by Joel Goldman
Pieces of crime-scene tape clung to the frame around the door to Dr. Gina's office. The name plate- Gina Davenport, Ph. D. -was more than understated, leaving out her celebrity life and sensational death.
Mason stepped inside, closed the door, and turned on the small but powerful mag light he kept in his car for poking around after dark. He found the light switch and slipped the flashlight back into his pants pocket, surveying the office, getting a feel for the dead woman- who she was, how she lived, and why she died.
Mason had worked in two law firms before he started his own. The first was a small personal-injury firm and the second was a big corporate firm. In both, his office had reflected more of the firm than of him. Now his office was like a second skin. There was no receptionist, file room, mail room, or library. Everything was in one room, nothing separating him from the business he did. During a trial, he spent more time there than at home. Rugby gear tossed over a chair, jazz CDs piled on top of the refrigerator, shoes stuffed under the sofa were all clues to his life that couldn't be separated from his practice.
Dr. Gina's office struck him the same way. There was no room for a receptionist. No place for someone sitting behind a counter shuffling insurance forms beneath a sign requiring payment at the time service was rendered. The room wasn't large, but it was comfortable. A pair of small sofas framed around a low table with a chair formed a circle where Mason assumed Gina met with her patients. Plants on the floor, abstract posters in soothing colors on the walls, and candles on the table made it an inviting place to sit down and talk.
A small desk sat in a corner, abandoned, papers strewn across it. Mason wondered whether Gina shared his aversion to a clean desk or whether the cops had sorted through everything, leaving the mess behind for someone else to clean up.
Mason glanced through the papers, finding nothing more interesting than a few bills and offers for low-interest-rate credit cards. Dr. Gina's phone sat on the edge of the desk, the phone number printed in bold type on the faceplate of the receiver. The number was 816-555-4684-not even close to the number Abby had given him. He didn't find any other phones in the office. Maybe, he thought, Abby had called Dr. Gina's cell phone.
Mason skimmed through the bills again, not surprised that he didn't find a cell-phone bill. He realized the cops would have taken it to check the list of calls made and received for any leads. He did find a notice from the cell-phone company offering Gina five thousand frequent-flier miles if she renewed her service contract for two years. The letter referenced her cellphone number. It too was different. That left Gina's home phone number. Mason found a phone book in a desk drawer and tossed it back when the only listing he found for Gina was for her office. Directory assistance confirmed that her home number was unlisted.
The rest of her desk drawers were empty, as were the filing cabinets behind the desk marked Patient Records, Billings, Insurance, and Correspondence. He found a separate file cabinet with two drawers-one labeled KWIN and the other marked Emily's Fund — in a closet. They too were empty. The police had emptied the office of anything tied to Dr. Gina's practice.
There were two windows. Plywood had been nailed to the fatal one, preventing Mason from examining any part of it. The other window was on the same wall, raised two feet off the floor and set back a foot. Mason stood against it, his six-foot frame matching the window's height. He pressed his body against the glass, the single sheet pressing back against him, vibrating slightly, warning him not to rely too heavily on its support.
Still, throwing someone through a window raised off the floor and set back from the wall was not a slam dunk. Mason guessed that the crack in the window had to have been just right and the impact of Gina's body even more precise to carry her to her death. All of which meant that the homicide might not have been intentional. It may have been reckless, careless, or accidental-three qualifiers that could mean the difference between jail time and no time.
The one thing Mason didn't expect to find was an elevator in the center of the wall to the left of the door, flanked by bookshelves heavy with psychology texts. He pressed the call button and listened as the elevator ascended from a lower floor, humming louder as it came closer. It stopped with an unsteady clang, the floor still wobbling when the door opened.
Mason stepped inside and the door closed. It was an old elevator with raised buttons for each floor, the lobby, and the basement. The elevator floor was carpeted, the walls and ceiling paneled in dark wood and lit by recessed lights around the perimeter of the ceiling. A video camera was mounted in one corner, the first sign of security Mason had seen anywhere in the Depot. He took comfort in the sign that said the certificate of elevator inspection was on file in the building manager's office until he remembered that Trent Hackett was the building manager.
He pressed the open button and the door, to his relief, opened. He allowed it to close again, this time pressing the button for the seventh floor. The button didn't light up and the elevator didn't move. He tried each button in succession, getting no response until he pushed the button marked B, which he assumed was for the basement.
The elevator gears began their deep hum as the car slowly descended, Mason concluding that the elevator had been programmed to run exclusively between the basement and Dr. Gina's office. He didn't know what was in the basement, but guessed there was underground parking, making the elevator a special perk for KWIN's top star.
Seconds later, the elevator jerked to a stop and the lights went out. Disoriented, Mason swore he felt the car sway in an imaginary breeze. He flicked on his flashlight, running the beam along the control panel until he found the alarm button. He pushed it three times with no result. There was no emergency phone and he'd left his cell phone in the car. He yelled for help, with no response, and banged on the wall for added effect until the car dropped a foot like an airplane hitting an air pocket, taking Mason down on one knee.
Mason braced himself against the wall, trying to steady the elevator and his nerves. He didn't know anything about elevators, but he knew enough to know that an elevator playing freeze tag in the dark was a bad thing.
Aiming his flashlight against the ceiling, Mason found the escape hatch used to reach the roof of the car. Certain only that he didn't want to be inside the elevator if it plunged to the bottom of the shaft, he boosted himself onto the waist-high rail around the interior of the car and popped the hatch open with his forearm.
The hatch, an eighteen-inch square in the corner where he was perched, gave him the room and the angle to pull himself through the opening. Flashlight clamped between his teeth, he stuck his head and arms through the hatch, grabbing hold of the housing for the wire-rope cables to pull himself up on the roof of the car.
His flashlight wasn't strong enough to penetrate much of the pitch-black shaft, and he couldn't tell where he was until he saw an elevator door marked 6 several feet below him. A service ladder was bolted into the wall of the shaft alongside the doors, a good five feet from where he stood. Peering over the edge of the elevator, he nearly lost his balance as the car lurched again.
Mason retreated to the center of the car, standing on top of the housing, his left arm wrapped around the greasy steel ropes, the flashlight aimed at the wall, his breathing echoing against the shaft. He measured the distance to the service ladder again, debating whether to try for the ladder or take his chances with the elevator.
The debate ended when the elevator plunged like an amusement park nightmare, Mason stumbling off the housing, throwing himself at the service ladder, slamming his face and chest against the cold metal while he fought for a handhold, sliding down a half dozen rungs before stopping his fall, his left arm dangling at his side, suddenly numb.
He'd dropped his flashlight onto the roof of the elevator, its pinpoint light vanishing in the instant before the car crashed into the pit at the bottom of the shaft, launching a plume of dust, choking and blinding him more than the darkness of the elevator shaft. He felt a warm, sticky flow down his left ar
m, touching it with his right hand, knowing it was blood, not knowing whether his skin had been ripped by the cable or pierced by his collision with the ladder. Either way, his arm wouldn't do what he told it to do.
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 heartf
elt. 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.
