Гарри Алекзандер: Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 128, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 781 & 782, September/October 2006

“I know most builders prefer new construction—”

“It’s not that. Ordinarily, I prefer old buildings to new ones. They have character. Personalities. Sometimes on a night shift you can almost hear them whispering stories about the people they’ve sheltered, the lives they’ve touched.”

“That’s very poetic.”

“For a north-woods roughneck, you mean.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Didn’t have to. Going up.” Tapping the control, Shea took them up the last five feet, halting just below the ceiling.

No hesitation on Lydia’s part. Sliding her fingers between the acoustic tile and its metal support frame, she carefully lifted the panel upward, easing it aside.

Frowning, she looked at her fingertips.

“What is it?” Shea asked.

She shook her head. Taking a penlight out of her smock pocket, she stood on her tiptoes, her head and shoulders disappearing into the dark opening. Light flickering as she played it about. Taking a small digital camera out of her pocket, she prepared to shoot, then hesitated.

“Mr. Shea,” she said quietly, “are the Chapel doors open?”

“What?”

“The Chapel doors,” she hissed, her voice barely above a whisper, “are they open?”

“Um... yes, they are. Why?”

But Lydia had already stepped up again, her head and shoulders invisible above the ceiling. Lightning flickered as she snapped photographs — and then she suddenly ducked out of the hole, dropping to her hands and knees on the platform.

“Take us down!” Dark forms flashed out of the opening, circling wildly around the platform in a widening circle of madness.

Bats! Dozens of them, pouring out of the ceiling in a torrent! Lydia recoiled as one bounced off her shoulder, slipped, and nearly slid under the railing. Shea’s heart froze. They were thirty feet up and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do but duck and jam the down button!

Regaining her balance, Lydia stayed crouched as the Skyjack continued its slow descent.

More bats were pouring through the gap, joining the cloud wheeling overhead. A few discovered the open doors and rocketed out to freedom. More followed, dive-bombing Shea and Lydia as they frantically fled toward the exit.

“Come on, damn it!” he shouted, cursing the control panel. Twenty feet, fifteen, ten — a bat smacked Lydia in the back of the head, tangled in her hair, wings beating frantically, fighting to escape.

Thrashing about, desperately trying to brush it away, Lydia stumbled against the rail, losing her balance. Lunging across the platform, Shea grabbed her by the waist, pulling her back and tossing the bat aside before the force of his rush carried them down.

Shea hit the platform deck flat on his back, banging his head on the corrugated steel, yet somehow held on to her waist, breaking her fall. For a split second his world winked out, then slowly faded back in. As the haze cleared, he realized he was holding Lydia Ford a foot above him, his hands clamped firmly on her rib cage.

Her face was soot-smudged, her blond mop tousled, eyes glistening with excitement. And he made no move to let her go.

“Are you okay?” they said together, then smiled. Together.

“I think you just saved my life,” Lydia said at last.

“No charge.” And still he didn’t let her go.

“What’s all the racket — whoa!” Puck said, ducking as a pair of bats flashed past him through the doorway. “Where the hell did they come from?”

“Above the false ceiling,” Lydia said, getting up, brushing herself off. “They’ve been there for years. A lot of guano’s scattered around.”

“What were you two doin’ — figurin’ to do about them bats?” Puck amended as Shea shot him a look.

“They shouldn’t be a problem,” Lydia said, taking a breath. “Smoke canisters above the tiles will drive them out if we leave the doors open. Once the ceiling comes down, they won’t be back.”

“Whoa up, what are you talking about?” Shea said. “There’s nothing wrong with that ceiling. It’s the only thing in the place that’s intact.”

“But it’s not original. It’s barely fifty years old.”

“Wow, only fifty? Excuse me if that seems like a lot. I wasn’t born yet. Tearing those tiles down will add a week to the schedule plus the expense of repairing whatever’s above it, plus we’ll all be wearing respirators for a month because bat crap’s poisonous. There’s no room for any of that in the budget.”

“The budget’s my problem, Mr. Shea. The only added cost will be the labor to take down the tiles. The original ceiling is still in place. Embossed metal plates, circa eighteen ninety, in practically mint condition.”

“Great. If they’ve lasted a damn century then let’s leave ’em for the next remodeling project. I’ve got a full boat already.”

“It’s not your call,” Lydia said firmly. “It’s mine and I just made it. The tiled ceiling goes.”

Dan opened his mouth to argue, then wheeled and stalked off.

“Wait a minute,” she called after him. “Can’t we talk about this? At least look at the pictures I took of the old ceiling.”

“What’s the point? You’re right, it’s your call. Except I think you forgot I don’t work for you, Mrs. Ford. We’ll see what Arroyo has to say about this.”

“Fine by me.”

“One more thing: If you ride the Skyjack again, be really careful. Next time, I’ll let you fall.”

They avoided each other the rest of the day, which wasn’t difficult in the chaos of construction. At five, Arroyo stopped by for his daily update and they adjourned to the office, where Lydia popped her laptop open and quickly brought up the new photographs she’d taken.

“As you can see, the original ceiling is still intact. It’s also nearly four feet higher than the acoustic tiles, giving the room a massively larger look. On television, it will be spectacular. Timeless.”

“It’s certainly striking,” Arroyo said drily. “Your opinion, Mr. Shea?”

Dan hesitated. “No opinion,” he said curtly. “Not my call.”

“I see. Well, to be honest, I’m not sure. Perhaps we can discuss it over dinner, Mrs. Ford? I find a little social time with my employees makes the job go smoother. All work and no play, as they say.”

“Dinner would be lovely,” Lydia said. “Of course, Mr. Shea and I will have to change, we’re hardly ready for prime time. Why don’t you have your wife join us? Make a real party of it.”

Arroyo eyed her coolly a moment, then shrugged. “Unfortunately, I seem to be running a bit late. Another time, perhaps. As for the ceiling, you’re right, it will look very dramatic on camera. Tear down the tiles, Mr. Shea.” And he was gone.

Lydia was staring at Shea.

“What?”

“Know something, Shea? Discussing things over supper isn’t a half-bad idea. Except for the part about dressing up. Paddy Ryan’s? My treat?”

They took the booth with a view of the Chapel. Sam brought them coffee, jotted down their orders, and left them to it.

“Does that happen a lot?” Shea asked. “Clients hitting on you, I mean?”

“Why? Do you find the idea so incredible?”

“Of course not. And you handled it well, it’s just that... Look, can we straighten something out? Seems like every time we have a conversation, we end up arguing. I don’t know what’s wrong, personality clash, miscommunication, whatever. But I don’t like it.”

“Nor do I. Maybe it’s the generation gap.”

“Nuts to that. It’s only nine years, maybe less.”

“What is?”

“Your famous generation gap, Mrs. Ford. I looked you up on the Internet. Assuming you were eighteen when you graduated from high school, you’re nine years older than I am.”