Tarnished Image (39 page)

At least this guy has something on the ball
, Calvin thought. “I’m Calvin Overstreet, Dr. David O’Neal’s attorney. You’ll find me in the database.”

“One moment, Mr. Overstreet,” the night watchman said. He sat down and keyed something into the computer.

Calvin heard the opening of a door. He turned to see another guard enter the lobby from the stairwell.
The guard from the parking structure
, Calvin reasoned.
Good. At least he’s responsive.

The night watchman studied Calvin closely, then did the same to the picture of Calvin that had popped up on the computer screen.

“You check out, Mr. Overstreet.”

“Thank you.” Calvin turned to the young guard who had followed him into the lobby. “Do you see how this is done?”

The older guard nodded at the one who had come through the door and who now promptly turned and went back downstairs to his post. “How can I help you, Mr. Overstreet?”

“There were supposed to be more guards added tonight. Do you know why that hasn’t happened?”

“No, sir, that’s the first I’ve heard of it.”

“Where’s the supervising guard?”

“He accompanied Ms. LaCroix up to her office.”

Calvin was nonplussed. “What? Why would Kristen need to be—” He paused. “Are you saying that she had been outside the building?”

“Yes, of course.”

“That must have been the woman I saw,” the young man said.

“That doesn’t make sense. She wasn’t supposed to leave the building.” Calvin thought for a moment. “Are you sure it was Kristen LaCroix?”

The older guard nodded. “I don’t know her well, but who could forget that red hair? I may be a senior citizen, Mr. Overstreet, but I ain’t dead. Besides, she was in the database.”

“And you say the supervisor accompanied her up to her office?”

“Yes. She had forgotten her card key, and—”

“She didn’t have a card key?”

“No, she said she forgot it at home.”

This wasn’t right. Calvin wondered why Kristen would leave the building, then come back at such a late hour. “How long ago did all this happen?”

“Maybe twenty minutes. Perhaps as much as a half-hour.”

“And he’s not back?”

“Well now, that is odd.”

“Can you phone her office from here?” Calvin asked urgently.

“Yes, but I’d hate to disturb her.”

“Disturb her,” demanded Calvin. “I’ll take responsibility.”

“OK.” The night watchman picked up the phone. “Let’s see,” he said as he scanned a list of extensions that had been taped to the telephone. He punched in a number.

“Let me have the phone,” Calvin said. The guard relinquished the receiver to him. Calvin listened as the phone rang and rang. “No answer.”

“Maybe she’s in the head or something,” the young guard said.

Calvin glowered at him. “Are you willing to take that chance?” He returned his attention to the man behind the counter. “Punch up her apartment. She’s staying in employee apartment twelve.”

The guard did as he was told. Calvin sighed. He had a bad feeling about this. A very haunting, fearful feeling.

When the elevator doors parted on the fifty-third floor, Aldo was in a crouched, three-point stance, the Beretta pointing out the opening, ready to fire. He knew that at least one guard would be on this floor. He could not allow him to radio an alert.

No one was there.

Aldo straddled the threshold between the elevator cab and the lobby, his gun pointing forward. The elevator doors started to close but immediately opened again when the sensors
detected his presence. Aldo listened quietly, wondering if the ding of the arriving elevator had alerted the guard.

Nothing.

He stepped back into the elevator, seized the packing tape he had used earlier to block the light sensor, and quickly placed it across the door. The elevator was his escape route, and he wanted it ready when he returned.

Where was the other guard? Aldo could think of only three places: in the rest room down the hall, in the stairwell sleeping or smoking a cigarette, or in O’Neal’s apartment. The stairwell would be the easiest to determine. If the guard went in there, he would have to block the door open. The only doors that opened from the stairwell were the doors that led out to the basement, into the first-floor lobby, into the mechanical room just above this floor and the roof. All other doors were locked as a security precaution. Aldo was sure they would do this, and the guard on the parking level had said as much.

Unlike the floor below, this level had only one corridor that ran the width of the building. From the hours Aldo had spent poring over the plans of the building, he knew every necessary detail.

The stairwell first
, Aldo thought.

With military precision, he moved quickly down the corridor to the stairwell farthest from O’Neal’s apartment. After he had traveled half the distance he stopped. There was no need to go any farther; he could see that the door was closed.

He turned and headed toward the other stairwell. There it was. The door was slightly ajar, propped open by a roll of toilet paper that the guard must have taken from the rest room. The rest room was a redundancy of design. Aldo knew that every floor had the same setup. Even though O’Neal’s
suite was the only part of the floor occupied, the rest rooms remained from the days before Barringston Relief took charge of the upper ten floors. The guard had to be just behind the metal fireproof door. With a catlike stealth, Aldo approached. He paused near the door, his ear inches away from the opening. He could hear the man’s shoes scuff against the concrete landing. The man cleared his throat. The malodor of burning tobacco wafted its way out of the stairwell and into the hall. Aldo smiled to himself. This was going to be easy.

This would have to be quick. A scuffle might be noisy enough for O’Neal to notice. He checked the safety on his gun. It was off. Grabbing the edge of the door, Aldo opened it with a jerk and stepped onto the landing. The guard spun in surprise but had no time to react. The butt of the pistol struck the man on the forehead.

Stunned, he stepped back. His feet came to rest on the edge of the landing, which provided no purchase. He waved his arms wildly trying to regain his balance, but Aldo had no intention of letting that happen. Raising his foot just a few inches off the floor, Aldo kicked an easy fluid motion that struck the guard on the inside of his right ankle and knocked his foot from beneath him.

The man fell backward, landing hard on the concrete treads. Aldo heard the sound of bone breaking. The momentum of the fall forced the guard into a backward somersault. He came to rest on the next landing down of the U-shaped stairs. He didn’t move. From even a half-floor up, Aldo could tell that the guard had breathed his last.

Aldo had not intended to kill the man, but he had made no effort to prevent his death. If the guard died, he died. It made no difference.

Now he had to deal with the other guard, the one trussed up in the elevator. There was a small chance he would come to and make enough noise to attract attention. That would not do at all.

Stepping from the stairwell, Aldo cautiously worked his way back to the elevator, every sense honed and heightened. The guard was still unconscious. Opening the aluminum case, he first removed a narrow knife and quickly cut through the tape that bound the unconscious man’s feet. Bits of tape remained stuck to his pants legs. Aldo released one hand so that the cuffs could be removed from the rail. Aldo wasted no time cuffing the guard again.

Next he pulled an inch-long glass container wrapped in a tight cotton mesh from the aluminum case. It was a vial of ammonium carbonate—smelling salts. The vial broke easily in his hand. He waved the pungent container under the guard’s nose. He groaned, jerked, and then groaned again. A few seconds later, the man’s eyes blinked open.

Aldo watched as the stunned and beaten guard’s expression went from confusion to astonishment to fear.

“Hi,” Aldo said in a sweet, endearing voice. “Remember me? I’m your date for the evening.”

The man started to speak, but the duct tape across his mouth made it impossible. He looked down at his handcuffed wrists. Anger clouded his face.

Grinning, Aldo raised the pistol and pressed it to the guard’s forehead. “Now, now. Let’s not get in a huff. You know how sensitive we girls can be. Stand up!”

With painful slowness, the man struggled to his feet. Aldo kept the Beretta pointed at the guard’s head. He hobbled, his
right leg refusing to support its share of his weight.

“Out of the elevator,” Aldo commanded. His words were quiet in volume but loud and unmistakable in tone. As the man limped across the threshold, Aldo gave him a shove. The man staggered but kept his balance. “One peep out of you and I’ll send a nine-millimeter round through your head. Do you understand?”

The man nodded and walked toward the corridor.

“Turn left,” Aldo ordered. “Move to the stairwell. There’s someone I want you to see.”

Limping as he moved, the guard struggled forward.

When they reached the stairwell Aldo commanded: “Open it. Get inside.” The man hesitated, but Aldo drove his point home by pressing the gun into the back of the guard’s neck. “Now.”

They stepped onto the landing. Aldo made sure the toilet-paper roll remained in its position, propping the door.

The sight of his coworker crumbled in a heap on the intermediate landing below terrified the guard. It also angered him. Despite his taped mouth, he bellowed, turned, and swung his cuffed arms at Aldo’s head. But Aldo was too quick. Ducking just enough so that the guard’s futile swing would miss him, he brought a knee up into the man’s stomach. The guard doubled over.

“Bad mistake,” Aldo said as the guard struggled to catch his breath. “Don’t they teach you guys anything?” Aldo brought another knee up in a vicious kick to the face. The force of the blow righted the man. He stood dazed, swaying like a sapling in a stiff breeze. “You shouldn’t have done that. You really shouldn’t have tried to hit me.”

Aldo raised the gun and squeezed the trigger once.

“I don’t like this.” On the outside, Calvin seemed frustrated and annoyed; on the inside he was terrified. “I’ve tried her office, no answer. I’ve tried the apartment she’s staying in, still no answer.” He paused in thought. “Ring David.”

“David O’Neal?” The older guard asked.

“Yes, David O’Neal. Hurry up. And while I’m on the phone, see if you can’t get hold of the guard up there. Let him know that something may be going down.”

“Got it.”

Calvin’s stomach tightened into a knot as he heard the phone ring. “Come on, David,” he said under his breath. “Pick up.”

Aldo raced back to the elevator, retrieved his case, and quickly walked to the door of the suite. He paused, straightened his pants and blouse, and smoothed out the blue blazer. He also checked the wig he wore.

“Showtime,” he whispered to himself.

He set the case down, knocked on the door, and picked up the case again. He waited.

Nothing.

He knocked again and listened carefully. This time he heard a muted, “Just a minute.” But it was a woman’s voice, not a man’s. Why hadn’t O’Neal answered?