R Is for Ricochet Read online

  "Let's try the obvious and check it out," I said.

  She followed me around the comer where the service elevator was located. From the digital readout on the wall, we could track the car going down, the number changing from 1 to G.

  "Told you," I said, and then glanced at my watch. "Shit. We better get out of here before Willard gets anxious and comes looking for us. I can't believe the nonsense you laid on him. Talk about maneuvering."

  "I thought I did great... though that begging and pleading shit is only good for limited use. The next time we want in, I'll have to screw the guy for sure."

  "You're making a joke, right?"

  "Don't be such a prude. Screw one guy, you've screwed 'em all. You're only a virgin once, and after that, you might as well reap the benefits. Besides, I wouldn't mind. I think he's cute." Her gaze was raking the wall again and I could tell she was still speculating about the missing space. She said, "Maybe you get in by way of the roof. Through that little building that looks like a gardener's shack."

  "Skip it. We don't have time. Let's get out of here."

  "You're such a worrywart," she said, taking out Onni's key ring. "Just give me a second to return these, okay? I'm trying to be a good citizen."

  "What about Beck's phony docs."

  "Right. I got 'em right here," she said, patting her jacket pocket. She took the hem of her shirt and began cleaning fingerprints from the keys. "Wiping off the prints," she said. "In case they ever dust."

  "Just get on with it."

  She walked down the hall to Onni's office - not nearly fast enough for my taste - and disappeared from sight. I checked my watch again. We'd been up here twelve minutes. How long was it supposed to take us to find my shoulder bag? By now Willard would be out from behind his desk and on his way up. Reba took her time returning and when she finally appeared, hands shoved in her jacket pockets, instead of getting on the elevator as anticipated, she returned to the alcove where the service elevator was located and stood there staring at it.

  "What are you doing?"

  "I just figured it out. Hot damn." She reached out and pressed the button, calling the service elevator to the fourth floor. As we watched the digital readout, the elevator began its slow and dutiful climb. Eventually the doors opened. She reached in and pressed Stop Run, then entered the service elevator with me close behind her. The space was twice the width and half again as long as an ordinary elevator, apparently to accommodate moving boxes, file cabinets, and oversize office equipment. The walls were hung with quilted gray fabric like the blankets movers use to protect furniture.

  Reba moved to the wall opposite the elevator doors and pulled the padding aside to reveal a second set of elevator doors. On a wall-mounted panel to the right of them, there was a nine-digit keypad. She studied it for a moment and then raised a tentative hand.

  "You know the code?"

  "Maybe. I'll tell you in a minute."

  "Guess wrong and won't you set off the alarm?"

  "Oh, come on. It's like a fairy tale-you get three tries before the thing goes berserk. If I blow it, we'll tell Willie we made a wee mistake."

  "Just leave it for now. You're really pushing your luck."

  She ignored me, of course. "I know it's not going to be his birth date - even Beck wouldn't be dumb enough to use that again. But it might be a variation. He's a narcissist. Everything he does relates to him."

  "Reba... "

  She flashed a look at me. "If you'd quit whining and help me out we can get on with it and be on our way. I can't pass this up. It may be the only chance we have."

  I rolled my eyes, trying to control my panic, which was already accelerating. She wasn't going to budge until we figured it out or got caught. I said, "Shit. Try the same date backwards."

  "Not bad. I like it. That'd be what?"

  "9-4-9-1-9-1-4."

  She thought about it briefly and then made a face. "Don't think so. Too tough for him to rattle the number off the top of his head. Let's try this..."

  She punched in 1949-19-4. No deal.

  She punched in 19-4-1949.

  I could feel my heart thud. "That's two."

  "Would you get off it? I know it's two. I'm the one punching in numbers. Let's just think about it for a second. What's another possibility?"

  "What about Onni's birthday?"

  "Let's hope not. I know it's November 11, but I'm not sure what year. Anyway, Beck hasn't been boffing her long so he probably doesn't have a clue himself."

  I said, "11-11 any year would be eight digits, not seven."

  She pointed at me, apparently impressed with my ability to count. "What's his wife's birthday?" I asked.

  "3-17-1952. But he's blown that one so many times he's probably spooked by now. Besides, he prefers numbers with internal connections or sequences. Know what I mean? Repeats or patterns."

  "I thought you said he used your birthday at one point."

  "True. That'd be 5-15-1955."

  "Hey, mine's 5-5-1950," I chirped, sounding like a lunatic.

  "Great. We'll do a joint celebration when the dates roll around next year. So what should I try? His birth date backwards or mine straight ahead?"

  "Well, his birth date backwards has an internal logic if you group the numbers. 949-191-4. Would he break it down that way?"

  "Might."

  "Just do one or the other before I have a heart attack." She punched in 5-15-1955. A moment of silence and then the doors slid open. "My birthday. Sweet. You think he still cares?"

  I pushed the Stop Run button and watched her wipe her prints off the keypad, taking care not to trigger the alarm. "Wouldn't want anyone to know we were here," she said, happily.

  Meanwhile, I was staring straight ahead. The room was probably six feet by eight-not much bigger than a closet. The cleaning cart we'd seen was shoved up against the left wall. A U-shaped counter took up much of the remaining floor space. I looked up. The room seemed to be well ventilated, the walls heavily padded. A smoke detector and a heat detector had been Installed In the shadowy upper reaches of the ceiling, where I could see sprinkler heads as well. Rungs embedded in the wall formed a ladder that went straight up. Around the perimeter of the ceiling, I could see rectangles of daylight roughly corresponding to the vents in the fake gardener's cottage on the roof. Reba was right. In a pinch, you could probably gain entry to the room from the roof. Or escape that way.

  There were three currency-counting machines on one arm of the counter and four currency-bundling machines on the adjacent counter. Open suitcases were lined up on the third section, packed with tightly wrapped bundles of hundred-dollar bills. Under the counter, ten cardboard cartons were lined up, their top flaps open, packed with additional bundles of hundreds, fifties, and twenties in U.S. currency. Each bundle was shrink-wrapped, with paper adding-machine tape circling packets of five. There were two styrofoam coffee cups visible and a pile of empty cups in a wastebasket, which also contained wads of discarded plastic wrappers. Several silver-dollar-size plastic disks with small blades were being used to slit the wrappers.

  Reba said, "Geez. I've never seen so much money."

  "Me neither. It looks like they're pulling bundles from these boxes, removing the wrappers, running the bills through the currency counter, and then rewrapping them for transport."

  She advanced a few steps and checked the total on one of the currency counters. "Take a peek at this puppy. They've run a million bucks through this." She picked up a bundle and weighed it in her hand. "Wonder how much this is. Wouldn't you love to know?" She sniffed it. "You'd think it would smell good, but it doesn't smell like anything."

  "Would you keep your hands to yourself?"

  "I'm just looking. I'm not doing anything. How much do you figure is in one of these, twenty grand? Fifty?"

  "I have no idea. Don't mess with that. I'm serious."

  "Aren't you curious what it feels like? It doesn't weigh all that much," she said. She wiped her prints from the wrapper and put t
he bundle back, surveying the space. "How many guys you think work here besides the two we saw?"

  "There's not room for three. They probably come in weekends when the activity's less conspicuous," I said. I reached out and put my hand on one of the styrofoam cups and nearly moaned in fear. "This is still warm. Suppose they come back?"

  "No one can get to us. The elevator's on hold."

  "But if they find the elevator on hold, won't they know something's wrong? We have to get out of here. I'm begging you."

  "Okay, okay. But I knew I was right about the room. This is incredible, isn't it?"

  "Absolutely. Who gives a shit? Let's go."

  I backed out of the room and into the service elevator. The other set of doors was still open and I stuck my head out into the corridor to assure myself that no one had entered the premises while we were in the room. Reba was having trouble dragging herself away. I said, "Reba, come on!" sounding every bit as tense and impatient as I felt.

  She moved into the elevator as though mesmerized and entered the seven-digit code. The doors on that side of the elevator slid closed.

  She replaced the wall padding and adjusted the quilted matting to conceal the second set of doors.

  "What took you so long?"

  "It's all so beautiful. Can you imagine having even half the bundles in there? You'd never have to lift another finger as long as you lived."

  "No problem. Your life wouldn't last that long."

  We exited through the elevator doors that opened into Beck's offices and Reba released the Stop Run button. We waited until the service elevator doors closed, and then went around the corner and got back on the public elevator.

  She released the hold button, the doors closed, and we began our leisurely descent. I was nearly sick with anxiety, but she didn't seem affected. The woman had nerves of steel.

  When we reached the lobby level and stepped off, Willard looked up from his desk with a smile. "You find it?"

  I held up my shoulder bag to show our mission had been accomplished. My hands were shaking so badly I thought he'd spot the trembling from across the lobby. I was doing what I could to maintain a semblance of normality until we could ease out the front door and be on our way.

  Reba, true to form, made a point of crossing to his desk, where she stretched up on tiptoe and rested her arms on the counter, holding her injured finger close to his face. "You got a first-aid kit? Look at this. I about crippled myself."

  Willard peered at her knuckle, inspecting the wound that was no bigger than a hyphen. "How'd you do that?"

  "I must have snagged it on something. Sucker hurts. You can kiss it and make it better if you want."

  He shook his head, smiling indulgently, and started opening his desk drawers. While he rummaged around in search of a Band-Aid, I noticed Reba's gaze flicking across the monitors, taking in all ten views.

  Willard held up a bandage. "Think you can manage this yourself?"

  "Don't be mean. After all I've done for you?" She held out her finger and he pulled the red thread that opened the paper packaging. He removed the Band-Aid and applied it.

  She said, "Thanks. You're a doll. I'll recommend a raise." She made a kissing noise at him as we headed for the door.

  Behind us, Willard left his perch and followed, taking out his jumble of keys so he could unlock the front door. "Don't you be coming back. This is the last of it."

  "I won't, but you'll miss me," she said as we scooted through the door.

  "I doubt that," he said, and Reba blew him another kiss. I thought she was laying it on a bit thick, but Willard didn't seem to mind. He turned the keys in the lock and we were safe.

  22

  Reba slowed her BMW to a stop in front of my apartment. As I got out and shut the car door behind me, I saw that Cheney's little red Mercedes was parked at the curb. I felt a surge of anxiety. I'd intended to fill him in on my adventures with Reba over the past couple of days, but Jonah's call had intervened and he'd gone off to the shooting scene without my having spoken a word. The omission made me uneasy, as though I were deliberately holding out on him. Even referring to our activities as "adventures" sounded like an attempt to minimize the fact that what we'd done could jeopardize the investigation. Last night's incursion into Beck's offices had been risky enough. In a pinch, an argument could be made that Marty had invited us to tour the premises, but his offer hadn't extended to our rifling through desk drawers and stealing Onni's keys. He'd certainly never given us permission to return in his absence and enjoy the run of the place. I wanted to tell Cheney about the bundles of cash being counted, repackaged, and packed into suitcases, but I knew the discovery encompassed a little matter of criminal trespass, which tainted the knowledge. Nonetheless, I needed to unload before my withholding the information became an issue in itself.

  I went through the gate and around the side of my studio, as burdened with guilt as though I'd slept with another man. I could make excuses for my conduct, but I was accountable all the same. Cheney was sitting on my front step, still in the clothes he'd been wearing the night before. He smiled when he saw me, looking exhausted, but good. Confessing was bound to impact our relationship. I dreaded the consequences, but I had to speak up.

  I sat down on the step and slipped my hand into his. "How'd it go? You look beat."

  "Big mess. Two gangbangers dead. Hooker got caught in the cross- fire and she's dead, too. Jonah sent me home to shower and change clothes. I'm due back at one. How's by you?"

  "Not that good. We need to talk."

  He focused on my face, his eyes searching. "Can it wait?"

  "I don't think so. This is about Reba. We've got a problem."

  "Meaning what?"

  "You're not going to like this."

  "Just spit it out," he said.

  "She and I connected up for dinner last night. She wanted to introduce me to Marty Blumberg, Beck's company comptroller, and I couldn't see the harm. He has dinner at Dale's every Friday night so that's where we went. He comes in and the three of us are schmoozing away. Next thing I know, she tells him how the feds are mounting a case against Beck and he - Marty - is going to end up taking the blame if he doesn't do something quick. I had no idea what she thought she was doing, but there it was."

  Cheney closed his eyes and hung his head. "Geez. I don't believe it. What the hell's wrong with her?"

  "It gets worse. She tells him Onni's a federal agent and she's screwing Beck's brains out as a way of getting the goods on him. At first, Marty resists. He really doesn't want to believe it, but Reba shows him the photos and reels him in. Then she gets us invited up to the offices - ostensibly for a tour - but she uses the opportunity to scour the place for anything she can lay her hands on, which turns out to be Onni's keys." I continued the rundown, giving him an unvarnished account of what had happened over the course of the past two days. I could tell he was getting pissed before I was even halfway through. He was tired.

  He'd had a long night and this was the last thing he needed. At the same time, I felt compelled to tell him the truth. Either I revealed the whole of it - of myself - or what was the point?

  I moved on to events of the morning and when I'd finished, Cheney blew. "You gotta be out of your head! Aside from the issue of unlawful entry, if Beck gets wind of it, he'll know something's off and that's the end of it for us."

  "How's he going to find out?"

  "Suppose Marty spills the beans or the security guy has second thoughts about letting you in. He knows both of you by name. All it'd take is one offhand remark from either of those guys. Doesn't matter how solid the government's case is, defense attorney puts you on the stand and he'll take you apart. Not that he'll have the chance. Long before it comes to that, the feds will slap you with charges of obstruction of justice, tampering with evidence, and god knows what else.

  Perjury for sure the minute you try to cover your ass. Reba's got no credibility. Convicted felon, woman scorned. Anything she says is automatically suspect."
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br />   "Then why'd you bring her into it? H she's so useless, why recruit her in the first place?"

  "Because we needed a confidential informant, not a friggin' one-man posse. You're a pro. You know better - or I assumed you did. The feds play for keeps. Compromise an operation like this and you're the one who pays. What's it to her? She's got nothing to lose."

  "Cheney, I hear you. I know I should have stopped her, but I couldn't see a way to do it. Once she told Marty what was going down, events just started to escalate - "

  "Bullshit. You were a willing participant. What you did was illegal - "

  "Got it. I know. I'm aware of it," I said. "On the other hand, how could I walk away? She's in this because of us - because of me to be specific. I feel some responsibility for what's happening to her."