Marty seemed to be getting annoyed, though I noticed two blotches on the front of his shirt where the sweat was soaking through. "Look, Reb. I know you're pissed at him and I don't blame you -"
"Sure, I'm pissed at him, but I'm not pissed at you, which is why I'm here. I'm trusting you to keep your mouth shut. I haven't breathed a word of this to anyone else. She's after his balls. She's so gung-ho she's willing to screw the guy to get the drop on him."
Marty was silent. I could hear him breathing as though he'd just finished running six blocks. "You can't just make claims -"
"I know. You're a man of common sense and you're hard to convince, which is why I brought these." She slid the black-and-white photos from the envelope and passed them over to him.
Marty leafed through them. "Jesus."
"See what I mean?"
"What's he thinking?"
"He's not thinking. He's got his brain between his legs. Really, you hadn't guessed he was screwing her? You knew he was doing me."
"Yeah, but you made no secret you had the hots for him. This, I don't know. Shouldn't somebody tell him what's going on?"
Reba raised her brows and gave him the big eyes. "You want to do that? Because I sure as hell don't."
"Poor guy."
"'Poor guy,' my butt. Are you kidding? If he was willing to work me over, why not you? Thing is, the stakes are bigger this time. You tell him about Onni, the only effect is giving him more time to cover his tracks."
Marty held up his glass and rattled the ice. The bartender caught the gesture and began to make him another drink. "Onni. I can't believe it. Beck must have walked right into it."
"Of course. Minute she makes her move, he'll turn right around and lay it off on you. He'll claim you acted on your own. He never authorized you to do anything. You took it on yourself."
"But it's his signature. Loan aps, incorporation papers -"
"Marty, get serious. He'll say he's never had a head for the financial end of things. That's how I was able to get away with the money I stole. Gosh. Guess he should have wised up, but some guys never learn. You told him to sign so he signed. He trusted you and this is what he gets for it. Shamey-shame on him. Meanwhile, you're under federal indictment."
Marty shook his head. "I don't know. This is freaking me out." The bartender brought his drink. Marty took out his wallet and extracted two twenties. "Keep that," he said. As the bartender left, he was well on his way to draining his glass.
During the brief interchange between the two, Reba shot me a look. It's your show, I thought, before she glanced away.
She patted Marty's arm, her tone brisk. "Anyway, ponder the implications. That's really all I ask. Even if you decide I'm making it up, it wouldn't hurt to cover your ass. Once the subpoenas are issued and all the warrants are in place, you'll be shit out of luck. In the meantime, if you're on your way upstairs, how about the two of us tagging along?"
Chapter 19
I'd passed the entrance to Beck's office building half a dozen times without ever taking in the sight. The façade was thickly overgrown with ivy, integrated seamlessly into the architectural conceit of an ancient Spanish town. Flowering trees had been planted along the front. To the left of the entrance were side-by-side stairs and escalators, giving access to the additional parking structure at the corner of the mall. A high-end luggage shop occupied a portion of the ground floor, presumably paying Beck a big whack of high-end rent.
We pushed through glass doors that swung closed soundlessly as we entered. Windows stretched upward the full four stories to a slanting glass roof. The interior atrium was oblong, done in a mottled rosy granite, floors and walls forming a hard canvas on which natural and artificial light played according to the time of day. High on the wall, there was a clock with long brass minute and hour hands and six-inch-diameter brass dots representing the hours. A curtain of dark green ivy and philodendron hung from a miniature oasis above the clock.
There were two elevators on the wall dead ahead. To the right of these, in an alcove, there were two more elevators, facing each other, one with a much wider door, which I assumed was designed to accommodate freight. A digital readout next to each elevator showed that all were at lobby level.
In the center of the lobby, a perfect circle of granite was sunk in the floor, sloping sides washed with a constant Niagara of water spilling from a six-inch channel around its rim. The sound was soothing, but the look, I fear, was closer to toiletlike than the restful pool it was meant to suggest.
A uniformed guard sat at a high polished-onyx desk. A lean man in his sixties, he had salt-and-pepper hair and a blank handsome face. Briefly I wondered what curious set of circumstances had landed him here. Surely there was little to guard and less to secure. Did he simply sit for the whole of his eight-hour shift? I saw no indication he had a book in his lap discreetly shielded from view. No radio or pint-size television set. No sketch pad or crossword puzzle book. His eyes tracked us, his face turning slowly as we clattered across the cold expanse of polished granite floor.
Marty lifted his hand and received an unblinking stare in response. Reba smiled at the guy, giving him the full benefit of those big dark eyes of hers. She was rewarded with a tentative smile. She caught up with Marty outside the elevator doors. "What's his name? He's cute."
"Willard. He's on nights and weekends. Can't remember who's been covering days."
We entered the elevator and Marty pushed the button for four. "You made a conquest. First time I've ever seen him smile," he said.
"Getting along with guards turns out to be a specialty of mine," she said. "Although, in my case, 'correctional officer' is the appropriate term."
Since Beck's offices took up the entire fourth floor, the elevator doors opened directly into the reception area, hushed with thick pale green carpet. Lights blazed everywhere, but it was clear there was no one on the premises but us. Modern furniture and contemporary art were mixed with antiques. Etched-glass partitions separated the reception area from an airy conference room beyond. From our perspective, corridors opened on four sides like the spokes of a wheel. The hallways appeared to stretch on at length with wide bands of color forming sweeping loops along the wall.
"Oh, Marty. This is gorgeous. Beck said it was spectacular, but this is really over the top. Mind if we look around?"
"Just don't take long. I want to get home."
"I promise we'll make it quick. Think of it this way, if it weren't for that stint in prison, I'd be working here myself. Isn't there a roof garden?"
"The stairs are back that way. You can't miss 'em. I'll be in my office down that hall."
"You could get lost in this place," Reba said.
"Well, don't. Beck's not going to like it if he hears you've been here."
"Mum's the word," she said, producing her dimples for him.
Reba circled the reception area with me following in her wake. As long as Marty was present, she was almost childlike in her hand-clapping enthusiasm, popping her head into offices here and there along the way, oohing and aahing. He watched us briefly and then went off in the opposite direction.
The minute he was out of sight, Reba dropped all pretense of touring and got down to business. I kept pace with her as she checked the names posted on the wall outside each office. When she reached Onni's, she shot a look down the hall to make sure Marty wasn't there. She moved to Onni's desk, grabbed a tissue from the box, and used it as she started opening drawers. "Keep a lookout, okay?"
I checked the corridor behind me. Searching is my all-time favorite sport (except for time spent with Cheney Phillips of late). The edgy thrill of invading someone's private space is heightened by the possibility of getting caught in the act. I wasn't sure what she was looking for or I'd have joined her in the game. As it was, somebody had to stand guard.