Elevator Pitch (UK)

by Linwood Barclay

Headley nodded. “He told me something that he did … I should be angry. I should be livid. But I’m not. I feel like I had it coming.”

  “What did he tell you?”

  The mayor shook his head. “Maybe you’re right. What you’ve been telling me, that I’ve been too hard on him. I’m seeing now how that can end up biting you in the ass.”

  “Richard, I wish you’d tell me what you’re talking about.”

  “Glover may think I’ll have changed my mind about letting him come to Coughlin’s thing tonight, but I haven’t.” He smiled grimly. “I want him there.”

  Valerie was about to press harder about what had gone on between him and his son, but she was interrupted by a text. “What’s this?” she said, reading it.

  The mayor raised his head, waiting.

  “It’s reception,” Valerie said. “The police are here.”

  “Probably Chief Washington,” Headley said. “Maybe she knows more about this Wooler guy they’ve arrested.”

  Valerie slowly shook her head. “No. It’s two detectives.” She looked up. “They’re looking for Glover.”

  The mayor went ashen-faced. “They have detectives in the health department?”

  “What?” Valerie said. “What are you talking about?”

  “Never mind,” Headley said.

  Valerie entered a number, then put the phone to her ear.

  “Hey, it’s Valerie. Are those detectives still there? Okay, yeah, put one of them on.” She waited a few seconds, then said, “Yes, hello? Who’s this? Delgado? What can I do for you, Detective Delgado?” She listened, then said, “Well, I’m sorry but Glover is not here right now. Perhaps this is something I can help you with?”

  She listened some more. “I see.”

  “What is it?” Headley asked.

  Valerie put her hand over the phone and said, “They specifically want to talk to Glover.”

  “You better call him,” Headley said, his voice weak, tipping his head at the landline on his desk.

  Valerie told Delgado to hold on, picked up the receiver for the mayor’s phone, and entered the number for Glover’s cell.

  She waited several seconds before finally saying, “Glover, it’s Valerie. Can you call me the minute you get this?”

  She went back onto her cell and said, “I tried his cell but he’s not answering. I’m sorry. His home address? I don’t—”

  Headley reached across the desk and snatched the phone out of Valerie’s hand.

  “This is Mayor Headley,” he said, with more courtesy than usual. “Who’s this I’m talking to?” He listened for a second. “Can you tell me what this is about?”

  He held the phone to his ear for another five seconds, said, “Okay,” then, without saying anything further, handed it back to Valerie. She put it to her own ear, said, “Hello?”

  “She hung up,” the mayor said.

  Valerie lowered the phone. “What did she say?”

  “They’re coming here. To talk to me.”

  Sixty-Three

  Bourque and Delgado had never before been in the office of the mayor of New York City. If they were impressed, they were trying very hard not to show it. Valerie had met them just outside the door, and when she took them in, Headley was pacing the room. He had taken off his jacket and loosened his tie.

  “Detectives Bourque and Delgado,” Valerie announced.

  The two detectives each introduced themselves so the mayor would know who was Bourque and who was Delgado.

  “What’s this about?” the mayor asked.

  “It’s really your son we want to talk to,” Delgado said.

  “About?”

  Bourque said, “It’s tied to an investigation we’re working on.”

  “So this has nothing to do with the mouse.”

  Bourque glanced at his partner, as if to ask Did I hear that right? But instead, he said, “We’re investigating a homicide, sir.”

  Headley almost looked relieved. “By my count, there’s what, ten of them? Seven deaths by elevator, three in the explosion.”

  “We’re looking into the death of Otto Petrenko,” Delgado said. “His body was found on the High Line Monday morning.”

  “Petrenko?”

  “An elevator technician,” Bourque said.

  Now they had Headley’s attention. “Elevator technician? Is there a connection between his death and what’s been going on?”

  “Possibly,” Delgado said. “Before he died, Petrenko became very worried about the safety of his relatives in other parts of the country. It’s possible he was being coerced to provide details on how elevators function, that he feared these relatives would be harmed if he didn’t go along. At the moment, it’s just a theory. Not long before he was killed, Petrenko met with a man who visited him at his place of work. No one else knew who this man was, and Petrenko didn’t talk about him to anyone. We’ve been trying to find out who that man might be.”

  “Why do you think Glover might be able to help you with that?” the mayor asked.

  Bourque said, “We managed to track down the car this man was driving. It came from the City Hall car pool.”

  Valerie, who’d been standing off to one side through the discussion, said, “It did?”

  “It had one of those stickers on the back,” Delgado said. “Part of your green campaign, sir. We had a partial plate and a distinguishing mark on the bumper. With all that, we were able to find the exact car.”

  “Hang on,” the mayor said. “When did you say this was? Because it’s very possible, given the events of this week, that someone from the city would be talking to an expert in how elevators work.”

  Delgado said, “As I mentioned a moment ago, Mr. Petrenko died sometime between Sunday night and Monday morning, before that first elevator event in the Lansing Tower. This meeting predates that.”

  “Well, I guess the simplest thing to do,” Headley said, “is find out who signed the car out that day. You don’t need Glover to do that for you. We should be able to get that information. Can we do that for the detectives, Valerie?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “We’ve already done that,” Bourque said.

  The room went quiet.

  When the mayor didn’t say anything, it was Valerie who decided to ask the question. “Who signed it out?”

  “Glover Headley,” Delgado said.

  The mayor and Valerie exchanged glances.

  “That’s why,” Bourque said, “we would like to talk to Glover. We just want to clear this up. That’s the way it is in an investigation. Tying up one loose end, then moving on to the next thing.”

  “That’s right,” Delgado said. “So if you could just tell us where we might find him, so we could cross this angle of inquiry off our list.”

  Headley turned, walked toward his desk. He ran his right hand up to the back of his neck, kneaded it like it was bread dough.

  “He just … resigned,” Headley said.

  “Why?” Bourque asked.

  “Because I’m a son of a bitch,” he said. “Look, I’m sure there’s a very simple explanation for this. I’ll be talking to Glover tonight—he’s coming to the Top of the Park opening—and I’ll ask him what this is about and get back to you tomorrow.”

  “We would prefer to talk to him ourselves, sir,” Delgado said. “And we need to talk to him sooner than that.”

  “Look, we just tried to raise him and he’s not answering, so I don’t know what to tell you.”

  Bourque said, “We need his cell number and home address.”

  Valerie looked at her boss, as though waiting for permission. He gave a weary nod, and she said, “I’ll write those down for you.”

  She slipped out of the office.

  Delgado and Bourque both took out their business cards and placed them on the mayor’s desk. “Give us a call,” she said, “if he should happen to show up sooner.”

  Headley looked down at the cards but did not touch them.

  Valerie returned with
a slip of paper and handed it to Delgado. “I gave you his email address, too,” she said.

  “If he’s not in the building, or at home, you know any favorite places he might hang out?” Bourque asked. “Coffee shop? Bar? Park?”

  The mayor looked at him blankly. “I can’t think of any. Valerie?”

  “No,” she said.

  “What did Glover do, before handing in his resignation?” Delgado asked.

  “Um, data analysis, polling, techie stuff,” Valerie said.

  “You’d call him a techie?” Bourque asked.

  “Oh, yes,” Valerie said. “There’s not a program or gadget in the world Glover can’t figure out.”

  Sixty-Four

  Anyone would have been forgiven for thinking the Academy Awards had been moved from Hollywood to New York.

  The official opening of the Top of the Park had all the earmarks of Oscar night. Huge spotlights set up across the street in Central Park cast dancing, crisscrossing beams of light into the night sky.

  Central Park North was closed off between Fifth Avenue and Central Park West. Being allowed through were dozens of limousines bearing celebrities and politicians and the city’s major power brokers. Judging by the presence of TV crews from CNN, as well as Access Hollywood and Extra, this was an entertainment event as much as it was a news story.

  As each vehicle rolled to a stop at the end of the red carpet that led into the cavernous atrium of Top of the Park, tuxedoed attendants rushed forward to open doors. Photographers and TV crews waited to see who might emerge. If it turned out to be a prominent actor or actress, glammed-up TV hosts would stop them as they passed for a few words of architectural insight.

  “It sure is tall!” one actress said.

  “I’d have gotten pretty dizzy working on that!” quipped an Oscar-nominated actor.

  When New Yorkers far more powerful or influential, but whose faces did not appear on a twenty-foot-high screen at one of the city’s multiplexes, stepped out of a limo—the head of the New York Stock Exchange, the presidents of the Whitney Museum of American Art and Columbia University, to name just three—the TV types lowered their cameras and microphones until the next beautiful person came along.

  Regular New Yorkers not important enough to get an invitation still came out in droves to catch a glimpse of those who’d made the cut. Smartphones flashed incessantly. Fans begged for selfies. The occasional celeb even obliged.

  Barbara and Arla were not among those who arrived by limo. The closest they could get, by car, was Fifth and Central Park North.

  “Shit,” Barbara said upon seeing the barricades that kept them from getting dropped off out front of Top of the Park. “If I’d known we’ve got to walk this far I’d have worn flats.”

  If the 110th Street station, which was only a few steps from the brand-new skyscraper, hadn’t been closed for security reasons, they could have taken the train and saved themselves a few steps. But Barbara had had to agree with Arla: When you’re all dressed up, did you really want to trek down into the subway?

  That morning, they’d opted not to order in, and instead went out for a proper hangover breakfast. Scrambled eggs, extra crispy bacon, home fries, and more coffee. Then they’d gone back to Barbara’s place to go through her closet and see if she had anything glitzy enough for the Top of the Park affair.

  Going through her mother’s closet, Arla asked, “Just how many pairs of jeans do you have?” She found one black, off-the-shoulder dress tucked in the far corner and pulled it out. Holding out the dress at arm’s length, she said, “What do you think?”

  Barbara said, “How many other dresses did you find in there?”

  “None.”

  “It’s got sleeves, so no one will see my black and blue elbow. I like it.”

  “With the right accessories, it’ll work.”

  “Accessories?” Barbara said.

  Arla returned to her own apartment at that point, but invited her mother to come by two hours before the event, by which time she would have picked out a few necklaces and bracelets and sets of earrings for her mother to choose from.

  “Maybe this is a mistake,” Arla said as they made their way from the cab to the entrance to Top of the Park. “I mean, an event like this is not exactly the best place to tell someone you’re his daughter.”

  Barbara nodded. “Let’s hold back, see if he makes the first move. If he recognized your name when I said it, he might do something. If he does nothing, then we know he doesn’t remember anything about that night, including my surname. And who knows? The moment Richard sees me walking into that party, he may have my ass kicked to the curb.”

  “It’d be a long way down,” Arla said. “And besides, it’s not his party.”

  Barbara smiled as they reached the red carpet. “No, it isn’t.”

  The two of them stopped before approaching the front doors and looked up. They had to crane their necks back as far as they could, and even then weren’t sure they could see the top of the building.

  At the entrance, Barbara reached into her evening clutch and produced her invitation, which was closely scrutinized by a blond woman in a dazzling red, floor-length gown, accessorized rather incongruously by an earpiece and wires. “Have a wonderful time,” she said.

  And then they were inside.

  “Fuck me,” said Arla.

  The lobby was a breathtaking amalgam of swooping steel and glittering glass and lights that seemed to float, untethered, in the air above them. There were a couple of hundred people milling about, taking glasses of champagne from the trays of wandering servers.

  “Oh my God,” Arla whispered, nudging her mother and getting her to look to one side. “Isn’t that what’s-his-name? From that movie?”

  Barbara nodded. “Yeah. But don’t get excited. He’s gay.”

  “No,” Arla said.

  “That’s the word.”

  “Oh, and at eleven o’clock. That’s—”

  “Yeah. They say she’s going to run for president. She keeps saying she isn’t, which tells me she probably is. Oh, look.”

  Coming through the crowd was the mayor, dressed in black tie. He had a broad smile pasted on his face that looked, at least to Barbara, more artificial than usual. Politicians were masters at appearing delighted to see you when they really didn’t give a shit, and Headley was one of the best, but Barbara thought his bonhomie seemed particularly strained. Something about the creases coming out of the front corners of his mouth. Fault lines ready to give way.

  Trailing him were Chris Vallins, also in a tux, and running shoes, a backpack hanging discreetly from his hand at his side; Valerie Langdon, in a powder blue, floor-length dress; and Glover, also in a tux, the bow tie awkwardly askew. He was engaged in what seemed to be an agitated conversation with Valerie.

  “They’re going to walk right past us,” Arla said.

  “Don’t worry,” Barbara said.

  Arla moved so that her body was mostly shielded by her mother. “I don’t want Glover to see me. I’m not ready to talk to him about … anything.”

  As Valerie and Glover walked past, the procession slowed, and Barbara heard snippets of their discussion.

  “I told him,” Glover said. “I didn’t sign out that car … don’t care what the cops say. I don’t … anything about it.”

  “I don’t know what … believe,” Valerie said. “He told me about … mouse. What … you thinking?”

  Mouse?

  “… amazed he let you … tonight,” Valerie said.

  “… feels guilty, I guess. A first … gone soon.”

  The crowed opened up, allowing them to move on and out of range for Barbara to hear anything else. As Vallins passed by, Barbara reached out and touched his arm. He glanced her way, startled.

  “Love the shoes,” she said, looking down at his runners.

  He gave the backpack a slight swing. “Got the Florsheims in here,” he said, grinning. “Hey, I sent you an email.”

  “Okay,�
� Barbara said as Vallins moved on.

  “You know that guy?” Arla asked.

  “A little,” Barbara said.

  “He’s kinda hot.”

  “A little.”

  She took out her phone and checked her email inbox. There was nothing there from Vallins. She looked in Junk, but there was no message there, either.

  Everyone was being herded toward two banks of elevators, which were just off the main atrium. There were five elevators on one side, five on the other. The numbers above the doors, etched in granite, indicated where they went. The five on the left were for the floors below the fiftieth, the ones on the right for floors fifty-one to ninety-eight, also known as the Observation Level.

  It was before the doors on the right where everyone lined up. All five doors opened simultaneously. Barbara and Arla were close enough to be among the first wave of riders.

  Headley and his team stepped into the first one, accompanied by, Barbara noticed, Rodney Coughlin himself. The doors closed and the elevator departed.

  Barbara and Arla boarded their car, and were followed by another eight people in tuxes and gowns.

  As the doors closed, there was a palpable sense of unease inside the car. Someone chuckled nervously.

  “They did get the guy, right?” a woman said.

  “That’s what I saw on the news,” a man said. “I think they’re pretty sure.”

  The elevator began its ascent.

  Sixty-Five

  Bourque and Delgado had spent the rest of the afternoon trying to track down Glover Headley. They’d had no luck raising him with repeated calls to his cell phone. They did not find him at his apartment. And a search of bars and restaurants in the blocks near City Hall also proved fruitless.

  Bourque had given his card to the doorman of the building where Glover lived and asked him to get in touch should Glover return.

  Just before seven, Bourque’s cell rang.

  “He just returned,” the doorman said.

  He and Delgado had been checking restaurants at the time. They ran back to the car and started the drive back uptown to Glover’s Upper West Side residence. But as was more often the case than not, the drive north was a traffic nightmare. By the time Delgado brought the car to a screeching halt out front of the building, and Bourque ran in, Glover had already left.