Линвуд Баркли - Elevator Pitch

“I don’t understand why they’d want to keep you from talking to the press,” Barbara said. “I wonder if they’ve approached the families of others who were in that elevator.”

Sandy said, “At one point, he said they needed time to find out who did this, and then he corrected himself right away, and said, how it happened.”

Barbara blinked. “Who?”

Sandy nodded. “But he took it right back.”

“What’d this guy look like?”

Sandy said, “About six feet tall. Black hair, very short and trim. Nice suit and tie. Clean shaven. And his shoes,” she said slowly. “I remember his shoes.”

“What about his shoes?”

“They were really nicely shined. Remember that, Ken?”

“I didn’t pay any attention to his goddamn shoes,” he said.

“And his car was parked right out front in a no-parking zone,” she said. “I watched when he left. He got in the passenger side, but whoever was driving wasn’t worried about parking it illegally.”

“Can you describe the car?” Barbara asked. “Any city markings on it? Did it say NYPD on the side?”

Sandy shook her head no. “It was a big SUV. All black, with dark windows.”

Ken asked, “Who drives around in a car like that?”

A couple of people came to mind for Barbara. Well, not people, exactly, but agencies. Why would those agencies be interested in an elevator mishap, tragic as it was?

Richard, oh, Richard!”

The mayor turned when he heard his name and saw a woman heading his way. Early eighties, her slender frame draped in black silk. Her billowy pants were half covered by a blouse that came down nearly to her knees. Her silver hair was pulled into a tight bun at the back of her head, and she viewed the world through oversized, round glasses with thick rims. Heavy on the makeup, huge black eyebrows.

She had her arms outstretched as she closed the distance between them.

“Margaret,” Headley said, placing his hands on her shoulders and delivering air kisses to both cheeks. “The Queen of the Sycamores. I knew I’d been in this building before.”

When he’d first heard the address of this second elevator catastrophe, he was sure there’d been a campaign fund-raiser here. Margaret Cambridge had invited all her wealthy friends to a party so extravagant they’d all felt obliged to give the maximum contribution allowed under the law to Headley’s campaign. It was a shame about the rules that prohibited massive infusions of cash from individuals. Margaret’s late husband, whose name adorned half a dozen buildings in the city, had left her a billion or two, not that anyone was counting, and she’d have given Headley a million bucks if she could get away with it.

“I heard you were here,” said Margaret. “I walked down the whole way.”

“Good God,” he said. “From the penthouse?”

“Well, I didn’t have much choice,” she said. “They shut all the elevators down when that one went haywire. I hope they open the others before long because there’s no way my ticker’s going to survive the walk back up.”

He rested a comforting hand on the woman’s shoulder. “I’m sure they will.”

“If not, a couple of those handsome firemen can carry me back up,” she said, and cackled. She then quickly put her hand over her mouth and glanced around. “I better not laugh. Considering what’s happened.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “It was Dr. Petrov, wasn’t it?”

He nodded solemnly. “A terrible loss to the scientific community, I’m told.”

“Maybe, but she was a total b-i-t-c-h,” Margaret said. “I don’t move as fast as I used to, and she’d see me coming for the elevator but do you think she’d hold it? Not a chance. The Commie slut.”

“Well,” said Headley.

Margaret leaned in closer and whispered conspiratorially, “She was Russian, you see.”

“Yes, I know. I heard from the ambassador a short while ago.”

“I don’t like it when we’ve got any of those in the building. They’re all spies, you know. Rockefeller’s full of them.”

Headley smiled. “Always good to be on your guard.”

She smiled. “Will you be at the party Thursday?”

Headley had to think a moment. “Top of the Park?” he said.

Margaret nodded. “It’s going to be the event of the year. A party in the sky.”

“I’ll be there. Wouldn’t miss it. Are you on the list?”

Margaret looked incensed at the suggestion she might not have been invited. “Please,” she said. “It’s Rodney Coughlin’s project. He and I go way back.” She winked.

Headley grinned. “He’s been a close friend to me for a long time, as well. Perhaps not as close.”

Margaret sniffed. “He only gave you a bigger party to show me up, you know.”

Headley gave her bony arm a friendly squeeze. “You could always throw another one.”

She laughed.

“Mr. Mayor?”

Headley turned. Annette Washington, the city’s chief of police, the first black woman to ever hold the position, wanted his attention. “Chief,” he said.

“Sorry to interrupt.” She tipped her head to draw him away.

“See you Thursday, Margaret,” Headley said. “Bring your dancing shoes.”

He pulled himself away and followed Washington into the building’s management office off the lobby. Already there were the fire chief and a small, balding man in his forties, and a formidable-looking man in a dark suit. Early sixties, just over six feet, strong jaw. The kind of guy who, if he wasn’t already in charge, looked like he was about to assume that role.

Headley looked at him and thought: Federal .

The man extended a hand. “Mr. Mayor. Brian Cartland, Homeland Security.”

Yup, Headley thought.

What was a guy from Homeland doing at an accident like this? It didn’t make any sense to Headley, unless it had something to do with the fact that the person killed in this accident was some noted Russian scientist who was an expert in who the fuck knew what? What a crazy world, where a malfunctioning elevator could lead to a diplomatic incident. Headley was betting the ambassador had been on the line to the White House before he’d called him at City Hall. That would explain Homeland’s attendance.

“Good to meet you,” Headley said warily. “What’s going on?” He looked at the fire and police chiefs and then turned his attention to the small, balding man.

He said, “Mayor Headley, Martin Fleck. I work for you.” He flashed a smile. “Department of Buildings, elevator inspection division.”

“So again I ask, what’s going on?” Headley asked.

“That’s very much what we want to determine,” Cartland said. “Elevator accidents don’t happen every day. You’ve had two this week, and it’s only Tuesday. As a matter of routine, after yesterday’s incident, we got in touch with Mr. Fleck here. As it turns out, Homeland has a suboffice in that building, so our interest was piqued. Needless to say, how an elevator goes up and down is not Homeland’s area of expertise, so Mr. Fleck was able to enlighten me.”

“It’s true,” Fleck said. “Elevator accidents don’t happen every day. Although about thirty people, on average, are killed in elevator mishaps every year, and some seventeen thousand Americans are injured on an annual basis, although those numbers also include escalators.”

“Okay,” said Headley slowly.

“And of those thirty who are killed, probably about half of them are going to be folks who work on them. An elevator technician slips and falls down the shaft, or he’s at the base of the shaft and an elevator comes down and crushes him, or he gets caught between the moving parts. All totally avoidable, but someone gets careless. Horrible when it happens, but not totally shocking, given the dangerous conditions in which an elevator technician works.”