Bodily Harm (29 page)

Sloane shook his head. “No. You have a wife and child at home.”

“This guy operates by surprise. He attacks people who are not expecting him. That’s his advantage. He doesn’t have that advantage with me. He’ll do his research, so we’ll have to play it straight. I’m a private investigator from Washington who’s been retained to get a compromising video of a powerful member of the president’s cabinet, which I just happen to have. That
particularly powerful member will make a call and request Stenopolis’s help in rectifying the problem. Since they have a past relationship, Stenopolis will feel comfortable with the contact and the likelihood he will be well compensated.”

“I thought you said Hotchkin wanted nothing to do with this guy?”

“He doesn’t.” Jenkins held up a phone. “But I stole his cell phone.”

“He’ll report it stolen.”

“I already did. Then I bought another one and restored the service. I figure it’s good for at least a couple of days. I only have to leave a message, so I don’t need to say much on the phone, but I can do a fairly good impersonation of Hotchkin from studying the videotape.”

Sloane considered the scenery. “We do it your way with one exception. I’ll be the one waiting when Stenopolis arrives.”

Jenkins shook his head.

“It isn’t negotiable,” Sloane said.

“This is personal for you, but not for him. For Stenopolis it’s simply business. If you call him to settle things mano a mano, he won’t take the bait, and then we lose the element of surprise.”

Red taillights flashed as they approached the Frances Scott Key Bridge. Jenkins hit the brakes. “Damn. Washington traffic.”

“How far away are we?”

“Not far. Georgetown is just on the other side.”

Thunder rumbled overhead, a loud boom. Sloane pulled the cell phone from the clip on his belt. “I’d better give her a call and tell her we’ll be late. She sounded anxious on the phone.”

LEROY FINISHED BRUSHING her hair, checked her makeup for the twentieth time, and shrugged. So be it. She had chosen a pair of blue jeans and a powder blue cashmere sweater,
which lay on the bed. It was casual, but classy.

She checked her watch. She had five minutes. She picked up the jeans, then remembered she had promised to copy her report to a disc for Sloane. “Darn.”

Still in her underwear, she went into the living room, pulled the memory stick from her backpack, and stuck it into the UBS port on the side of the computer. As she did, she realized she didn’t have any discs on which to copy the report. She hurried into her bedroom, pulled down the first of two storage boxes on the shelf in her closet, and rummaged through what had been the contents of her college desk.

She found no disc, pulled down the second box, and found an unmarked silver disc in a light green plastic sleeve. Hurrying back into the living room, she placed the disc into the computer and waited for it to boot. She hoped it didn’t contain the contents of the hard drive she had used in college, but that hope was dashed when the database pulled up a list of files, mostly papers she had written. She’d likely never use them again, but nostalgia made deleting seem somehow wrong. Anal retentive, she decided to copy the documents from the disc onto her laptop hard drive. Then she’d clear the disc and copy the report to it. Whatever she did, she’d need to do it in a hurry.

She highlighted the list of documents and used the arrow to click
COPY
. The computer reported an error.

She checked her watch, becoming more anxious.

She logged out of the program and tried a different one, repeating the process, this time without an error message popping onto the screen. But as the tiny file folders flew across the screen some stopped, and the computer indicated that the particular papers were so old the Word program had changed to a different version and the computer would have to convert them before saving them to the hard drive. She checked her watch again as the computer transferred the files one at a time, taking
several minutes to complete. LeRoy then checked to be sure that the files had copied onto the hard drive, which took still more time, and finally highlighted the list on the disc and hit
DELETE
. The computer asked her if she was certain she wanted to delete all of the files.

“Yes, yes,” she said, pressing the key.

The disc clear, LeRoy opened up the files on the memory stick and found her report on magnets. She directed the computer to save the document to the disc and watched as miniature manila folders again flew across the screen to confirm transfer of the file.

Her doorbell rang.

LeRoy looked from the screen, surprised. The building had a security system at the front door requiring visitors to be buzzed in, but at this time of day, with people coming home from work and leaving for dinner it was common for the door to be open. Still, she could have used the extra warning, and minutes.

Still in her underwear, LeRoy called out, “Just a minute.”

She started for the bedroom but the doorbell rang again. Rather than try to throw on her jeans and sweater she pulled on her bathrobe, intending to open the door a crack to apologize that she needed another moment. Sloane could wait in the living room while she got dressed and the computer continued to copy the report.

At the door, she unlocked the dead bolt.

JENKINS LEANED FORWARD to look out the windshield as he inched the car down the street while Sloane searched for addresses on the buildings. The wipers hummed, sweeping away the splatter of rain on the glass, but the water, darkness, and foliage from the occasional tree planted in a patch of dirt in the sidewalk
made it difficult to see.

“Even numbers on your side,” Jenkins said.

Sloane saw the green lettering on a metal awning over the sidewalk. “Blues Alley Apartments.”

Jenkins jerked the car to a stop in front of a multistoried building. The driver behind honked and sped around him, middle finger extended. Up and down the block, cars lined the curb in each direction.

“Double-park and I’ll run up,” Sloane said.

Jenkins pulled alongside a white van. “Keep your cell phone on,” he said. “If it looks like it might be awhile, call me. I’ll go grab a cup of coffee down the street and come back.”

Sloane stepped from the car and jogged for cover beneath the overhang. A strong wind rustled the branches of the tree in front of the entry. He found the entry keypad where Anne LeRoy had described it, but despite the incandescent lights in the overhang it was difficult to see the numbers. Sloane bent down and punched 602 on the keypad.

A phone rang several times, but LeRoy did not answer. He hit the * button and hung up, then entered the number again. Again she did not respond.

He pulled the scrap of paper from his pocket to confirm the apartment number and looked back to the car. Jenkins leaned across the car with his hands extended in the universal sign for “what gives?”

Sloane shrugged, and Jenkins powered down the passenger-side window.

Sloane shouted to him, “She’s not answering.” LeRoy had indicated she was jumping into the bath. “She could still be in the bath.”

Jenkins considered his watch. “If she’s like Alex this could be hours. Try again.”

Sloane punched in the numbers. Again LeRoy did not answer.

Jenkins shouted. “Look for a building manager. These apartment complexes usually have someone to accept deliveries.”

Sloane reconsidered the list of names then noticed the sign below the box.
NO SOLICITORS. FOR DELIVERIES RING 407
. He punched in the numbers.

A man’s voice squawked at him. “Yeah?”

“I have an appointment to see Anne LeRoy.”

“Hang on.”

“Wait.” But the man was gone. A moment later he came back. “She’s in six-oh-two.”

“I know. There’s no answer.”

“I can’t help you with that.”

“Can you let me in?”

“Not without the tenant’s approval.”

Sloane heard a click. End of conversation.

ANNE LEROY PULLED open the door. “Mr. . . . ?” Her voice caught at the sight of a large bouquet of flowers.

“Anne LeRoy?”

“Yes.”

He smiled. “I have a delivery for you.”

“For me?”

“Apparently.”

“Who could they be from?”

“There’s a card.”

LeRoy pulled the door open farther and reached for the bouquet. When she grabbed it, the man’s hand clamped suddenly about her throat, choking her windpipe, preventing her from calling out. She felt her feet leave the ground, her body propelled backward into the apartment as the door slammed close.

Behind her, somewhere, she heard her phone ring.

• • •

AS SLOANE FLIPPED CLOSED his phone Jenkins pushed open the car door and walked around the back of the car, the collar of his black leather jacket turned up against the rain. Alex might have had Jenkins on a diet, but Sloane couldn’t help but think that it didn’t take away from the sheer immensity of the man.

Jenkins pushed a series of three numbers on the keypad. A man’s voice answered, “Yeah?”

Jenkins bent to get closer to the voice box. “Sorry. I hit the wrong button.”

He ran a finger down the list of tenants and pressed three different digits. This time a woman with a twinge of a southern accent answered.

“Wrong button,” Jenkins repeated, scrolling farther down the list and repeating the process. When no one answered he entered the same numbers.

“We have a winner,” he said, and rang the superintendent’s apartment.

“Yeah?” The man sounded more annoyed than when Sloane called.

“I have a delivery for apartment five-one-five,” Jenkins said in an affected Boston accent.

“Hold on.” A moment later the box clicked. “No one’s home.”

“Can someone else accept it?”

“What is it?”

“Luggage delayed at the airport. The woman wasn’t too happy about it and I ain’t exactly excited about coming back.”

There was an audible groan. “Bring it to four-oh-seven.”

The lock buzzed. Jenkins pulled open the door and they stepped into a marbled entry with a mirrored wall that created
the illusion that the lobby was twice its actual size. The decor was spartan, just an entry table with two potted ferns. Two elevator doors were to the left. One opened as soon as Sloane hit the button.

They stepped from the elevator onto the sixth floor, looking at their mirror images and the back of a man stepping into the adjacent elevator carrying a bag of trash. Wall sconces offered muted light as Sloane and Jenkins started down the hall looking for Apartment 602. When they realized the apartment numbers were ascending they had to backtrack. Apartment 602 was the last door on the left. Sloane knocked three times. No one answered.

Leaning closer he shouted through the door. “Ms. LeRoy? Ms. LeRoy?” He pressed his ear to the door, heard muffled music and a cat mewing, and knocked again. “Ms. LeRoy?”

A dead bolt turned, but the sound did not come from inside the apartment. It came from the adjacent door, which pulled open a crack, revealing half the face of an elderly woman. At her feet a small dog yapped up at them, fighting to get out.

“I’m sorry,” Sloane said. “Do you know if Anne is home?”

The woman gave Sloane a disapproving frown. “She probably can’t hear you over the music. I’ve asked her to turn it down, but she just ignores me.”

“So she’s home?”

“First thing she does is turn on the music. She could have left I guess. I had to take Percy out. I don’t sit here spying on her,” she said. “It’s just that the walls are paper thin. I have my name in to move when a vacancy opens.”

Sloane pulled out his cell phone and dialed LeRoy’s number while putting his ear to the door, but he did not hear the phone ring. He tried the handle and shook the door. From the play in the jamb, the dead bolt was not secured.

“She had a delivery a while ago,” the woman said. “Flowers.”

Jenkins was looking down the hall, then to the woman. “Is
there a garbage chute on this floor?”

“What?”

“A garbage chute. Is there one on this floor?”

“Every floor,” the woman said.

“Break it down.” Jenkins turned and ran down the hall, jacket splaying, the hall floor vibrating with each pounding boot. He disappeared through a door beneath a green illuminated sign indicating
EXIT
.

Sloane stepped back and lunged forward, putting his right shoulder into the door.

The old woman quickly slammed shut her door.

Pain radiated across Sloane’s chest from the wound in his shoulder. It wouldn’t take another blow. Panting, trying to catch his breath, he stepped back, transferred his weight onto his bad leg, and crashed the sole of his shoe into the door. It flexed but did not give. He took a moment to recover, then stepped back and kicked the door again. This time he heard a crack. Mustering what energy he had left, he kicked it a third time, springing the door open. An orange-and-white cat skirted past and ran down the hallway. Feeling light-headed, Sloane gripped the doorframe and stumbled into the apartment, panning the small living area while trying to regain his balance and clear his vision, which had blurred. He stumbled farther in and through another doorframe to his right: the bedroom. Empty.

He pushed open another door and stepped in. The shower curtain was closed. Water had pooled on the tile floor. Sloane reached for the curtain and noticed the electrical cord, his eyes following it from the socket above the sink until it disappeared behind the curtain.

JENKINS GRIPPED THE tubular metal hand railing,
propelled himself around the horseshoe turn, and started down another flight of dusty concrete stairs. He tried to maintain a delicate balance between hurrying and falling flat on his face. The goal was to beat the elevator carrying the man with the garbage bag to the ground floor. The car had been empty when the man stepped on. Jenkins could only hope it had made at least one stop on its descent.

At the third floor landing he gained a rhythm—seven stairs, grip railing, spin. Seven stairs, grip railing, spin. Second floor. He repeated the process, descended to the first floor, spun one more time, and came to a door stenciled
LOBBY
. He pulled the Smith & Wesson from its holster, grabbed the handle, and yanked open the door, surveying a short hall, perhaps eight feet long, leading to the lobby. The bell for the elevator rang. Jenkins took aim as the doors pulled open.