Business must make sense to the doorman because he nods twice and jerks his head toward the elevators. I wave the flyer at him in thanks. The elevator doors slide open when I reach them and the top floor—the seventh floor—is already lit up. Over at the desk I can see him on the phone, likely calling Graham, who I know for certain is not home right now.
I watched him leave two hours ago and he hasn’t returned, something the doorman missed when he darted out to get a coffee. I wonder if Graham knows how shoddy the security is here.
When the elevator stops on the top floor, I take one quick look around and then jog down to the third floor—the one Natalie lives on. There were two doors on the top floor, but six on this one. Sounds come from only two of them. I pause to make a calculated guess as to which one is hers. I asked Graham not to tell me because I wanted to see how easy it was to find her.
The middle units had the fewest number of windows whereas the front and back units had at least six windows each. Natalie’s fear of the outside world could mean she’d want as little access to it as possible or she may enjoy what little access she had through greater exposure. I take a chance and knock on 3A, a corner unit with eight windows.
Behind the door there’s a slight scuffling noise, which stops and then starts and then stops again. Someone is walking toward the door, but can’t get close enough to open it. Bingo.
Because I’m not here to scare the shit out of her, I announce myself. “Natalie. It’s Jake Tanner.”
“How do I know you’re who you say you are?” a distant female voice calls back. “Your website didn’t have any pictures, remember?”
The low, husky tone sends a chill up my spine. Graham failed to mention that Natalie’s voice is the sultry kind that hits a man in the solar plexus. Silently I cough into my hand to chase the vague tingle of interest away. Completely unprofessional. That said, nothing about our contact so far has been professional. I try to regret that, but I can’t seem to summon up any outrage. I spent the night thinking about her.
“I’m sliding a card under the door.”
“Anyone can print up a card.”
Her voice is closer, unfortunately for me. I slide the cream card with the bold black print under the door and give it a shove. Graham said she wrote the damn game, but I’m wondering if she did voiceovers for it. A game with that voice crooning into a headset would sell millions of copies. She could convince half the male population to open their wallets and buy dirt with that voice.
“Think you’re up for opening the door?” I lean against the wall to the right of the door and watch the doorknob, but it doesn’t move.
“I don’t know.” She sounds nervous and I don’t want that, but . . . I also want to meet her. Shake her hand. Or, if I’m completely honest, I want to put a face to the ill-advised fantasies I’m starting to have.
“You don’t sound like you’re hyperventilating. Besides, I thought I’d give it a try.”
“I’m big on trying,” she says. She’s close enough to the door that I can hear her sigh, an extended exhale full of longing. This is a woman who doesn’t want to be locked in her apartment. I respect that. “But not so much on doing.”
“All you need to do is open the door. Let me take a look around.”
“Jake, I’d love to be able to open the door,” she responds with a touch of asperity and I can’t help smiling. Housebound she may be, but she’s got bite. “I might not be gasping for breath, but right now it’s taking everything I have to just stand in the entryway talking to you.”
Graham had said she’d been making progress getting out when the note arrived, which made it all the shittier. My fingers curl into a fist and I have to force myself to straighten them. People who prey on the vulnerable are bottom-dwellers. I might have to be there when Graham doles out the punishment.
I shouldn’t care. She’s a client. Feelings interfere with a rational review of the facts and evidence. I’ve terminated more than one security employee because he couldn’t keep his pants zipped, yet I’m breaking all the rules for her. “Go into your bedroom and call me. You already have my number, and it’s the same one on the card.”
As the footsteps fade away, I pull a simple lock pick set from my wallet. The phone rings and her name shows up on the screen.
“Why should I go into the bedroom?” she asks.
“Because it’s the room farthest from the front door. Once you’re in your bedroom, I’ll come in and take a look around.” The phone line doesn’t reduce the effect of her voice. I try to shut it out and concentrate on the task at hand. Her lock is a standard pin tumbler. It will take me all of a minute to pick.
“How do you know where my bedroom is?”
“The floor plans are on the Internet from when this building was being leased.” Sticking the tension wrench into the keyhole, I press until the plug begins to rotate. Time for the rake. Three passes of the rake later, the pins bounce into place and the lock disengages.
“Ugh,” she replies, but she doesn’t hang up.
She’d probably never leave her bedroom if she knew how easy it was to gain entry into her home.
Natalie’s apartment is good-sized by Manhattan standards. She has a fairly large living room with floor-to-ceiling windows that run along the far wall. Two of the windows are actually doors that open onto a small balcony overlooking Howard Street. To the immediate left is the kitchen. My card lies on the granite island counter. To the right a door rests slightly ajar.
“You and Graham could live in a place with more security.” I poke the door and it falls open. Inside is an office. There’s a treadmill with a platform attached to it at elbow height. A laptop sits on top of the platform. She must . . . type while she walks? I hadn’t seen one of those before. There’s a whiteboard filled with text, arrows, Post-it Notes. The room is ringed with bookshelves. I venture further in.
The shelves are filled with nonfiction and fiction alike. Romances, science fiction, mystery. She has eclectic taste.
“This is a small condo and we don’t get a lot of attention here, which Oliver really likes. Plus, we have a doorman.”
“He’s pretty useless.”
“You are the bearer of not very good news. Are you like that with everyone or am I getting special treatment?”
If she’d texted that, I might have thought it was a come-on, but she sounded weary rather than flirtatious.
“I give out facts. How my clients choose to interpret those is up to them.” At the very top row of the bookshelves are multiple copies of the same book by the same author—a very famous author. “M. Kannan?” I murmur.
“Are you inside my apartment?” she shouts.
I pull the phone away from my ear.
“Yup.”
“Oh my God, you picked my lock. You’re in my apartment!” Her too-quick breaths fill my ear.
“Natalie, go sit on the bed. Imagine a square. Breathe in for four seconds and then walk to the other side of the square and exhale. Breathe in for four seconds and then out for four seconds,” I command in my best drill sergeant voice. I wasn’t a DS in the army, but I got yelled at by one enough that I can replicate his commanding voice with ease. I can almost taste her panic over the phone. “Start counting. One, two, three, four.” She doesn’t obey, and I hear her breathing coming in short pants. “Now,” I bark.
There’s a shuffling and then I hear the numbers. The first one is quavery and it takes her about five seconds to get the second one out. “Louder. I want them loud and crisp.”
She starts over at one. By the fourth set she’s breathing more easily. Yeah, the guy who did this is going to have a real pleasant visit from both Graham and me. “Good girl, Natalie. You’re doing fine. I’m almost done here. Keep counting.”