“Yeah, why?”
“It’s not a house. It’s a warehouse, and an abandoned one at that, complete with boarded-up windows and graffiti.” A homeless guy sitting on a set of stairs a short distance away tips his whiskey bottle at me and gives me a toothless smile. “The whole nine yards of derelict chic.”
“Huh. Well, that’s the only address I could find. Want me to do get some background on Reggie Baker?”
“Sure. Couldn’t hurt. Can you also find out what you can about this building? Previous owners ... any tenants of record. Then could you email me when you’re done?”
“You got it. Oh, and just letting you know ...” He lowers his voice to a whisper. “Derek has been sniffing around, asking me what you’re up to.”
“What did you tell him?”
“That you’re on the verge of cracking the story wide open. He didn’t seem convinced. He wants you to come in tomorrow morning to give him an update in person.”
“Great. Can’t wait to tell him I have nothing more than he already knows.”
“Well, then, you might want to make something up, because the monthly revenue figures came in yesterday, and he’s been in full mega-dick mode since. Don’t give him an excuse to nuke you.”
“Thanks for the warning, Tobes. I’ll do my best.”
After we sign off, I walk around to the other side of the building, searching for a way in, or better still, something I can use as a clue to find my quarry. All I uncover is that the warehouse is enormous and looks like it hasn’t been used in a long time. The one sign of life is a back entrance up a short set of stairs where there’s an eye-catching mural depicting a huge black-and-white face. On the door next to it are the words, Abandon hope, all ye who enter here.
I climb the stairs and try the door handle. Of course, it’s locked, but among the grays of the mural I spot a shiny high-tech number pad.
Hmmm ... interesting.
The flashy technology is out of place, considering the rest of the building looks like it’s straight out of the depression.
I get the feeling I’m being watched, but when I check the alley, there’s no one around. Except, of course, for the giant mural man beside me, who’s more than a little creepy.
I turn back to the keypad. For shits and giggles, I enter my birth date. Unsurprisingly, the door lets out an annoyed buzz and declines to open.
After jamming some more buttons, I work out that if I hit the numbers in a certain sequence, the tones play Uptown Funk.
I’m in the middle of figuring out what other songs I can make up when my phone rings so loudly, I nearly jump out of my skin.
I answer without even checking the screen. “Tobes?”
A deep, male voice who’s definitely not Toby, says, “Please stop pressing random numbers. Any more wrong attempts will release the hounds, and I can’t be bothered cleaning up the mess when they get a hold of you.”
“What the hell?” A quick look at my screen reveals a number I don’t recognize. “Who is this?”
“You know who it is. You’ve been looking for me.”
Oh, my God. It can’t be. “Uh ... Mister Romance?”
I hear a huff of frustration. “Christ, could you not call me that stupid name? It conjures up an image of a two-bit magician with a top hat and button-hole carnation. Or worse, me on the front cover of a book, all flowing hair and naked chest.”
The mental image of a Fabio-esque dude makes me smile. I assume my mysterious caller actually looks like those cover models on romance novels and not Danny DeVito. I mean, I doubt women would spend their money on a DeVito lothario, but you never know. Everyone has their kink.
“It’s not funny,” the voice says, and even if he’s as ugly as a bag of rocks, he could make a fortune just dirty talking to women. That voice is sinful as hell.
I clear my throat. “So, what should I call you?”
“If I had my way, nothing. But considering your refusal to take my subtle hint to leave me alone after I gave you back your money, you can call me Max. And shall I call you Bianca White? Or Eden Tate? Which do you prefer?”
On my application, I’d called myself Bianca White. How the hell did he found out my real name?
Prone as I am to nervous fiddling, I once again bring up my finger to the keypad.
“I told you not to touch that,” he says, voice tinged with frustration.
I look up, but can’t see a camera. Then, I whip around and examine the wide alley. Shadows flash as people hurry past the mouth of it on their way home, but none of them stop.
“Where are you?” I ask, feeling more nervous every second. The sun’s going down, and the widening shadows do nothing to make me feel safer.
“Good question. Where do you think I am?”
I turn the other way. There’s a dark figure standing a dozen yards away, staring at me. He’s backlit, so I can’t make out any features, but I immediately reach into my purse and bring out my can of mace.
“Okay, that’s creepy as hell.” I grip my phone tighter. “Is this your Bruce Wayne impersonation? Because honestly, I’ve seen better.”
“If you don’t want strange men to confront you in dark alleys, Miss Tate, I’d suggest you stay out of them.”
“Wise words. If I try to leave, will you let me go?”
“You believe I’d hurt you? I’m insulted. Do you think I’m some kind of thug?”
“Of course not. I’m sure you’re a perfectly nice psychopath. But FYI, if you take a single step toward me right now, I’ll scream so loudly they’ll hear me back in Manhattan.”
A low chuckle comes through the phone. “As intrigued as I am to witness the full extent of your vocal range, calm down. There’s nothing to be afraid of.” The dark figure turns away, and a loud belch echoes off the walls of the alley. “That’s Charlie, the local wino. He’s harmless. Well, he could probably talk your ears off about what a bitch his ex-wife is, but other than that, he wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
I look around again, searching for another man, maybe crouching behind the line of dumpsters. “How are you seeing this? Are you here?”
“Look up to your right.” I glance up. Set back into the wall and camouflaged by the mural is a tiny security camera. “Smile, Miss Tate. You triggered my security system when you tampered with the keypad. I’m watching you on a live feed through my phone.”
“So, you’re not here?”
“No.”
“Pity. I’d very much like to slap you for scaring the crap out of me.”
“Actually, Charlie scared you. But by all means, go slap him. I think he’d be into that.”