“Too much for him to walk across the lot,” Simon muttered as he slowly cruised past the vehicle.
Janelle peered into her mirror and saw the back door open. “He’s getting out. Can’t get a good look at him.”
Though she saw he was in a suit and overcoat.
Simon had already made the turn at the end of the aisle. He drove to the far corner and pulled into a spot out of range of the surveillance cameras.
Janelle couldn’t see anything in the mirror at this angle. Instead she watched Simon as he glanced up at the rearview.
“Santana’s inside. Limo’s coming this way.”
She felt its rumble as it passed behind them. Her nerves spiked as it pulled into the next aisle, taking up two spaces.
Simon reached for her hand and gave it a squeeze. “You can do this, Janey.”
She gave him a scowl. “Of course, I can.” But the encouragement felt good. “Wish me luck.”
She squeezed him back and got out of the car.
As she stepped into the aisle behind Simon’s vehicle, with her left hand she pulled a cell phone out of her pocket. It wasn’t a real phone. It was mostly just a polycarbonate shell case, but she worked it with one hand as if she were having an important text conversation. With her other hand, she reached into her pocket and felt for the small metal case with the magnet.
Inside the case was a powerful GPS that could track a vehicle for several miles.
She pretended to glance toward the building’s entrance and saw the limo driver was reading from a tablet. So far, so good.
She neared the rear of the limo, and right on cue, she dropped the fake phone. Because it was rubber, there was no noise to distract the driver, but if anyone was watching on the camera, it would look perfectly natural.
She bent down at the limo’s rear tire to retrieve it. At the same time she picked up the fake cell, she quickly slipped her hand under the bumper and pressed the GPS device against the metal chassis.
The magnet held.
Exhaling a flurry of pent up nerves, she rose and continued on, as if she were heading for the exit and the sidewalk.
As she made her way through the next aisle of cars, Simon’s vehicle moved out of its spot. He guided it around the ramp and into the lane where she had just emerged. He pulled into a dark corner, another spot that was out of camera range.
Keeping her pace steady, Janelle strolled over to the car and got in.
“Good job, Red,” he grinned as soon as the door was closed.
“Thanks. Let’s get out of here.”
“Aye, aye, ma’am.” And he pulled out and drove to the exit.
Chapter Fifty-One
“Phase One complete.” Sloan’s voice whistled through Miranda’s ear bud loud and clear.
“They’re done,” she told the team, even though they’d heard it for themselves.
Sitting beside Parker in the Lexus, Miranda had a brown page boy wig on her head, full-rimmed taupe glasses on her face, and putty on her nose. Her business suit was a drab mushroom color, her shoes were low-heeled black pumps.
Inconspicuous was the theme of the day, and she thought Sloan’s team had done a pretty good job with that.
“Testing,” she said softly without lowering her chin.
Becker answered from the back seat. “You’re coming in loud and clear, Steele.”
The wire taped to her chest was small but powerful.
And tucked into her waistband at the small of her back was a slim ultra-concealable Glock with six rounds, which Sloan had assured her was both accurate and comfortable. Parker and the team were similarly equipped, courtesy of the Boston FBI office.
“We’ve got tracking on your position as well,” Carlson, the hacker, told her.
He was back in the third seat with Archer, while Becker and Holloway occupied the backseat.
Rasmussen and Hernandez were in a light gray Hyundai Elantra parked in an alley near the west side of the building. O’Cleary was on the corner in a white Subaru. And Wesson and Sloan were now riding around in a maroon Chrysler somewhere north of the place.
Archer handed Holloway a keycard, who passed it to Miranda.
“We think this will get you in,” she said. “It’s a guest card. Hopefully it won’t arouse suspicions.”
Good enough. She took off her ear bud and put it in the drink tray. That was the plan. Her team could hear her, but she couldn’t hear them. The distraction of noise coming into her ear would be too risky.
Inhaling, she reached for the black attaché case Wesson had loaned her. There wasn’t much in it. Not even her cell phone. She was leaving that behind, too. But the case made her look more believable.
“Okay,” she announced. “I’m ready.”
Parker reached across the car and took her hand. “We can find another way,” he murmured, not really caring if the team heard him.
She felt the same anxiety, but this was only a first step. Her goal was to learn personal details about Donovan Santana. Where he dined, places he frequented, who his friends and close associates were, and if they were lucky, his home address.
Once they got that information, getting into Santana’s living quarters would be the risky part.
She squeezed his hand. “I’ll be okay. I promise.”
He let her go, and she got out of the car.
She’d opted to go without an overcoat and the wind whipped through her suit making her shiver as she hurried to the end of the street and made her way through the crosswalk.
On the other side, she forced herself to move at the same pace as the other business folk around her. Not too fast, not too slow. She was glad when she reached the polished entrance of the Sector Building.
As if she was heading for a business meeting, she made her way up the concrete steps and through the glass columns.
Without missing a beat, she slipped inside.
Chapter Fifty-Two
The sound of expensive leather soles against elegant marble echoed in Miranda’s ears along with her thumping heart as she stood in the lobby getting her bearings.
The open space was as big as the whole city block.
A forest of glistening silver cylinders climbed to the soaring ceiling. A staircase that looked like it was made of blue glass led to an upper story. The glossy floor stretched out before her like a white marble ocean.
How to get to the top floor? She watched the crowd scuttling every which way.
Since that told her nothing, she headed for the burnished elevator bank up a trio of marble steps.
No luck.
These elevators only went to twenty-nine. There had to be another set somewhere.
She headed around a sweeping curve and found herself moving with the crowd though a corridor-like area dotted with cozy lamps and tables and curving sofas where small groups of business people were meeting for a friendly chat or quick deal.
Then she spotted it.
Two soaring silver beams that marked the entrance to another elevator bank. There was a sign.
Floors Thirty to Fifty. Yes.
A plaque beneath the sign indicated the occupants of those floors. There it was.
Sector Services, Fiftieth Floor.
She headed with the crowd toward the beams. Then her heart sank. A row of silver access gates barred the entrance.
Crap.
For a moment she watched the execs and employees swipe their cards to get through.
She dug in her pocket for the keycard Archer had given her. Whether it would work or set off alarms, and guards would come running and toss her out on her butt, she had no idea. But she gave it a try.
She stepped up to one of the gates and, holding her breath, swept it with her card.
To her amazement, the machine beeped and let her in. Good job, Archer.
Her heart knocking against her ribs, she hurried to a car and stepped inside just as the doors closed.
She let out an inconspicuous breath. Phase Two Part One accomplished.
The ride seemed to take forever. First came a fast zoom to the thirtieth floor that gave Miranda the thrill of an amusement park ride. Then the car slowed and stopped on thirty.
After that, it seemed to stop at every floor as passengers got in and out.
Thirty-one. Thirty-two. Thirty-five. Thirty-eight.
“I hear we’ll be getting bonuses at the end of Q1,” said a nicely groomed young man in a suit to a dark-haired colleague.
Her expression was dismissive. “That’s not what I hear.”
“Your department’s done well, hasn’t it?”
The car stopped at forty, and the couple got out, leaving Miranda to wonder whether they’d get the money or not.
The doors closed and the car climbed to floor forty-five. A group of tall men in suits got on. The car stopped at forty-seven and two of them exited. They went on to forty-eight and picked up more men in suits. Then to forty-nine, and just as Miranda thought she had aged a year, the doors finally opened on the fiftieth floor.
At last. Phase Two Part Two accomplished.
She stepped out into a sleek contemporary hallway.
A large twisted piece of modern sculpture graced the wall next to a flat screen TV where a handsome smiling man welcomed her in a modulated tone.
“Here at Sector Services we’re committed to your success and the success of your entire corporation. We can help you with financials, human resource management, consulting, and all your day-to-day needs.”
Not what I’m in the market for at the moment.
To her right, a set of glass entry doors blocked her way.
A few of the suits had gotten off the elevator with her and were heading for the doors. Fearing the keycard might not work a second time, she piggybacked and followed them in.
Now what?
A white marble reception desk stood in the center of an entrance area with an oval décor that made her feel as if she were standing inside a giant egg. No one was manning the desk. On the wall, “Sector Services” was etched in a modern, intimidating font.
The suits headed around the desk to the main work area. Pretending she belonged with them, Miranda followed. As they separated and headed to their respective offices, she slowed to take in the space.
It was immense and elegant. Tasteful and rich.
The floors and walls were another ocean of white Italian marble with contrasting dark veining, giving the place a stunning aristocratic look. Glass and brushed chrome completed the effect, along with dark teak wood panels artfully placed along the walls and doors for accents. Clusters of modern 3-D workstations filled the main area, with fancy offices for the higher-ups along the side.
All glass and sparkle. It reminded her—a smidgen—of the Parker Agency’s cube bank. But this place was over the top. And even with the upscale grandeur, it had a sterile flavor that was maybe just a little bit—phony?
The area was about half full of people busily working away at their desks.
As she made her way along the edge where several vacant workstations sat, she spotted a sign with fancy lettering someone had posted in one of the cubes.
“What would you attempt to do if you knew you could not fail?”
That worker wanted a raise.
Sector Services seemed legitimate. Probably no one working here knew their CEO was using the company as a front for an international criminal organization. That was, if Donovan Santana was the MIB.
Time to find out.
Donning a professional air, she made her way along the aisle of window offices, catching snatches of conversations from the open doors.
“That’s right, Lou,” said a smiling young exec into his cell phone. “We feel a venture into Japan would be just right for your company at this time.”
“The Dow is up again,” a woman in a gray suit said to another in a blue one in the next office. “We need Consolidated to take advantage of it now.”
“I’ll get right on that, Harriet.”
Nothing incriminating there.
Nearby a man rose from his desk with a report in his hand. As he passed, he gave Miranda a funny look, as if he were about to ask what her business was here. Then he thought better of it and hurried on.
She needed to take cover.
Spotting a desk that looked unoccupied, she slid into the chair, opened her attaché case, and pulled out some paper and a pen.
Pretending to work, she peered around the partition. Her gaze went to the far corner where the teakwood and gloss grew heavy. The thick double doors to the workspace were huge and went all the way up to the high ceiling.
That was it. Donovan Santana’s office.
Since Wesson and Sloan had reported his chauffeur had dropped him off about thirty minutes ago, he had to be in there.
Unless he was in a meeting.
In front of the closed door stood a marble workstation. It was fancier than the cubes, but it had no partitions. It was almost like an interior reception desk.
A thin young man in a gray suit and blue tie sat at the desk sealing a stack of envelopes.
Santana’s admin.
Miranda’s original plan had been to settle in and head for the break room, hoping to cozy up to a few of her new colleagues. But they’d probably want to know how long she’d been here, what company she’d come from, what department she was assigned to. And they might not know that much about the boss.
On the other hand, the admin would know—just about everything.
Stuffing her pad and pen into her case, she got up and headed for the man. As she neared, she spotted a bronze name plate on the marble desk. F. Fitzhugh.
Well, Mr. Fitzhugh, she thought. Let’s see how much I can pump out of you.
She reached the desk, leaned an arm on the marble, and watched him a moment.
He swiped a moistener over the glue of a letter sized envelope, closed the flap and pressed it down. Then he laid it in a stack to his right with the others he had already sealed. As he reached to the right for the next envelope, he glanced up and started at the sight of her.
Pressing a hand to his chest, he cleared his throat. “May I help you?” There was irritation in his tone.
Miranda feigned surprise. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”
He glared at her. “You didn’t startle me.”
“I’m sorry, anyway.”
“How may I help you?” he repeated, refusing to divert from the standard line.
As if embarrassed, Miranda grinned and shifted her weight. “Well, it’s my first day here and I’m a little disoriented. Is that Mr. Santana’s office?” She pointed to the intimidating doors.
“Yes, it is.” He sealed another envelope and placed it in the finished stack.
“He’s the CEO of this place, right?”
“Yes, he is.” Fitzhugh reached for the next envelope.
Miranda leaned forward as if sharing a secret with him. “I’m wondering if you could tell me a little about him. I mean, what’s he like to work for?”
Fitzhugh’s eyes narrowed. “Excuse me. What did you say your name was?”
Name. She hadn’t thought of a name. She pulled the blandest one she could think of out of the air. “Johnson. Roberta Johnson.”
“What department are you in, Ms. Johnson?”
Department. “IT.” Every company had an IT department.
Fitzhugh scowled. “IT is on forty-eight. Did you notify someone in HR when you arrived here this morning?”
Miranda blinked at him. “Oh, was I supposed to do that?”
The man let out a disgusted huff. “HR is on forty-nine. I suggest you check in with Madeline. She’ll get you to the right spot.”
He wasn’t very forthcoming with information. Craning her neck, she gazed again at the massive double doors. “It must be cool to work with Mr. Santana every day. Have you ever been to his house? What’s he like in his natural habitat?”
Let him think she was a gold digger.
He gave her a shar
p look. “I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to divulge personal information.”
Finishing the last envelope, Fitzhugh glanced at the time with another huff. “These brochures have to go out in the mail by noon. Wait here. I’ll be right back. I’ll take you to HR myself.”
And he scooped up the envelopes and hurried off toward the elevators.
That was a lucky break.
Miranda watched him disappear, then eyed the nearby workstations. No one had a good view of the admin’s desk. She was in the clear.
Casually, she stepped around the marble slab and sat down in Fitzhugh’s chair. She’d just do a little temp work for him until he got back.
She scanned the desk.
There were several phone messages. Apparently Santana liked old fashioned paper. She thumbed through them, but nothing told her what she needed to know. A brown leather notebook lay in the corner. Miranda slid it over to her and flipped through it. Business appointments. Luncheons and meetings with people she didn’t know in places she’d never heard of.
She turned to the laptop. A screensaver similar to the film in the lobby played with the sound muted.
Now that machine was probably a wealth of information. How could she access it? For a moment she thought about stuffing it into her case and heading out the door with it, but that was too risky.
Instead, she tapped the mouse and the screensaver disappeared, leaving a spreadsheet in its place.
Another stroke of luck. Fitzhugh didn’t use a password. Bet he’d get in trouble if his boss knew that.
She studied the cells in the sheet. It was all numbers and financial mumbo-jumbo.
She minimized the spreadsheet and went for the email. The address book. Santana’s home address had to be in there, right? His admin had to know how to reach him in case of an emergency.
Her heart racing, she started to sift through the names and had just reached the S’s when she felt a presence hovering over the desk.
“May I help you?” said a deep voice with a Boston accent.
Slowly she turned her head and looked into the eyes of the man she’d seen on the cover of the newspaper last night.
Predator Page 20
