It did look bad, Gabriela realized, but she whispered, “We can’t worry about her. Let’s go.”
She gripped Daniel’s arm and pulled him forward. Taking her keys from her pocket, she hurried to the office building. As the cop was bending down over Elena and making a call they stepped into the lobby. Gabriela slipped the key into the inner door lock and in less than a minute they were on the second floor, at the door marked with another brass plaque: Prescott Investments, LLC.
The door was sealed with a yellow adhesive marker. Crime Scene Do Not Enter. The phone number to call in case one wished to access the office was at the bottom.
Daniel hesitated but Gabriela opened the door of the office and pushed inside, tearing the NYPD notice neatly in half with a loud, ripping sound.
Closing the door after them, she stopped, blinking, and looked around. “My God, they took everything! The computers, shredders, hard drives, file cabinets, credenzas. They must’ve brought moving trucks!”
Daniel too examined the rooms, then glanced from the window. “I can’t tell how Elena is. The trees are blocking the view. I think she’s still on the ground.”
“We can’t worry about her. We have to search! The money and the October List. We need them!”
Her head swiveled as she regarded what few objects were inside. Some bad artwork, photographs and diplomas and certificates up on the walls. Also, vases of fake flowers, office supplies, cups, mugs, wilted flowers, pictures of family, bottles of wine, boxes of coffee and snacks. On two coffee tables were professional journals, recent editions of the New York Times and Wall Street Journal, several books: Debt Markets in BRIC Countries, Accounting Procedures and Tax Treatment of Oil and Gas Leasing Partnerships.
In a corner were some storage boxes, missing lids but filled with papers.
Gabriela dropped to her knees and prowled through the cartons.
“Helpful?” Daniel asked as he began looking through drawers, which all appeared to be empty, except for office supplies.
She read through them quickly. “No. These’re just real estate records about the building. Nothing to do with Charles’s business.”
She began rifling drawers and looking through closets while Daniel was prying up carpet and knocking on walls, searching, apparently, for hidden compartments.
A man’s approach, Gabriela thought. Not necessarily a bad one.
They continued the search. But twenty minutes later Gabriela stood, stiffly, and looked around. She said in despair, “Nothing.” She closed her eyes and sighed. Then she looked mournfully at the clock on the wall. “He kept his own watch fast, ten minutes, Charles did, so he’d never be late, never miss an appointment or conference call.” Her eyes still on the timepiece, she said, “We have two hours. Oh, Sarah.” She choked a sob. “What’re we going to do?”
Daniel peered out the window again, carefully. “The cop’s on the radio, looking at the building. He seems suspicious. Oh, hell.”
“What?”
“Somebody just came out of the building. Some woman. The cop called her over.” Daniel stepped back fast. “He’s looking up again. I think he’s suspicious. We better get out.”
Which was when Gabriela cocked her head. “Oil and gas.”
“What?”
She pointed to the reception area coffee table. “That book?”
It was a textbook, thick and intimidating. Tax Treatment of Oil and Gas Leasing Partnerships.
She said, “We’ve never done any of that kind of work.” She picked up the tome. Flipped through it. “Daniel, look.” The first hundred pages were dense text about accounting and tax procedures. In the middle, though, were a dozen pages bound into the book that had nothing to do with partnerships.
On the top of the first page were the words: October List.
Gabriela laughed. “Yes!”
“He hid it in plain sight.”
“Smart of him. The list’s actually bound in, like any other pages, so it doesn’t bulge suspiciously. No one would think twice about it; and there wasn’t much chance of anyone stealing a boring textbook on leases.”
Gabriela carefully tore the list out. “Let’s copy it.” She looked around. “Wait. The copier’s gone. The police took it. Why?”
Daniel shrugged. “Maybe the memory chip. Fingerprints, I don’t know.”
Gabriela glanced out the window. “Shit.” She stepped aside fast. “Stay back.”
“What? The police?”
“No. Somebody else. I saw a man in the alley across the street, looking up at the window. It might’ve been Joseph. A dark coat, like his. I couldn’t really tell.”
“How could he’ve followed us here? Why would he want to?”
“He said he’d be checking out if we went to the cops.” Gabriela glanced carefully out the window again. “I don’t see anyone. I’m probably being paranoid.”
Daniel said, “Maybe not. We don’t exactly know what’s in the list, but something tells me Joseph won’t be the only one who wants it.”
She looked again out the window. “The cop? He’s on his radio. He knows something’s up.”
“We have to get out of here.”
“This is the only copy of the list. We can’t risk Joseph or the police or whoever’s out there”—a nod at the street—“stealing it. It’s my only bargaining chip to get Sarah back.”
She examined the room fast and spotted on a credenza the bottles of wine. “Gifts from clients,” she said. She nodded at a dark green box of Dom Pérignon champagne. “Could you open that up?”
Daniel undid the clasp and lifted the top. She folded the pages of the October List very tightly and, when he lifted the bottle, slipped them under it. He sealed the box back up and put it into a plastic bag. With a black marker she wrote a note on a Post-it and added that to the bag.
“What are you doing with it?” Daniel asked.
“I’m going to have it delivered to my friend Frank.”
“Frank Walsh, Mr. Complication,” Daniel said with a dry smile.
“Yeah. But a trustworthy complication.” She glanced at the window. “What’s the cop doing?”
Looking out, Daniel reported, “Still on the radio, but he’s glancing at the windows here. He suspects. Definitely.”
Gabriela returned to the desk on which the nameplate read E. Rodriguez. She took a blank letter-sized envelope and into it stuffed a dozen pieces of paper from her purse — receipts, discount cards, a few bills. She shoved the envelope into the Coach and left a corner protruding.
“Insurance policy,” she said. “Just in case. Now let’s get out of here.”
With Daniel carrying the champagne, they left the office and she closed the door. The sound of the elevator on the move filled the hallway. She looked around and nodded to the stairs. They climbed to the third floor, where they found a slim Latino man pushing a mop. “Rafael!”
“Gabriela! I heard about Mr. Prescott. It’s not true, you think?”
“I’m sure it isn’t. It has to be a big mistake.”
“I’m praying for him. My wife too.”
“Thank you, Rafael. This is Daniel.”
The men shook hands and then Gabriela asked, “Could you do me a big favor, please?”
“Sure. What do you need?”
She took the bag containing the champagne and handed it to Rafael. “I have to talk to lawyers now and get records together. I was supposed to take this to a friend of mine today, but I can’t make it. It’s real important to him. Can you please drop this off at his building in the Village?”
“Sure, sure, I do that.”
“He’s at Seven Eighty Greenwich Street. It’s near Bethune. His name’s Frank Walsh.” She jotted the address and name. He pocketed the slip of paper.