“No activity to report out there,” she said. “How’s work coming?”
He stood awkwardly in the door frame and stared at her face, eyes traveling across her features to confirm that she was the woman on the video. No doubt.
“First, I want to thank you,” he said.
“I’m just doing my job,” she answered.
“Not for that. For getting me home safe last spring.”
Surprise flickered across her face, but disappeared in less than a second. Microexpressions were impossible to control. Without his training in spotting them, he’d have missed it.
“Were you paid for this service?” The laptop trembled as he pressed a few buttons, starting up the surveillance video of their meeting in Grand Central months before, when she’d brought him back drunk.
“If I were paid for that kind of service, I wouldn’t be able to reveal that information.”
“Why not?” What was his goal here? To get her to confess? To what, exactly?
“As you know, sir, I work in close protection. Anything I do or see while on the job is confidential.” Her dark eyes met his levelly. She clearly was not intending to back down.
“So, you were on a job?”
“I can’t say.” She squared off her shoulders.
“Does that mean that you were stalking me?”
She laughed. “Not hardly. Maybe I just happened by, helped you home, did the right thing. I’m a Good Samaritan.”
Joe didn’t believe that.
She pointed behind his head. “What’s that mean?”
Joe turned around to look at the round red light recessed above the front door. “It means that the elevator has started going up. But that doesn’t make sense, because no one has access to it but me and the Gallos, and they never come down here.”
Someone else was coming.
Joe stared at the light that indicated the elevator was right now heading up to the clock and the information booth. He’d never seen it lit before, hadn’t known if it really worked, but Celeste had assured him that it did. Evaline wouldn’t have let anyone past her who wasn’t on the list. Maybe it was Leandro. If not, he hoped no one had hurt her.
“I’d like you to move to the back of the house, away from the windows.” Torres’s voice was matter-of-fact.
She drew her gun and stood next to the front door, away from the window, and peeked through the filmy curtains. Her phone buzzed in her pants pocket. Without taking her eyes off the tunnel, she eased it out and glanced at the screen.
“It’s from Mr. Rossi. He says that he’s coming down with police and two CIA agents.” Torres holstered her gun. “They’re here to question you about the death in the tunnels. Your fingerprint was found at a murder scene.”
Joe stumbled backward. The police and the CIA?
“Mr. Rossi will take care of you,” she said.
“They might take me.” Joe’s heart raced. “They might take me outside. I can’t go outside.”
He heard panic in his voice, and Edison must have heard it, too. The dog tugged his pant leg, trying to pull him back into the parlor. That wouldn’t help.
“Good boy,” Joe said automatically.
“I’m sure that Mr. Rossi will explain the situation to them.”
Joe didn’t think they’d care about his mental issues. If anything, they’d weigh against him. He measured the distance to the doors at the end of the tunnels in his head. He might make it to one of them before the elevator arrived and the men came out, but he also might not.
Edison bumped Joe’s knee with his head, reminding him that he was there, that everything was OK. Except that it wasn’t.
“I’m going upstairs,” Joe said. “Can you buy me time?”
“Yes, sir,” she said. “I’ll stall them as long as I can.”
Joe dropped his laptop in the backpack by the front door, pulling on the hoodie hung there, and pocketing the flashlight. He ran back through the parlor to get his power cord and then sprinted up the stairs, heading for the back bedroom.
He reached into his pocket, fingers closing over a ring of metal keys. That was something. On impulse, he grabbed the polar fleece blanket from the bedroom floor, the one that Edison usually slept on.
The doorbell told him that they’d reached his front door. Angry voices said they’d be breaking through any second if Torres didn’t let them in.
Edison growled.
Joe put his finger to his lips and whispered, “Hush.”
He struggled with the heavy bookcase as boots thudded through his house — they were in the kitchen and the parlor. Two separate groups.
If they caught him, they’d arrest him and drag him outside. He couldn’t let that happen.
He pointed at the secret passageway, and Edison leaped in.
Joe backed in after him, snaked a hand around the end of the bookcase to pull the rug flat, and closed the door.
The bookcase was barely in place when the bedroom door crashed against the plaster wall.
The heavy steps of several men entered his room.
He didn’t dare turn on the flashlight. Light might show around the edges of the bookcase. He should have checked that out on the first day — dropped the flashlight in there, closed the door, and seen if the light leaked through. But he hadn’t.
Edison’s warm shoulder leaned into his.
Joe scrunched past him and crawled through the darkness as quickly as he could. He had to hope that the dog would follow him and stay quiet. One bark or growl and all would be lost.
He tucked his head low between his shoulder blades so that he wouldn’t crack it against the low roof. The tunnel dropped down fast. He forced himself to slow so that he wouldn’t lose his balance and face-plant into the rocks.
He hurried toward the end. Was the tunnel on the original blueprints of the house? Was someone waiting for him at the other end?
Chapter 14
Ozan checked his watch, again, and ordered a refill on his coffee. He’d been here for half an hour already. His contact, a man he knew only as Johnny Tops, was late. The diner was doing a brisk business this early — the waitress bringing eggs and meat to table after table. Ozan was having coffee and toast.
He held the back of his wrist to his brow. His skin felt hot and damp — feverish. If Erol’s forehead felt like that, Ozan would make him stay in bed all day and watch cartoons. No cartoons for Ozan.
Stifling a curse, he shook two aspirin into his hand, chewed them, and swallowed the sharp crumbs. The bitter taste made him grimace, but he’d heard that the painkiller worked faster if you chewed it, and the headache and fever had to go away right now.
A man took the seat across from him, baseball hat pulled low across a square, doughy face. The body connected to that head was wiry and tough.
“Morning, Tops.” Ozan gestured to the waitress for an additional menu.
“I’m not staying,” said Tops with a strong Brooklyn accent. “But I got something for you.”
Ozan slid an envelope with four hundred-dollar bills across the greasy table, payment for whatever Tops was delivering. Tops slapped a manila envelope into his hand as he stood to walk out.
The middle-aged waitress arrived with a menu and the coffeepot, filling Ozan’s cup before bustling off.
The envelope contained reports. Ozan skimmed the pages, learning that the police had named a person of interest in the murder of Subject 523 — a millionaire named Joe Tesla. Ozan chuckled. So the tall, awkward man was a millionaire out for a stroll around the tunnels of New York City in the middle of the night. He read further. Apparently, the man had a house down there, but he’d missed a social call from both NYPD officers and agents of the CIA.