Ridley Pearson - The Body of David Hayes

Thinking more clearly than she, he said, “I’ll take your cell phone.”

She reached into her purse and took hold of the phone, offering it but not yet passing it to him. “Will you? And what will you say to Svengrad when he calls? You need his wire information or you don’t have a case against him. Isn’t that right?”

“You must have that information by now.”

“I do not,” she told him, wondering as his face tightened further if she’d given him too much information. This was Lou’s world, Danny Foreman’s world, not hers. She started her phone back toward her purse but Foreman took it from her.

“All the more reason you need me,” he said, pocketing it.

She needed the phone. Special Ops would be watching all calls from and to the bank’s phones; she didn’t want to be “caught” dialing Lou’s cell phone number. She also still expected the call from Svengrad. Not to mention Lou.

“There are security cameras inside this room with the servers,” Foreman said. “Riz has cameras aimed at both keyboards in case the key-tracking software fails.”

Liz realized he was just talking this through. He was right; she’d been briefed on the locations of these cameras as well.

“Lou worked it out, didn’t he?” She waited to see what he was getting at.

“LaRossa gave Hayes a way to monitor your security cameras,” he said, theorizing. “Svengrad hasn’t called you because he knows you’re not in the restricted room yet. He’s waiting for your move.” He paused. “You did or did not use your own ID when you entered tonight?”

Liz had thought her use of Tony LaRossa’s ID had been to hide her from Special Ops, not from Svengrad. Only now did she sense that Lou had this second motive in mind as well. She clutched her purse, as Foreman reached for it. She felt an urgent need to protect Lou’s plan, whatever it was. “There is a security camera in this hall. I do know that. You’ll be on camera if you come with me. This may take me a minute.” She tore herself free from Foreman’s grip.

She turned and stepped out, and Foreman followed. Together they walked down the hall to its dead-end fire-stairs door. Liz’s mind raced to find a way around this. Foreman remained a half step behind her and to her left. She couldn’t turn and outrun him. She needed a break, a way to put even a few seconds between them, seconds in which he would not miss her.

At the galley she introduced Foreman to the caterer as “a law enforcement officer.” Liz explained he needed a cover, and that she’d thought of his taking the place of one of the waiters for just a few minutes.

“He’d need a white shirt and tie,” the woman replied.

“I’m aware of that,” Liz said. “That’s why we’re speaking to you.”

The woman sized up Foreman like a fashion designer. She said, “Let me talk to Michael. He’s about your size.”

A few agonizing minutes later Foreman faced a young man carrying a white shirt and bow tie. “We’ll use the office,” Foreman said, indicating the door down the hall. “Wait here,” he said to Liz.

Foreman and the waiter moved down the hall and entered the office to exchange shirts and let Foreman tie the tie. He left the office door ajar to prevent her from slipping past.

Liz winced a smile. The mouse had walked willingly into the trap, all of his own accord.

Liz drew the caterer close and whispered, “When he asks, you tell him you had your back turned and didn’t see which way I went.”

Before surprise had a chance to fade from the caterer’s expression, Liz gently pushed against the stairway door’s panic bar, then threw her hip into pushing it open and slipped out. Cool air slapped her face. Her limbs and chest went feverish with adrenaline. At the bottom of these stairs was freedom, and for a moment that temptation weighed on her like gravity.

Before she reached the first landing, she heard a flurry of footsteps from below. Someone-security, probably-was coming up. Coincidence? she wondered. A random security check? Or had LaRossa’s ID triggered a full-scale search? If a search, they wouldn’t be busting through the front doors of a formal party but using the stairs, as she now heard so clearly. She debated returning to the relative safety of the twenty-fifth floor behind her. The footfalls continued to climb toward her, and at a pace that indicated someone in shape, reinforcing her belief it was a security guard. At last, with nowhere to turn, she stiffened her posture, took hold of the railing, and descended- walked -one hand on the rail. She was one of the five most powerful people at WestCorp, and this building belonged to WestCorp-at least for a few more minutes.

Bobbie Gaynes rounded the landing in the black-and-white uniform of the caterers. “Mrs. B.,” she said, clearly surprised. “What’s wrong?”

“Danny Foreman’s up there.” She explained her predicament and what she needed from Gaynes, speaking quickly and in a hushed voice.

“Okay then,” Gaynes said, when Liz had finished.

“You can’t get onto twenty-five without an ID card-from this side, the stairs. It’s restricted access.”

“So I’ll pound until someone opens up,” Gaynes said.

“If that doesn’t work…” Liz fished into Daphne’s purse and passed Gaynes the LaRossa ID, telling her to use it, “But only if no one opens the door for you. And if Danny asks if you saw me… ”

“Foreman doesn’t know me. I’ll just be a waitress who sneaked out for a smoke and got locked out.” She added, “Hopefully the caterer goes along with that.”

The women reached out and grabbed each other’s forearm at the same time. It seemed an awkward gesture to Liz, somewhere between a handshake and a hug, but she was grateful for the contact. “Five minutes, tops,” Liz reminded.

“Got it.” Gaynes bounded up the stairs effortlessly.

Liz turned and hurried down to twenty-four, believing she still had a chance to accomplish the transfer on time. Floor twenty-four lacked the security of the data department immediately above. Liz passed into a darkened corridor, switching on the lights and running through the maze of hallways. Inside, the pounding of her heart counted the passing seconds; the lighting of the cake and the darkening of the room were only minutes away.

When Boldt saw the first set of lights appear in the windows on the twenty-fourth floor, his first thought was housecleaning. But then another string, and a third string illuminated, and the short time between them suggested someone in a hurry, and his blood rushed to his face. It looked as if security were chasing someone. He thought of Gaynes and Liz.

At that same moment, the police-band radio sang with exchanges between the command van and Special Ops officers who had failed to locate Liz inside the theater, frustrated and limited in their effort by the darkness and the audience’s penchant for jumping to its feet in spontaneous song. Judging by the growing agitation in Riz’s voice, he sensed he’d lost his mark and feared his surveillance had failed, which in turn reflected directly on him and his ability to lead. Riz was a smart, capable cop. Soon he’d be checking with his people already in the bank, those assigned to watch the security monitors. How much longer until Liz was spotted, and what would the repercussions be?

The string of lights now stretched entirely across the twenty-fourth floor. Boldt craned his neck and put his face to the windshield to see.

Unable to tolerate another minute of this, and understanding the need for someone to distract Riz’s people from seeing Liz on a security camera, Boldt left his Crown Vic and marched through a light drizzle toward WestCorp Center, well aware that as he did so, he became a target of his own surveillance.