Ridley Pearson - The Body of David Hayes

Liz reached the elevator bank on twenty-four and called an elevator, the wait excruciating. She knew that by now Foreman would be frantically searching for her, probably dressed as a waiter and moving through the guests, tray in hand.

Use of the elevator meant risking identification by the security guard operating the car. Her hope, that the car might arrive filled with smokers or late arrivals, that she might meld into the mix, proved too optimistic. The doors opened and she boarded an otherwise empty car-she and the guard. He stared at her, well briefed.

“Yes, it’s me,” she said, once the doors had closed. The one floor ride would be over quickly.

“I thought so,” he said.

“They probably didn’t tell you about this part,” she said.

He said nothing.

“Don’t blow it by saying something,” she said, just as the doors came open. She walked out, glancing directly at him once more to show him the strength of her conviction.

As the doors shut behind her, she had no idea if her ruse had worked, but she didn’t have the luxury of worrying about it. By the time the guard reported her and the announcement went up the chain, she needed to be sitting in front of the AS/400 making the transfer.

Liz moved through the main door, Charlotte at the table to her right, looking for a tall, African American waiter, so she could steer clear of him.

“Elizabeth Boldt?” a heavily accented voice asked from her left.

She turned to see a big man with a beard and dark, piercing eyes. She lowered her sight to the name tag stuck to his lapel, his name written in a casual cursive, not the calligraphy that her staff had arranged and paid for.

“Yasmani Svengrad,” the man introduced himself, extending his hand.

She found herself rooted, frozen in place. She did not offer to shake his hand, and a moment later he lowered his own.

“S &G Imports. We’re a private banking customer,” he said, naming WestCorp’s elite customer program that required seven-figure net worth. Phillip’s staff, not hers, had handled the invitations to the private banking customers. “Eight ounces,” he said.

“Excuse me?”

“We donated some caviar to tonight’s event. Very last-minute. Eight ounces of Beluga. Another eight of Osetra.”

This explained his receiving an invitation.

This man who had watched her children, who had threatened to expose the videotape, said, “We have interests in common, you and I.” He had yet to take his eyes off her, holding her with that steady stare.

She felt weak, almost faint. Whatever Lou, Foreman, and Riz had thought, none had prepared for this moment. Rather than show her weakness, she fought against the urge to step back, stepping forward instead, nearly touching him. “I share nothing in common with you,” she said while looking him squarely in the eye.

A grin parted the graying beard and mustache. Svengrad was amused by her, nothing more. “A few minutes of your time is all, Elizabeth.” He lowered his head to where she felt his voice as it warmed her neck. “I love how you look in satin,” he said. Standing erect again, he regained that confident smile. He raised his voice. “Yes, I’d love a tour. Please, lead the way.”

Liz caught a signal from Charlotte, who was no longer at the reception desk but standing in the doorway that led back to the hallway where she’d just been with Foreman and the caterer. Charlotte moved her fingers to signal she was about to kill the lights, and Liz nodded, holding up a single finger-one minute-knowing her moment had come.

She walked away and Svengrad followed. They passed through a few knots of conversation until Liz heard her name shouted out. She processed it as Phillip’s voice-a summons from the boss. She turned, waved, and quickly pointed toward Charlotte, then tapped her wrist indicating “time.” To her relief, this proved enough to stop the man. In her peripheral vision, she picked up Danny Foreman, an empty tray held high and carried in front of him. Without making eye contact, she hurried on, Svengrad following. She imagined that behind her Foreman was now plowing through the cocktail party to catch up.

With thirty seconds to go, she navigated past a group of workstations, reaching the glass barrier that contained the first of the AS/400s.

She turned in time to see Foreman in his waiter’s garb, his bow tie crooked on his long neck, hurrying toward them. Liz’s left hand hesitated above the green screen of the palm reader, a book-sized device mounted by the door to the glass room, her own ID card ready in her right. She slipped the edge of the ID card into the card reader.

The lights went out. The guests cooed and turned to face the candle-bright cake that appeared in the doorway at the opposite end of the room. Liz pressed her hand to the screen and watched a small red light turn to green. She heard the click of the electronic latch. Svengrad was now pressed up against her, physically contacting her.

“Wait!” Foreman called, still a few steps off.

The room was all ghostly shadows and cutout silhouettes, the only light from EXIT SIGNS and the distant glow of the cake visible in the reflection off the door’s security glass. A smaller image appeared behind Foreman’s tall silhouette. “Agent Foreman,” the female voice said, “Detective Gaynes, SPD. You’re interfering with a surveillance op.”

Liz used the distraction to pop open the door and slip inside, but with Svengrad immediately behind her and coming through as well. She turned quickly and bumped the man out of the way and hurried to push the door shut. A satisfying click rang out just as Foreman turned from Gaynes and lunged for the door. The thick glass muted whatever Foreman said to the detective, but even in the limited light, Liz saw his fury.

Liz hurried to the door of the neighboring server room, got it open, and turned to pull Svengrad through behind her just as the overhead lights switched back on. A dull electric hum filled the room. The server was a brushed, dark gray. It looked much bigger close up than she remembered. She went to work immediately, having no idea how much fuss Danny Foreman might make, how much trouble he might cause her. She dropped the manila envelope on the floor, slipping the optical disk it contained into the server, grateful that such operations required little of the operator. The disk auto-loaded. A few small lights on the server flashed, and Liz intently watched the screen, awaiting its instruction to input the wire information.

INPUT

USER ID:

PASSWORD:

This was her moment. Without her, the server would not permit access. Lou had been clear about how to play this moment, and she rose to what she considered the most important performance of her lifetime.

“Without me, this doesn’t happen,” she told Svengrad.

“You didn’t go to all this trouble just to change your mind.”

“The video.”

“You’ll have it.”

“Yes, I will,” she said. “And you will have your company back and your passport reauthorized when I do.”

“What’s this?”

“From my husband. Quid pro quo . You understand Latin, Mr. Svengrad? He said to tell you that he talked the government into releasing your product. But he also had INS make your passport invalid for travel outside the country. It all depends on the return of the tape.”

“Enter your password,” he said.

Lou had stepped her through this carefully, believing the conversation would take place over the phone. In person, she found it much more difficult to say it with conviction.

“Your company and your freedom for that tape,” she said. “Your word on it.”

“My word,” he said. She didn’t believe him.