I crawled into bed at midnight and found myself tossing and turning, possibly because of the lengthy nap I'd taken in the afternoon. I don't remember the moment when I sank into a leaden sleep, but vaguely, I became aware of a pounding on my door. I opened my eyes and checked the clock. 8:02. Who the heck was it? Oh, shit. Reba was down there.
I pushed the covers back and swung my feet out on the floor, yelling, "Just a minute!"… like she could actually hear me. I dry-washed my face, pressing my fingers into my eyes until light sparks appeared on the inside of my lids. I went downstairs and let her in, saying, "Sorry, sorry, sorry. I overslept. I'll be with you in a sec."
I left her to make herself at home while I went upstairs, though in the interest of good manners, I leaned over the loft rail and called down to her. "You can put on a pot of coffee if you can figure out how."
"Don't worry about it. We can stop off at McDonald's."
"You got a deal."
I did an abbreviated bathroom tour and then pulled on jeans, a T-shirt, and tennis shoes. I retrieved my wallet and car keys from the brown-paper bag and in six minutes flat, I was ready to go out the door.
We ordered from the take-out window and then sat in the parking lot with two enormous coffees and four Egg McMuffins with extra packets of salt. Like me, Reba ate like she was competing for the land speed record. "They don't call this fast food for nuttin'," she remarked, her mouth full. There were a scant few minutes when we sank into quiet, focused on our food.
Having finished, we bundled up our trash and shoved it in the bag, which Reba pitched into the container on the sidewalk nearby. She said, "Two points. Hot damn."
While I sipped my coffee, she reached over to the rear seat and picked up three rolled cylinders of architectural plans, bound with a rubber band. She slipped the band on her wrist for safekeeping, then unfurled the first oversize sheet, which she spread across the dashboard. The paper itself was a whitish blue, with the two-dimensional rooms laid out in blue ink. The legend along the bottom read: THE BECKWITH BUILDING, 3-25-81.
Reba said, "These are the old blue-line drawings. I'm hoping they'll tell us what Beck's hiding and where he's hiding it."
"Where'd you get these?"
"We had multiples at the office – everything from framing plans to plumbing plans, heating and air conditioning, fixture requirements, you name it. Every time the architect made changes, he'd print out a new set of drawings for all the principals. Beck told me to toss 'em."
"And you had the foresight to hang on to them? I'm impressed."
"I wouldn't call it foresight. I just love the information. It's like looking at X-rays – all those cracks and bone spurs where you least expect them. Here, take a look at these and we'll compare notes. I realized last night we were going about this all wrong."
She passed me the second batch of drawings on sheets of paper that must have measured eighteen inches by twenty-four. I wrestled the first sheet into a reasonably flat position and studied the particulars. As nearly as I could tell, this had something to do with the service entrance and electrical rooms, showing the location of the meter, the transformer vault, the switchgear, electrical closets, and individual circuits. The wiring diagrams were made up of circles and wavy lines, showing the relationship of outlets to controls.
The next sheet was more interesting. It looked like a cutaway of one corner of the building from the rooftop down. According to the legend at the bottom of the page, every eighth of an inch represented one linear foot. The architect had labeled every aspect of the drawing in that freehand block lettering students must be taught the very first day at architectural school. Reba glanced over, saying, "What they're using there for stablization is a rigid core that runs down the center of the building – a structural tower that contains the restrooms, stairs, and elevators. I remember them talking about diagonal bracing and shear panels, whatever that means."
I could see the concrete columns, the location of precast concrete spandrel panels, the slab on grade and concrete pile foundation, which was backed up by a steel-stud and drywall assembly. I was hoping to spot the correlation between the lines on the page and the spaces I'd seen. The detailed drawing of the rooftop, for instance, did show the mechanicals of the elevator equipment in roughly the same position as the fakey-looking gardener's cottage. Reba put a finger on the page. "I don't like it. That other drawing shows the elevators on the far side, not this. So which is it?"
"Maybe we should take another look," I said. "I don't get how anybody figures this shit out. I wouldn't know where to begin."
Reba unfurled another floor plan, this one dated August of '81. We studied a couple of the drawings next to one another. Having seen the offices firsthand, I had a fair idea what I was looking at, with certain notable exceptions. Where the employee break room was located in reality, the floor plan indicated a conference room, which had been moved closer to reception. "How many sets do you have?"
"Tons, but these seemed the most relevant. From March to August, there's not that much difference. It's the changes that show up in October that looked interesting to me." She wrestled a fourth sheet open and placed it atop the third. Much crackling of paper as the two of us examined the specifics of employee restrooms, wheelchair clearances, metal decks, and rigid insulation – the whole of Beck's fifteen-office suite visible in one sweep.
"Are we looking for anything in particular?" I asked.
She pointed to an oblong area on my sheet adjacent to fire stairs and the elevator envelopes. "See that? The location of the elevators shifted from there to there," she said, moving her finger from my drawing to hers.
"Break room moved, too, but so what?"
"Well, look at it. I mean, I understand they made changes, but there's space unaccounted for. Here it's called storage, but in this drawing, the space is still there with no reference to it at all."
"I still don't see the significance."
"I just think it's odd. I'm telling you, there was a room there on one of the early floor plans. I asked Beck what it was and he blew me off, like I didn't need to know. On the initial blue-line drawings, the architect labeled it a gun vault, which is totally ridiculous. Beck's a pussy about firearms. He doesn't even own one gun, let alone a collection of the damn things. At the time, I figured maybe it was a panic room or whatever you call them…"
"A safe room?"
"Like that. Something he didn't want anyone else to know about. Later I wondered if he intended to use it as a love nest, a hidey-hole where he could take his lady friends. I mean, what could be better? In the same building but out of the public eye. Think how easy it'd be to get a little ass on the side."
"Maybe the architect vetoed the idea."
"Nobody vetoes him. He knows exactly what he wants and he gets it." She laid a finger on an unmarked area just off reception. "Couldn't there be space behind this wall?"
I went back in my mind and pictured the gallery of paintings and the trompe 1'oeil effect created by the diminishing sizes of objects as the eye traced them down the hall. I looked back at the floor plan. "I don't think so. If there's a room there, how the heck do you get in? There aren't any doors in that wall that I remember."
"My recollection, too. Because I counted off five offices and Onni's was in the middle. After Jude's office – you know the one with all the black-and-white photographs?"
"Right, right."
"Yeah, well, the gallery picked up from there and that wall had to be a good twenty-five feet long."
"What about that room where they kept office supplies?"
"That's right there. I went around this part twice and there weren't any doors there either, so if it's a room, it's been sealed."
"Maybe it's something to do with the building infrastructure. All the nuts-and-bolts stuff. Don't you have plans any later than this?"