“Why would I do that?” said Petrie. More question than defiance. As Milo had grown, he’d shrunk.
“Because there’s a situation, here, Laurence.”
“I understand, sir, but the building is my responsibility.”
“I respect that, Laurence. Right now, your responsibility is to avoid getting caught up in something you don’t understand.”
“That’s true, I don’t understand,” said Petrie. Relieved. A man whose loyalties ran shallow.
“Your phone, please,” said Milo.
Petrie handed over an i6 in a black leather case. “Why not? They don’t pay me enough to mess with you guys.”
“Smart move, Laurence.”
“Lance,” said Petrie. “That’s my nickname.” The eager-to-please sociability of the newly conquered.
“Smart move, Lance.” Milo switched off Petrie’s phone, pocketed it, and held out his hand. “The key to twenty-four hundred.”
“Of course, Lieutenant. You’ll actually need two. One for the elevator, one for the door. There’s only two units on top. No hallway, just a vestibule. His is to the left.”
“Who lives to the right?”
“Austrians,” said Petrie. “They’re away. You’ve got it all to yourself.”
Milo held out his hand.
Petrie said, “Oh, sure, keys. All I’ve got are the masters.”
“I promise to take good care of them.”
“Can I ask how long will this take, sir?”
“Not a second longer than it needs to, Lance.”
“Welfare check,” said Petrie. “We’ve had them before. Old people. Sometimes they die.” No emotion.
Opening a drawer. No jangly ring like in Cutter’s desk, just two gold-plated keys on a black-and-gold plastic lanyard.
“My daughter made this,” said Petrie, swinging the chain. “I’d like to get it back.”
* * *
—
Milo guided Petrie to the motor court. Petrie walked past the valets and turned left.
Galloway watched and flashed a see-what-I-mean sneer. Smoking openly and flicking ashes perilously close to one of the Mercedeses. Off to the side, Charlie stood looking unperturbed and still tapping his foot.
Milo and Binchy turned toward the elevator. Only one for a building this size. No easy escape but the chance of confronting Amanda or Nobach in a small space was a new factor.
He’d walked three steps when his cell vibrated his inside jacket pocket. He yanked it out, read a text, froze. Mouthed a silent obscenity.
Texting back, he showed the original message to Binchy and me.
From Alicia Bogomil: negative at nobach’s place but amanda’s place her mother. Bound and gagged, head injury, breathing but not conscious. 911 on its way. We figure best to wait until she’s taken care of before detail searching nobach place?? Maybe one of us should go to hospital??
Milo’s response: right on both counts. She look fatal?
Alicia: Im no doc lt but at least her breathing’s regular okay hear the siren. Over and out.
Milo put his phone back and turned to me. “How do you see this?”
I said, “Sandy Burdette paid an unannounced visit to Amanda, wanting to talk to her about Nobach. She might’ve known something about him, had concerns about Amanda’s attachment but hadn’t wanted to make waves. Then Garrett came home and kicked up her anxiety. When she got to Amanda’s room, Nobach was there. Words were exchanged, he attacked her from behind, tied her up, and brought Amanda here.”
Binchy said, “Is Amanda a victim or a co-conspirator?”
“Only one way to know.”
CHAPTER
47
The elevator arrived within seconds, rosewood doors gliding open with a whoosh. The car was paneled in the same wood. Stingy compartment, barely enough room for the three of us, filling with the odor of ripe sweat as the doors eased shut.
Milo inserted the smaller gold key into the slot next to 24 (P) and we sailed upward. Moments later, we were facing a massive Venetian mirror affixed to a white wall. The vestibule floors were white marble. Bad for noise suppression.
Milo unholstered his Glock and tiptoed out into the vestibule. Binchy armed himself and followed. Then me. Function unclear.
Long narrow vestibule, nothing but the mirror relieving the starkness. A white door to the left was designated PH1 by blocky, steel characters. Same for PH2 to the right, where an unopened package sat near the threshold.
Gun in hand, Milo tiptoed to the left, pressed his ear to the door, waited, pressed again, then made a zero-sign with thumb and forefinger. Looking down at his gun for a moment, he breathed in and slid the larger key into the bolt, turning slowly.
Slight creak, then silence.
He waited, shoulders bunched, before toeing the door open an inch, waited some more before peering through. His eyebrows arced as he nudged the gap another couple of inches. Another brief inspection. Head shake. Half a dozen more inches. Finally, he created enough space to slip through, gun-arm extended.
Binchy followed, motioning me to hang back.
I stood there until he stuck his head out and nodded. Joined the two of them in a vacant ten-by-ten foyer.
The same white marble flooring, noise mercifully cushioned by a high-pile, black-and-gold Chinese rug.
Snarling dragons and chimeras, fanged mouths agape, serpentine tails intertwined.
Beyond the foyer was five hundred square feet of space meant to be a living room.
No living here; not a stick of furniture, no windows, just three walls of floor-to-ceiling ebony bookshelves. Every inch filled with volumes but for a scarlet door notched into the broad rear unit.
Thousands of books. Not the bland-jacketed texts Susie Koster had hoarded. Every one of these was covered in gilt-trimmed, tooled leather, the bookbinder’s art displayed in a riot of colors and textures.
I stepped closer and read a few spines.
WORDHAM’S MUSINGS ON THEOSOPHY. VOLUMES I THROUGH IX
The Collected Verse of Mrs. Aphra Sleete
Price & Worthington’s Annual Autumnal Survey of Sedges and Other Marsh Vegetations
Von Boffingmuell: The Man, The Plan
Yorkshire Fancies, Possibilities, and Various Other Indulgences
Milo and Binchy were reading, too. Milo looked angry, Binchy puzzled.
Milo edged over to the scarlet door. More leather, pebbled; oval red-lacquer doorknob.
No key-slot, no bolt.
He repeated the ear-press, retreated several steps, and repeated again, footsteps on the cushy rug no more than puffs.
I became aware of the utter lack of sound.
Not a serene silence. This was cold, blank, negative air, rife with bad possibilities. The kind of clogged silence that promises malignant surprise.
Milo placed his hand on the red knob. Rotated. Sprang back.
The scarlet door swung out smoothly on hidden hinges. Milo inched forward, allowing his Glock to lead the way.
He hazarded a peek. Then a longer look.
Nodding, he stepped through.
Same drill: Binchy leaving me to wait, followed by the go-ahead.
Now we stood in an even larger space, this one floored in black granite as glossy as an oil spill.
To the left was a white kitchen that looked as if it had never been used.
Finally the taming of the silence: a faint hum, courtesy the electronic veins, arteries, and capillaries that run through every high-end building.
Good insulation, those books.
In this room, two walls of glass offered jaw-loosening western and northern views. Dead-center on the granite, a pair of black leather Eames chairs flanked a silver six-foot cube aspiring to be a coffee table.
Atop the cube: a plastic packet of orange-tipped hypodermic syringes and a small baggie empty but for bits of white grit toward the bottom.
Behind the cube, an open doorway.
No sound but the electronic hum.
Sidling as far from the opening as possible, Milo advanced, Binchy close behind.
No permission for me to enter but I followed. Heard music rising above the hum, faint but unmistakable.
Lilting, trebly, reedy—some sort of flute, a chiffon of notes rising in pitch then returning to base.
The same arpeggio, over and over.
The kind of New Agey stuff looped in strip-mall day spas, designed to relax.