"R" is for Ricochet (19 page)

He laughed, albeit uneasily. “What ‘agents'? That's bull.”

“Sorry. I misspoke myself. I said ‘agents' in the plural. There's really only one.”

“Who?”

“See if you can guess. Here, I'll give you a hint. Who in the company has gotten close to Beck in the last umpty-many months? Hmmm.” She put a finger against her cheek, deep in mock thought. “Starts with O.”

“Onni?”

“There you go,” she said. “Talk about a break. I get sent to prison and that gives her the chance to slide right in.”

“She works for the feds?”

Reba nodded. “Oh yeah, for
years,
and trust me, Little Miss Onni wants his ass on a plate.”

“I don't believe it.”

“Marty, this is her golden opportunity. You know how it is with women in these shit government jobs. Sure, they get hired. The guys let 'em do all the grunt work, but forget about promotion. There's no upward mobility without a coup of some kind. She doesn't pull this off, she'll be stuck where she is.”

“Doesn't sound right. Are you sure? This makes no sense at all. The girl's dumb as a post.”

“That's the
impression
she gives, but she's wily as they come. I'm telling you, she's good. You watch. This lady can write her own ticket, provided she nails Beck first. I mean, look at it this way. Does anybody in the company suspect? You sure as shit didn't and Beck doesn't have a clue. If he knew what was going on, he'd be out the door like a shot. Wouldn't he?”

“Well, yeah.”

“You better believe it,” she said. “Meanwhile, there she is with a finger in every pie, access to everything. What a sweet deal for her.”

Marty seemed to be getting annoyed, though I noticed two blotches on the front of his shirt where the sweat was soaking through. “Look, Reb. I know you're pissed at him and I don't blame you—”

“Sure, I'm pissed at him, but I'm not pissed at you, which is why I'm here. I'm trusting you to keep your mouth shut. I haven't breathed a word of this to anyone else. She's after his balls. She's so gung-ho she's willing to screw the guy to get the drop on him.”

Marty was silent. I could hear him breathing as though he'd just finished running six blocks. “You can't just make claims—”

“I know. You're a man of common sense and you're hard to convince, which is why I brought these.” She slid the black-and-white photos from the envelope and passed them over to him.

Marty leafed through them. “Jesus.”

“See what I mean?”

“What's he
thinking?
”

“He's not thinking. He's got his brain between his legs. Really, you hadn't guessed he was screwing her? You knew he was doing me.”

“Yeah, but you made no secret you had the hots for him. This, I don't know. Shouldn't somebody tell him what's going on?”

Reba raised her brows and gave him the big eyes. “You want to do that? Because I sure as hell don't.”

“Poor guy.”

“‘Poor guy,' my butt. Are you kidding? If he was willing to work me over, why not you? Thing is, the stakes are bigger this time. You tell him about Onni, the only effect is giving him more time to cover his tracks.”

Marty held up his glass and rattled the ice. The bartender caught the gesture and began to make him another drink. “Onni. I can't believe it. Beck must have walked right into it.”

“Of course. Minute she makes her move, he'll turn right around and lay it off on you. He'll claim you acted on your own. He never authorized you to do anything. You took it on yourself.”

“But it's his signature. Loan aps, incorporation papers—”

“Marty, get
serious
. He'll say he's never had a head for the financial end of things. That's how I was able to get away with the money I stole. Gosh. Guess he should have wised up, but some guys never learn. You told him to sign so he signed. He trusted you and this is what he gets for it. Shamey-shame on him. Meanwhile, you're under federal indictment.”

Marty shook his head. “I don't know. This is freaking me out.” The bartender brought his drink. Marty took out his wallet and extracted two twenties. “Keep that,” he said. As the bartender left, he was well on his way to draining his glass.

During the brief interchange between the two, Reba shot me a look. It's your show, I thought, before she glanced away.

She patted Marty's arm, her tone brisk. “Anyway, ponder the implications. That's really all I ask. Even if you decide I'm making it up, it wouldn't hurt to cover your ass. Once the subpoenas are issued and all the warrants are in place, you'll be shit out of luck. In the meantime, if you're on your way upstairs, how about the two of us tagging along?”

I'd passed the entrance to Beck's office building half a dozen times without ever taking in the sight. The façade was thickly overgrown with ivy, integrated seamlessly into the architectural conceit of an ancient Spanish town. Flowering trees had been planted along the front. To the left of the entrance were side-by-side stairs and escalators, giving access to the additional parking structure at the corner of the mall. A high-end luggage shop occupied a portion of the ground floor, presumably paying Beck a big whack of high-end rent.

We pushed through glass doors that swung closed soundlessly as we entered. Windows stretched upward the full four stories to a slanting glass roof. The interior atrium was oblong, done in a mottled rosy granite, floors and walls forming a hard canvas on which natural and artificial light played according to the time of day. High on the wall, there was a clock with long brass minute and hour hands and six-inch-diameter brass dots representing the hours. A curtain of dark green ivy and philodendron hung from a miniature oasis above the clock.

There were two elevators on the wall dead ahead. To the right of these, in an alcove, there were two more elevators, facing each other, one with a much wider door, which I assumed was designed to accommodate freight. A digital readout next to each elevator showed that all were at lobby level.

In the center of the lobby, a perfect circle of granite was sunk in the floor, sloping sides washed with a constant Niagara of water spilling from a six-inch channel around its rim. The sound was soothing, but the look, I fear, was closer to toiletlike than the restful pool it was meant to suggest.

A uniformed guard sat at a high polished-onyx desk. A lean man in his sixties, he had salt-and-pepper hair and a blank handsome face. Briefly I wondered what curious set of circumstances had landed him here. Surely there was little to guard and less to secure. Did he simply sit for the whole of his eight-hour shift? I saw no indication he had a book in his lap discreetly shielded from view. No radio or pint-size television set. No sketch pad or crossword puzzle book. His eyes tracked us, his face turning slowly as we clattered across the cold expanse of polished granite floor.

Marty lifted his hand and received an unblinking stare in response. Reba smiled at the guy, giving him the full benefit of those big dark eyes of hers. She was rewarded with a tentative smile. She caught up with Marty outside the elevator doors. “What's
his
name? He's cute.”

“Willard. He's on nights and weekends. Can't remember who's been covering days.”

We entered the elevator and Marty pushed the button for four. “You made a conquest. First time I've ever seen him smile,” he said.

“Getting along with guards turns out to be a specialty of mine,” she said. “Although, in my case, ‘correctional officer' is the appropriate term.”

Since Beck's offices took up the entire fourth floor, the elevator doors opened directly into the reception area, hushed with thick pale green carpet. Lights blazed everywhere, but it was clear there was no one on the premises but us. Modern furniture and contemporary art were mixed with antiques. Etched-glass partitions separated the reception area from an airy conference room beyond. From our perspective, corridors opened on four sides like the spokes of a wheel. The hallways appeared to stretch on at length with wide bands of color forming sweeping loops along the wall.

“Oh, Marty. This is gorgeous. Beck said it was spectacular, but this is really over the top. Mind if we look around?”

“Just don't take long. I want to get home.”

“I promise we'll make it quick. Think of it this way, if it weren't for that stint in prison, I'd be working here myself. Isn't there a roof garden?”

“The stairs are back that way. You can't miss 'em. I'll be in my office down that hall.”

“You could get lost in this place,” Reba said.

“Well, don't. Beck's not going to like it if he hears you've been here.”

“Mum's the word,” she said, producing her dimples for him.

Reba circled the reception area with me following in her wake. As long as Marty was present, she was almost childlike in her hand-clapping enthusiasm, popping her head into offices here and there along the way, oohing and aahing. He watched us briefly and then went off in the opposite direction.

The minute he was out of sight, Reba dropped all pretense of touring and got down to business. I kept pace with her as she checked the names posted on the wall outside each office. When she reached Onni's, she shot a look down the hall to make sure Marty wasn't there. She moved to Onni's desk, grabbed a tissue from the box, and used it as she started opening drawers. “Keep a lookout, okay?”

I checked the corridor behind me. Searching is my all-time favorite sport (except for time spent with Cheney Phillips of late). The edgy thrill of invading someone's private space is heightened by the possibility of getting caught in the act. I wasn't sure what she was looking for or I'd have joined her in the game. As it was, somebody had to stand guard.

Still opening and shutting drawers, Reba said, “God, I can't believe Marty's so paranoid. Must be off his meds. Ah.” She held up a chunky ring of keys that she jingled midair.

“You can't take those.”

“Poo. Onni won't be in until Monday. I can put 'em back by then.”

“Reba, don't. You're going to ruin everything.”

“No, I won't. This is scientific research. I'm testing my hypothesis.”

“What hypothesis?”

“I'll tell you later. Quit worrying.”

She left Onni's office, trailing a hand along the wall as she returned to the reception area, scanning the lines of the ceiling. When she reached the elevators, she circled the central core, measuring with her eyes. Large abstract paintings dominated the walls and the lighting was such that one's attention was irresistibly drawn from one artwork to the next.

“It would help if I knew what you were looking for,” I said.

“I know how his mind works. There's something here he doesn't want us to see. Let's try his office.”

I wanted to protest but knew she wasn't listening.

Beck's corner location was prime—spacious, with clear cherry paneling and the same footstep-muffling green carpeting. The room was furnished with low-slung chrome-and-leather chairs of the sort that require winch and pulley action to remove yourself once you've been foolish enough to sit. His desktop was black slate, a curious surface unless he favored doing his long division in chalk along the length. Reba used the same tissue to avoid leaving latent prints on his desk drawers. I loitered uneasily in the doorway.

Dissatisfied, she pivoted. She studied every aspect of the room and finally crossed to the paneled wall, where she tapped her way across, listening for evidence of a hollow space behind. At one point, she activated a touch latch and a door sprang open, but the only treasure revealed was his liquor supply, complete with cut glass decanters and assorted glasses. She said, “Shit.” She pushed the door shut and returned to his desk. She sat in his swivel chair and did a second survey from that vantage point.

“Would you hurry up?” I hissed. “Marty could show up any minute, wondering where we went.”

She pushed the chair back and leaned down so she could examine the underside of his desk. She extended her hand, almost to the length of her arm. I wasn't sure what she'd discovered and I didn't care to be a witness. I stepped out into the hall and looked toward the reception area. So far no Marty. Idly I noted the fact that the paintings were graduated in size with the largest near the elevators and the smaller ones, in diminishing proportions back here. From the viewpoint of a visitor, the effect would be to create the illusion of corridors much longer than they were—an amusing trompe l'oeil effect.

Reba emerged from Beck's office and grabbed me by the elbow, steering me toward the wide stairs that led up to the roof.

“What's up there besides the roof garden?”

“That's why we're going up—because we don't know,” she said. She took the steps two at a time and I kept pace with her. A glass door at the top opened into a fully landscaped garden: trees, shrubs, and flower beds separated by gravel paths that meandered out of sight. Landscape lighting made the whole of it glow. Chairs and umbrella-shaded tables were placed in assorted patios that were dotted throughout. A four-foot wall encircled the perimeter with dazzling city views in all directions.

Central to the garden was what looked like a gardener's cottage, the exterior encompassed by trellises on which gaudy passionflower vines wound up and across, thick with purple blossoms. There was a sign half-concealed in the profusion of greenery. Curious, I pulled the foliage aside.

“What is it?” she asked.

“‘Danger. High Voltage.' There's a phone number for the building supervisor if work needs to be done. Must be a transformer or maybe part of the electrical service. Who knows? I guess it could be housing for the elevators, along with central heating and air conditioning. You have to put stuff like that somewhere.” The little building seemed to hum in a way that suggested you'd be fried to a crisp if you made one wrong move.

From the stairway, Marty called up to us. “Hey, Reba?”

“Up here.”

“I don't mean to rush you, but we ought to get going. Beck doesn't like strangers on the premises.”

“I'm hardly a stranger, Marty. I'm his favorite screw.”

“Yeah, well, he'll be pissed anyway and take it out on me.”

“No problem. We're ready anytime you are,” she said, and then to me: “Take your car keys and wallet out of your shoulder bag and leave it behind that thing.”

“My bag? I'm not going to leave my shoulder bag. Are you nuts?”

“Do it.”

Marty appeared at the top of the stairs, apparently not trusting us to come down the stairs on our own. He leaned against the stair rail, his breathing stertorous from the climb. Reba crossed to the landing and linked her arm into his, turning to admire the mountains visible in the distance. “What a view! Perfect setting for an office party.”

Marty took out a handkerchief and wiped his face, which was glistening with perspiration. “We haven't done that so far. Good weather, the gals eat their lunch out here and grab a little sun. Bad days, they use the break room like they did at the old place, only this one's fancier.”

“The break room? I didn't see that.”

“I can show you on the way out.”

Reba turned to me. “Everything okay?”

“Right behind you,” I said.

The two started down the stairs. Grousing to myself, I'd done as she'd instructed, removing my keys and wallet from my bag, which I shoved behind a big potted ficus tree. I hoped she knew what she was doing because I sure as shit didn't. Looking back wistfully, I moved toward the stairs.

I caught up with them in what looked like a midsize kitchen. Sink, dishwasher, two microwaves, a side-by-side refrigerator-freezer, and two vending machines, one with soft drinks, the other with candy bars, potato chips, peanut butter crackers, cookies, packages of nuts, and other fatty snacks. There was a large table in the center of the room surrounded by chairs.

“Is this great?” she said.

I said, “Swell.”

“You ready?” Marty asked me.

“Sure. I'm fine. It's been fun.”

“Good. Let me get my briefcase and I can lock up.”

The three of us proceeded down the hall toward the elevators. As Marty passed his office, he ducked out of sight and reappeared with his briefcase. Reba leaned around the door frame. “Nice office. Did you do this yourself?”

“Oh god, no. Beck hired a design firm to handle everything, except the plants. We have another company for those.”

“Pretty highfalutin,” she remarked.

We watched as Marty pushed the elevator button, calling the car from down below. While we waited, Reba pointed to a third elevator on the far side of the reception desk.

“What's that one for?”

“Service elevator. It's mostly for hauling cartons up and down, file cabinets, furniture, stuff like that. We have fifteen, twenty firms on these three upper floors. That's a lot of office supplies and copy machines. Plus, the cleaning crew uses it when they come in.”

“Bart and his brother still work weekends?”

“Fridays, same as ever. They'll be coming in at midnight,” he said.

“Nice to know some things don't change. The rest is a major upgrade. Might know Beck would do that as soon as I'm out the door.”

The elevator arrived and the doors slid open. Marty reached around and pressed the Door Open button while he entered the alarm system code on the keypad to the right. Reba displayed only cursory interest. Once the three of us got on, Marty released the button and pressed 1 for the first floor. We descended without saying much, all three of us watching the digital floor numbers flash from 4 to 3 to 2 to 1.

As we emerged, the doors to one of the two elevators in the alcove opened and a two-man cleaning crew emerged with their cart and loaded a vacuum cleaner, assorted brooms and mops, industrial-size bottles of cleaning solutions, and packets of paper toweling to resupply the restrooms. Both wore coveralls with a company logo stitched across the back. One gave Willard a nod and he returned a one-finger salute. Reba watched the two men cross the alcove and enter the service elevator.

“What are they up to?”

Marty shrugged. “Beats me. I think they work on two.”

The doors closed behind them and the three of us continued to the entrance while Willard made a note of our departure time with the same blank stare he'd given us before. Marty didn't bother to nod his good-byes, but Reba gave Willard a merry finger wave. “Thanks, Willie. Nighty-night.”

He hesitated and then lifted a hand.

“Did you see that? True love,” she said.