Leaning hard against the ladder for support, Mason loosened his belt, pulled it out of three loops on his left side, and rethreaded it over his forearm, cinching his arm against his side before rebuckling his belt. He couldn't tell if he was making his injury worse since he had no feeling in his arm. At least it didn't hurt, he thought.
Mason hung on the ladder, expecting a quick rescue. The crash had been deafening and had to bring police and firefighters to the scene in minutes, he was convinced. When no one came, when no elevator doors were opened and no high beams shined on him, he began to understand the trouble he was in.
There were no security guards. The only office that might have been occupied at that time of night was the radio station. Anyone working there was probably in a soundproof studio wearing headphones that shut out the rest of the world. It reminded Mason of the existential puzzle—if a tree falls in the forest and no one hears it, does it make any noise?
No one knew where he was or had reason to look for him. He was a one-armed man hanging on a ladder in a blacked-out elevator shaft, bruised and bloodied from a self-inflicted beating.
The only thing he knew for certain was that there were elevator doors above and below him. If the ladder was used to service the doors, there had to be a way to open them from inside the shaft. Mason ignored the fact that the serviceman would be equipped with tools, two arms to use them, and light to see what the hell he was doing.
He closed his eyes, not to shut out the darkness, but to concentrate on what he had seen in the brief moment he had shined his flashlight on the elevator door for the sixth floor. He pictured a bar extending across the door that he hoped would open it when the bar was pulled or pushed in the right direction.
Mason didn't like his options. He could climb up the ladder to the seventh floor and try the bar with his right arm. He didn't know if he had the strength to move it, and even if he could, he had no way to keep his balance at the same time. He could climb down to the sixth-floor door, using his right leg to work the bar while holding on with his good arm.
Or he could climb down the ladder all the way to the bottom of the shaft. He looked down, even though he couldn't see, his head swimming from shock, blood loss, and darkness. That option was last on his list, and certain to land him in a heap on top of the wrecked elevator with one wrong step.
Mason chose the sixth floor, lowering his feet, descending one at a time, one rung at a time. After each step, he swung his right leg out, feeling for the elevator door. It took three steps before his shoe found the smooth surface of the door and two more before it found the bar.
He edged his shoe along the bar, pressing down as he went, frustrated when the door didn't yield, near exhaustion from the effort. He couldn't reach far enough. Pulling his leg back to the ladder, Mason held on and gathered his strength. He realized he had to flip his position on the ladder, putting his back to the wall, holding on with his right hand while using his left leg to force the door open. The maneuver would double his reach if he didn't fall.
Taking a deep breath, Mason swung his body around, keeping only his right hand and foot on the ladder as his left leg slapped against the elevator door and jammed down hard against the bar. The first movement of the bar almost caused Mason to lose his grip on the ladder, he was so unprepared for it. Steadying himself, he renewed the pressure on the bar until the door began to slide open away from him. A dim light leaked into the shaft from the other side of the door.
Mason panicked, realizing that he would quickly lose his hold on the bar and the door would slide shut again. He had no time to think. He gave the bar a final shove, swung his body back onto the ladder, and slid down three more rungs until he was even with the bottom of the open door. Once again, he whirled away from the ladder, letting go and landing halfway in the opening, his head glancing off something harder than his skull. The door slid back, stopping against his legs.
Mason crawled the rest of the way in from the shaft, grabbing onto metal shelves, pulling himself to his feet. He was in a closet lit only by light oozing in from the hall. There was no handle on the inside of the locked door. He thumped his good hand against the door without conviction, slid to the floor, and passed out amid the smell of cleaning supplies.
Chapter 7
A burst of hard raps against the closet door roused Mason. He shook the cobwebs from his brain, concentrating on the deep, muffled voice giving orders from the other side. "Police! Open up! Anybody in there?"
"Can't," Mason whispered, unable to pump more volume into his reply. He was lying on his side facing the closet door, wedged in a fetal position, his bloody left arm draped over his middle, having slipped out of his belt when he spun off the ladder.
"Police! Open up!" the cop repeated.
Mason kicked the door in reply.
"Get a grip, Kenny," a woman said. "Whoever is in there can't talk and can't get out. Call the paramedics. We've got blood leaking out from under the door. And get the building manager up here with the goddamn key to this closet. We find a body in there, I'm changing the name of this place to the House of Usher."
Recognizing the woman's voice, Mason tried to laugh, but hacked instead, discovering a ragged pain in his side. Samantha Greer had a black-and-blue sense of humor Mason couldn't resist. She'd crack up when he rolled out of the closet.
Mason's body was regaining consciousness in waves, each one cresting with fresh complaints. Though his arm was still numb and his ribs raw, his head throbbed like a psychotic sub-woofer, filling his ears with static. Disconnected sounds filtered through the white noise. Running footsteps. Snapping voices. He wondered if he'd made up or dreamt Samantha's voice until he heard her again.
"Ease it open, Kenny. Let's meet the neighbors."
Mason scrunched his eyes as light flooded the closet. Opening them, all he could see were shoes, ankles, and shins.
"Lou!" Samantha said. "When did you start playing extreme hide-and-seek?"
Before Mason could answer, two paramedics ran their hands over his body checking for obvious injuries. They soon straightened him out, eased him onto a spine board, and lifted him onto a gurney.
"Sam," he said as she smiled down at him, stroking the side of his face.
"Don't talk," she said. "You're shaken but not stirred. I'll see you at the hospital."
"I want my goddamn key back! Ask him about the key," Trent Hackett said.
Samantha looked up, Mason rolling his head to the other side of the gurney, Trent Hackett standing behind the paramedics as they packed up, pushing his way past them, Kenny holding him back.
"I think it can wait, Mr. Hackett," she told him.
"My father made me give him a key to Gina Davenport's office. I didn't have any since you guys took them all," he said to Samantha. "So I had to give him a passkey. It's twenty-five bucks if he lost it."
"Lou, were you in Gina Davenport's office tonight?" Samantha asked him, no longer willing to wait until he got to the hospital.
"Yeah," he said. "Should have taken the stairs."
"What were you doing there?"
"I've got a client you're interested in."
"Jordan Hackett?" Samantha asked.
"She's the one," Mason answered.
"We think so too," Samantha said. "She confessed to the murder of Gina Davenport an hour ago."
"Should have taken the stairs," Mason said, closing his eyes.
Samantha was standing at the end of Mason's hospital bed when he woke the next morning. He had always liked the way she looked when they woke up together. Blond hair fanned across her pillow, green eyes grinning as she teased him about snoring. He liked watching her walk naked to the bathroom, her slender body catching rays of sunlight peeking through the shades. At first, they were more friends than lovers, the sex more needy than heartfelt. Then Samantha wanted the whole package, Mason pulling back when he couldn't give it to her, the friendship somehow surviving.
"Have you been here all night?" he asked her.
"Are you nuts? That's what nurses are for. How do you feel?"
Mason rubbed his stubbled face with both hands, aware for the first time that his left arm was back in service. "I'd have to feel better to die, but at least I've got my health." He slipped his left arm out of the hospital gown and examined the bandage that was wrapped around his biceps.
"You sliced it deeply enough to bleed a bucket, but not enough to cut it off, according to the doctor. When you jumped off the elevator, you must have hit a nerve in your shoulder. Football players call it a stinger. It goes away and you're fine."
"How do you know about the elevator?" he asked.
"You mumbled enough on the way to the hospital that I could figure out some of what happened."
"You rode with me in the ambulance?"
"Don't get excited. I was just taking advantage of your condition to find out what happened before you decided not to tell me." She said it with a smile that covered her concern, though Mason knew she was telling the truth, just not the whole truth. "Here," she said, handing him a mirror, "take a look."
Mason groaned at the black eye he would carry around for the next week. "I guess that's from hitting my head when I jumped into the closet."
"Don't forget the bruised ribs. You had quite a ride. Fill me in on the details you left out while you were delirious."
"How did you find me?" Mason asked after telling her what had happened.
"When the elevator crashed, it ripped through a water line. We got a call from the utility company, searched the building, and found your blood leaking from under the door to the utility closet on the sixth floor. One of the cops called me because of the Davenport case. Smart guy. Wants to be a detective."
"Tell him I said thanks. What happened with the elevator?" he asked.
"It's almost as old as the building. They call it a drum elevator because the steel rope that pulls it up and down the shaft wraps around a drum in the basement where the controls are. It's not too complicated. There's a power switch that turns it on and off and an emergency release that turns it into an express. We called in an elevator expert to figure out why the system failed."
"Let me know, will you," Mason said. "How did you get Jordan Hackett to confess? Didn't she tell you I was representing her?"
"We're open twenty-fours a day. She came in, told the desk sergeant she killed Dr. Gina, and asked who she needed to talk to. I read her the
Miranda
spiel in front of two witnesses and she wrote it down."
"Wrote what down?"
"Dr. Gina and Jordan's father were having some tough contract negotiations. Gina wanted out so she could sign a better deal with a national radio syndication outfit from New York. Her father said no way. Gina said either she walks or Jordan finds a new shrink. Arthur Hackett called her bluff and Gina fired Jordan."
Mason sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the hospital bed. "Let me guess. Gina gave Jordan the bad news on Friday. Jordan freaks, throws something at the window, cracks it, and comes back Monday night to fire Dr. Gina."
"Bingo," Samantha said. "Watch your gown, big boy. There's a cool breeze blowing."
"Don't get excited," he said. "I'm not that glad to see you. I've just got to pee. Her story doesn't hold up. Why come back Monday night? She had the weekend to cool off. She wouldn't have known that Davenport was in her office. She was stuck out in the country with no car and she didn't have a key to get into the building."
Mason eased off the bed, wobbling enough that Samantha took his arm. "You okay, cowboy?"
"Peachy. Find my pants. I'm going home," he said as he staggered into the bathroom, his hospital gown flapping behind him.
"Nice butt," Samantha said as he closed the bathroom door. She handed him his pants when he came out. "Jordan says she called Dr. Gina and arranged to meet her that night. She borrowed a car and Gina let her in the building. They argued about Gina dropping her as a patient. Jordan ended the argument the old-fashioned way."
"I don't buy it," Mason said, pulling on his pants, his back to Samantha, who was staring out the window. Though they used to be lovers and could still tease each other, their days of watching each other get dressed were over.
"Why not? Not all your clients are innocent."
Mason winced as he put on his shirt, the pain in his ribs still fresh. "I talked to Jordan yesterday. We made an appointment for today. I told her not to talk to the cops again without me. Something happened and I'm going to find out what it was. How about giving me a lift back to my car."
"Not necessary. I called Harry a little while ago. Blues and Mickey picked up your car. Harry is waiting outside. He'll take you home. I've got other cases to solve. This one is over."
***
Harry drove an eight-year-old Suburban. He didn't need the space. He just liked driving a car that was as broad-shouldered as he was. Mason grunted at the effort of hoisting himself into the front passenger seat, but waved off Harry's offer of a boost.
"Damn," Mason said. "I feel like I've been kicked by a horse with all four feet."
Harry said, "Don't go to bed. You'll just freeze up and we'll have to chisel the spasms out of your muscles." He pulled a tissue from a box on the floor and wiped his eyes, then squinted at the stoplight that had just turned green. He waited until the driver behind him honked twice.
"I'm going," Harry muttered, wiping his eyes again.
"Your eyes okay?" Mason asked.
"They're fine," Harry answered. "Just these damn allergies."
Harry was not normally talkative, except about old cases he'd handled. Some baseball pitchers could recite every pitch they ever threw in a game, adding location, speed, and spin to the name of the opposing batter, the balls and strikes, and who won the battle. Harry was like that with cases he'd investigated, especially murder cases. Outside of that, he wasn't much for small talk. Mason often wondered what Harry and his Aunt Claire talked about. She must have tapped into Harry's other dimension. Mason envied them. They had been together as long as he could remember. Though they'd never married, they were as tightly bound as any couple he'd ever known.