either paid him or scared him enough to make him help them.” I explained how, after I was inside, someone locked the door behind me. “Beale knew it was me who called you. He told someone, and … Anyway, at first I thought no one was here. But then I followed the music.” I turned to Suzanne. “I play, too, a little. But you play beautifully.”

“Not really.” She blushed and looked away, toward the Music Room. “That's a wonderful old piano, despite how it—”

“She has a gift from God,” Jimmy said. “She'd be playing at Carnegie Hall if she hadn't married me.” He wasn't sounding like a cop anymore. He reached out his hand and she took it. “I never paid attention before,” he said. “All those years. But now the Lord's given me time to sit and listen, y'know, and—”

“Look,” I said, wondering how we'd gotten off in that direction, “someone locked me in here … for a reason. I thought they wanted time to get away. I was afraid that when I found you, you might be…” I looked from Jimmy to Suzanne.

“You can talk in front of her,” Jimmy said. “She knows everything. I mean what happened when I got shot. Every last thing.” He paused, as though to make sure I understood what he meant, then asked, “You thought I might be what?”

“Be dead,” I said. Suzanne gasped, but I went on. “You're not, though, so why'd they lock me in?” I looked around. “Before we talk, maybe we should figure out how to get out of here.”

“There are some rear doors,” Suzanne said, “although Mr. Beale always chains those, too.” She turned and headed toward the stairway, and then past it. “Here.”

I followed her to an alcove on the other side of the stairway, and another set of double doors with panic bars. And chains. I turned back to Jimmy. “Any more exits?”

“I understand there's a fire escape on the second floor,” he said. “And one on the third. But…” He gestured and I turned and saw that the entry to the second half of the stairway, up from the landing, was blocked by a padlocked iron gate. “We've never been upstairs.”

“I'm getting a little nervous,” Suzanne said. She crossed her arms and hugged herself, from more than just the cool air. “I mean, the kids are all right with my sister, and I guess we'd be safe in here until they open up in the morning, but what if someone steals the van.” I figured the Lexus a more likely target, but kept quiet. “Or even just vandalizes it. We can't afford to—”

“Hey, hold on,” Jimmy said. “Don't forget, we pledged to leave the future in God's hands. He's doin' all right so far, isn't he? Besides, we can use the cell phone to call someone and—”

“We can't, though,” she said. “I left the cell phone in the van.”

“That's okay,” he said, and I was amazed at the patience in his voice. “Your sister will call when we're late. When we don't answer, she'll get worried and call the police and they'll come and find us.” He paused, then turned to me. “The only problem is, everyone'll know
you
were here, which is what I wanted to avoid.” He spun around and wheeled toward the south end of the lobby. “Let's go try the front doors. First they were open; then they were locked. Maybe now they'll be open again.”