Читать книгу The Elevator - Angela Hunt - Страница 14

After dodging traffic cops, gyrating stoplights and barricades, Michelle pulls onto North Tampa and squints through the blurred arc made by her windshield wipers. Is that a perfect line of empty parking spaces on the street? She’s been renting office space in the Lark Tower for two years, but until now she’s never been able to park on the curb.

She whips her car into a prime spot, then pushes the car door into the steady rain. Flurries of paper and leaves fly past her in a pirouetting whirlwind that tugs at the canopies of the neatly trimmed live oaks. The radio weathercaster has been predicting intermittent rain for the next several hours, with increasing wind speeds until well after sunset.

Michelle grabs an empty Applebee’s take-out bag and holds it over her head as she dashes toward the lobby entrance, her raincoat rippling and snapping in the wind.

Maybe she’s crazy for coming here. Lauren would certainly think so, but Lauren has a ring on her finger and a date on the caterer’s books. More to the point, Lauren’s biological clock is running at least five years behind Michelle’s.

Though she’s almost positive Parker is preparing to propose, she can’t let this opportunity for action slip away. The threat of an imminent hurricane ought to make it easy for him to get serious about drawing his loved ones close, but the man might need a nudge toward matrimony. If this wild weather isn’t enough to make him think about his responsibility to her as well as his children, her ultimatum should be.

The rising wind whooshes past her, clawing at the Applebee’s bag and whipping her raincoat around her frame. She nearly falls on the rain-slicked pavement near the building entrance, but catches the brass bar on a lobby door. The door seems heavier today, and she struggles against it until the wind pries the Applebee’s bag from her fingers and whips it across the street, then releases it like a free-floating parachute. With both hands she pushes against the door until it moves, but a gust of wind follows her into the building, rattling the leaves of two potted ficus trees standing guard at the perimeter of the lobby.

Flustered, she shakes water from her hair and looks around. The sandwich shop, florist, bank and office center are all locked and closed, their interiors dark. No one sits in the lounge chairs scattered among the massive bowls of bromeliads, but she glimpses movement at the security station beyond the reception area.

Good to know she’s not alone in the building.

After wiping raindrops from her face, she settles her wet purse on her shoulder and strides toward the security guard, who is talking to a woman in a tan trench coat. She calls out a greeting as she heads toward the elevator landing. “Surprised to see you this morning, Gus.”

“Miss Tilson, wait.” Stepping away from the woman in the trench coat, the guard lifts his arm to hold her attention. “We’re urging all tenants to evacuate immediately. Haven’t you seen the news?”

She gestures toward the elevators. “I’ll only be a few minutes. I need to run upstairs and pick up a file.”

“Come on, now.” Gus hikes up his belt and gives her a look of paternal disapproval. “You shouldn’t even be downtown in this weather. We’re locking the building at ten and I’m not supposed to let any visitors into the office areas.”

Her mouth twists in an expression that’s not quite a smile. When will he realize she doesn’t need his protection? “I’m not a visitor, Gus, I’m a paying tenant and I need to go to my office.”

“But, Miss Tilson—”

“That storm is hours away and I’ll only be a few minutes. Thanks for your concern, but I’m going upstairs.”

Gus’s features crumple with frustration, but he retreats to his stool.

Michelle walks to the express elevators and presses the call button, then crosses her arms. According to the lit panels above the doors, one car is on the second level of the parking garage; the others are scattered among floors twenty-five through thirty-six.

The woman in the trench coat steps onto the carpet at the landing and catches Michelle’s eye. “Tilson?” she asks. “Tilson Corporate Careers?”

Michelle gives her a perfunctory smile. “Yes.”

“Ah.” The woman nods and looks away. “I’ve seen your name on the registry.”

Michelle frowns, wondering if she should know this woman, but then the light above the middle car shifts from thirty-six to thirty-five.

Could Parker be on his way down?

After pressing the button that will take her to the maintenance department, Isabel turns and drops her forehead to the elevator’s back wall. What is she going to do? If the authorities find out what happened, they might arrest her, maybe even put her in prison. She has tried her best to avoid trouble, but trouble seems to find her at every turn, even in los Estados Unidos.

Ernesto said she wouldn’t be able to run forever, but she has to try. Again. She and Carlos and Rafael must go someplace where they will never be found.

As the elevator descends with a smooth whoosh, Isabel feels a rush of gratitude for its speed. If this were a weekday morning, the building would be so crowded it would take forever for the express to travel from the top of the building to the custodial office on the seventh floor. Today, however, the elevator escorts her to the lower level without interruption.

The bronze doors slide open, revealing a concrete hallway, scraped walls, dented lockers and another cleaning cart—

No.

Isabel’s hand flies to her mouth. She left her cart in Rossman’s outer office. Anyone who sees it will know she was there…and might guess why she left in a panic.

As the elevator door begins to close, she thrusts out her arm and stops it.

What should she do? She could clock out, go to her car and drive home. She’d have to beg Carlos to leave the area because he wouldn’t want to go, not with the hurricane coming. Driving on old tires in a storm would be dangerous.

But how can they escape when la policía are positioned throughout the city? They will stop the car and they will want to know why Carlos waited so long to leave. Carlos is a good man; he will not lie and Isabel will not allow him to lie for her. So she will tell the truth, and they will put her in jail and tell the attorney general that a criminal has been working under his nose all these many months….

She can’t run, not today. She will have to wait, talk to Carlos, pray that the authorities never learn that she was in Rossman’s office this morning.

So she must go back upstairs and get her cart.

When the elevator buzzes to protest the prolonged stop, Isabel takes a half step back and allows the doors to close. As the car begins to move, she returns to the back wall and presses her hand to her chest, where a bulky, cold lump is scraping against her breastbone. Things will be all right. She can get her cart, return it to the seventh floor, clock out and go home. Her secret will keep; no one will know for hours, maybe days.

A chill shivers her skin when the car stops on the ground floor. The lobby.

¿Qué pasa? Her thoughts whirl in a rush, then she remembers: she forgot to push the button. Someone in the lobby must have called the elevator, and this was the closest car.

Though it hurts to draw breath, Isabel reminds herself to stay calm and keep her head down. She can’t let anyone see the distress in her eyes or her trembling hands. Fortunately, few people in this place ever really see her. They pass in an office or hallway and notice her no more than they notice the potted plants or the exit signs above every stairwell doorway.

She steps to the far right corner of the car as the bronze doors open. Mi querido Dios, let me remain alone a little longer….

God must not be listening. The sweet scent of perfume reaches her nostrils as dos gringas enter the car.

Isabel holds her breath as the first woman, a slim brunette, pulls out her access card, slips it into the security slot and presses the button for thirty-six.

The other woman stands silent against the left wall, her hands shoved into the pockets of her tan coat. The lump in Isabel’s chest grows heavier when the second woman does not move to press any of the elevator’s many buttons.

Are they all riding to the thirty-sixth floor?

Michelle smiles at the woman who followed her into the car. “Can I press a button for you?”

The woman shifts her gaze from the elevator panel to Michelle’s face. “No, thank you.” Her shoulder-length hair, a vibrant shade of red, is far drier than Michelle’s, so she must have parked in the garage.

Smart lady.

Out in the lobby, Gus has left his station and is rocking toward them on stiff hips. “Ladies, I have to close this building and leave by ten, so I really must advise—”

Michelle is about to ratchet the argument up a notch when the redhead steps forward and jabs the Door Close button. The doors slide together before the security guard can reach them.

Michelle laughs. “He really doesn’t want us to go upstairs.”

The other woman shrugs. “I really don’t care what he wants.”

“I think we’re all a little on edge today.” Michelle glances at the cleaning woman at the back of the car, but she seems to be studying the floor. A pink portable CD player is clipped to her sweater pocket, and from it a gray wire snakes toward her head and ends in a pair of earbuds.

Michelle snorts softly and turns back toward the front of the car. No wonder the housekeeper is oblivious. She probably hasn’t heard a word they’ve said.

She pulls the edges of her raincoat together as the express elevator begins its ascent. Time to focus on Parker. In a moment she’ll be face-to-face with the man who could be the love of her life. She’ll hear what he has to say and he’ll listen to her.

After he hears her challenge, he’ll either react with joy, indifference or irritation. Maybe he’s been waiting for her to state her willingness to start a family; maybe he’s never guessed that a successful career woman might want a husband and children.

On the other hand…maybe he thinks three children are enough. Maybe he’s done a little digging in her past and he doesn’t want her to play any role in his kids’ lives. Maybe he doesn’t want a wife because he’s content with a part-time lover.

If he’s that narrow-minded, she’ll either win him over or she’ll move on. But she will not worry about the future. Since becoming independent, she’s never encountered an obstacle she couldn’t overcome…one way or another.

Gina stares at the bronze elevator panel and struggles to corral her racing thoughts. The best-laid plans of mice and men often go awry….

Who said that, Shakespeare? No. Burns, but not in those exact words. Saikaku, that Japanese poet, phrased it another way: there is always something to upset the most careful of human calculations.

She should have allowed for Murphy’s law, chaos theory, whatever they’re calling it these days. She should have realized the security guard might give her a hard time. She should have considered the possibility that other people might share a ride in the elevator.

She had been certain the thirty-sixth floor would be deserted by the time she arrived, but these two women are on their way to that same landing.

In this situation, three is definitely a crowd.

Gathering up the pearls at her throat, Gina cuts a glance to the woman across the car. The tall and slender stranger holds herself like a model or a dancer. Miss Tilson, the guard called her, and Gina recognized the name from an office on the thirty-sixth floor. What else had she said? She’d come to pick up a file?

Must be a terribly important client.

The brunette, who has closed her eyes and is leaning against the wall, doesn’t notice Gina’s scrutiny. She’s wearing jeans, but they’re adorned with a designer logo and the blouse beneath the raincoat has the soft sheen of silk. Her nails are short and neatly trimmed, her glasses tortoiseshell, her hair a chic brown cap. Even in denim and sneakers, the woman radiates success. She’s the type to notice things…so she’s one to avoid.

When the maid coughs, the brunette lifts her head and Gina hastily looks away. She’d give anything to be invisible at this moment, but she’ll settle for remaining anonymous.

She leans against the wall and peers over her shoulder at the thick Hispanic woman in the pink uniform. The maid is studying the floor—maybe she resents the water dripping off the brunette’s raincoat. Gina lifts a brow at the sight of the earbuds—what’s she listening to, mariachi music? In any case, she must be doing well. The managers of the Lark Tower take good care of their employees, even the foreigners.

She shifts her gaze as she thinks of the Hispanic families Sonny has insured over the years. Many of the Cubans in Tampa’s Ybor City are quite prosperous; she’s lost count of the quinceañeras she and Sonny have attended to celebrate the fifteenth birthdays of clients’ daughters. Those people spare no expense to honor their blossoming young women; they spend buckets of money on food, bands and party dresses.

If only they spent as much insuring their belongings and their loved ones. How many will be adequately covered if Felix rips their homes apart?

Gina folds her arms. Ordinarily she wouldn’t be aware of the other passengers in an elevator, but today she needs to notice everything. If the police ever launch an investigation into Sonny’s death, they’ll try to track down anyone who was in the building today.

The maid is not likely to be a threat. Many of Tampa’s Hispanics are transient; this woman may not even be around by the time Sonny’s case is investigated.

No need to worry about the maid, then. The brunette is a different story. With her, Gina should be polite, but detached. She should stay calm and try not to do anything that might stick in the woman’s memory.

She slides her right hand back into her pocket and curls her fingers around the pistol. She will warm it with her flesh, prepare it for the task ahead.

She must be patient and courageous. In less than five minutes she’ll be facing her husband; in less than ten minutes he’ll be dead.

She frowns at a sudden thought. How thick are the walls in this building? If either of these women hears the shot, will they assume they are hearing some noise associated with the approaching storm or will they run for help? Gina has never heard a live gunshot, but she’s read that distant gunfire often sounds like firecrackers. Surely no one would think it remarkable to hear a vague pop or two amid the howling of the wind.

She tilts her head and looks at the two women—neither of them look like the hero type, but maybe she ought to sit and chat Sonny up while these ladies do whatever they’ve come up here to do. Fifteen minutes of polite talk about the kids ought to be enough time…. Or maybe she should let Sonny know she found his secrets in the safe. After he’s had a chance to rattle off his excuses and protestations, she can give him the bullet he deserves.

A wry smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. Letting Sonny have a last word…why, that’d be more than fair. That’d be absolutely honorable.

After the deed is done, she might linger in Sonny’s office, giving the hurricane time to move closer. The police are already so strained it’s unlikely anyone will be dispatched if a shot is reported, but she shouldn’t take any chances.

While she waits, she’ll wipe her prints off the pistol and drop it on the floor. No one will think it strange that a successful downtown businessman was carrying his legal, registered weapon on a day like this. The scenario will make perfect sense—looters caught her workaholic husband in his office after the building had been evacuated. Sonny pulled out his gun; a trespasser wrested it away from him; Sonny caught a bullet. The murderer wiped the weapon clean and dropped it before leaving the office suite.

What could be more logical?

So she will proceed with her plan…even if it means spending an extra hour with a dead husband. Sonny’s been dead to her these last few months, anyway. When he does come home, he spends his time in his den, watching TV and reading the paper….

She can’t remember the last time he looked into her eyes and asked her opinion about anything.

Like that mother who drowned her children and then lined them up on the bed, Gina might pull Sonny into his executive chair, adjust his tie and roll him closer to the vulnerable windows. The windows might break in the storm, and water would do its part to eradicate any trace evidence she might leave—

She blinks as the overhead lights flicker and the elevator shudders to a stop. She looks at the panel—the thirty-six has gone dark. The seven is still lit, but they’ve been traveling far too long to be near the seventh floor. Because the twenty-five has not yet lit, she can only assume they have stopped somewhere between the seventh and twenty-fifth floors.

The brunette looks up and catches her eye. “This can’t be good.”

Gina doesn’t answer. As long as the lights remain on, they have power. As long as they have power, surely the elevator can move.

Without speaking, she steps in front of the brunette and presses the button for the thirty-sixth floor. The button won’t light and the car doesn’t budge.

“Let’s try this.” The brunette pulls her access card from the pocket of her jeans and slips it into the slot, then presses the thirty-six with a manicured fingertip. As some unseen power source hums, the car begins to rise.

Gina exhales the breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding. The brunette leans against the far wall and grimaces. “That’d be just what we need, wouldn’t it?”

Gina watches the elevator panel. They’re still rising in the concrete shaft, but the twenty-five has not yet lit.

Behind her, the cleaning woman barks another cough. Gina grimaces and hopes the maid doesn’t have avian flu or some other awful disease. Ventilation is terrible in elevators; what one person exhales, another inhales.

She stares at the twenty-five on the elevator panel, willing the button to light.

The brunette lifts her head, doubtless about to utter some other scintillating bon mot, then the lights flicker again; the elevator stops and darkness swallows the car.