by Julie Hyzy
“Mrs. Quinones,” I said, “I’m sorry to not have come out to greet you. I thought the Secret Service would alert me when you got here.”
She waved away my apology. “We used the side entrance,” she said, pointing to her escort. “He couldn’t find a parking spot out front.”
So much for our security. I launched into the reason for her visit. “I know you’re here to talk about your husband’s birthday party, but—”
“No, I’m here to talk to you. It’s important.”
“About the party—”
“Forget the party,” she said. Eyeing her Secret Service escort, who studied the doors as though expecting terrorists to storm in any minute, she stepped closer and whispered close to my ear. “This is about the murders. The two murders at Lexington Place.”
I backed up. Stared at her. “You’re Mandy, aren’t you?”
Out of the corner of my eye, I’d been watching Sargeant. Close enough to listen in, he’d blinked at the mention of the murders. “What’s going on here?” he asked.
Mrs. Quinones started to tremble. “It’s bigger than me. Much bigger. I need to talk with you where it’s private. Not here.” She tilted her head toward her guard. “He promises to give us privacy in the car. Would you come outside with me so I can tell you what’s going on?”
“No,” I said, “not a chance. We can talk here. He’s far enough away.”
She glanced at her agent again. “But I don’t want to take any chances. It’s important. And he can’t know what I’m about to tell you.”
Tingles ran up and down the back of my neck. She had the answers. I could see it, feel it. The agent accompanying her was not one of the “trusted few,” so I wouldn’t want him to hear what she had to say, either. I desperately wanted to know what she wanted to tell me, but I wasn’t about to follow her outside without the protection of a Secret Service agent. Or two.
She looked ready to cry. “Agent Sanker,” she called. He half-turned, never taking his eyes off the door. “Would you give us some privacy?”
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” he said, “my orders are to keep you within reach at all times. I am already farther away than I should be.”
She obviously ranked higher than Sargeant and I did. We’d been allowed to work here while our escorts waited outside. But then again, even though we’d all been threatened one way or another, Secretary of State Quinones ranked a whole lot higher than a chef and a sensitivity director did.
Mrs. Quinones asked, “Please?”
Sargeant turned to me. “Would you feel better if we asked our escorts to join us?”
For once he had a decent idea. “That would work.”
Mrs. Quinones sighed with relief. “Good. Agent Sanker, would you please alert the agents in charge of Ms. Paras and Mr. Sargeant?”
He asked their names, which Sargeant had forgotten, but I’d remembered: Frederick and Millcourt. Sanker spoke in low tones into his microphone and nodded at whatever response he received. “They’ll meet us at the car,” he said. “It’s parked on the side of the building.”
Mrs. Quinones turned to me. “Okay now?”
I had one more question. “Why are you here? I have questions for you, sure, but why in the world would you need to talk to me?”
Her eyes clouded and she leaned close to whisper. “I need to talk with both of you. That’s why this meeting was arranged. You’re both in more danger than you realize.”
Ethan Nagy, I thought. “Danger from whom?”
She widened her eyes and tilted her head toward the agent. “Not here.”
We followed Agent Sanker in silence. He led us out of the lobby toward the side door and held it open. I wished I’d brought my coat. “I’d rather not get into the car until Millcourt and Frederick get here,” I said, pulling my arms tight around myself. Where was the car? Light spilled out from the warm Jean-Luc’s into the empty alley and I wrinkled my nose at the smell.
As I walked past Sanker into the dark passage I took notice of his Secret Service lapel pin.
It was a red square.
Not a golden rectangle.
Stifling a yelp, I grabbed Sargeant’s arm. He recoiled. “What on earth?”
I shushed him. “Hang on,” I said with forced calm. “I forgot my notes. Give me a minute to run back.” I didn’t know how to alert Mrs. Quinones that Agent Sanker was not who he pretended to be. We had to get away.
But Sanker had seen my reaction. He grabbed me. As I opened my mouth to scream, one of his big hands smashed me silent, the other wrapped around my middle, immobilizing my flailing arms. I struggled, trying to make as much noise as I could, vaguely aware of the horrified look on Sargeant’s face. Sanker’s partner emerged from the building across the alleyway. Mrs. Quinones held her face in her hands and wept.
It was obvious Millcourt and Frederick weren’t coming. Still positioned at the front of the building, they were too far away to hear our scuffles. Only screams and shouts might bring them running. Sargeant was frozen silent.
I fought Sanker, kicking him wildly. Fighting back, he managed to reach over, grab the handkerchief out of Sargeant’s breast pocket, and shove it into my mouth while pushing me to the ground. My cheek skidded against the rough pavement, and the air was knocked out of me long enough to render me helpless. Sanker tied my hands behind my back. As I wriggled, feeling like a worm ready to be speared with a hook, the partner came close enough for me to see his face.
Brad.
He’d dyed his hair, but there was no mistaking that cleft chin, that insouciant expression. He grabbed Sargeant, dragging him across the alleyway into an open doorway. Why wasn’t Mrs. Quinones screaming? Why wasn’t she running for help?
Sanker hauled me up and dragged me, kicking, into the dark building behind Brad and Sargeant. I tried to see around Sanker, hoping to catch Mrs. Quinones’s eye, hoping to inspire her to wake up and call for help.
To my utter astonishment, she followed us in.
“Shut up,” Sanker said, using both hands now to carry me, arms tight around my legs and arms. I was no more than a squealing lump, trying to squirm out of his grip. He was too tall, too strong, too prepared for me to fight. He’d planned well. I’d been stupid. I’d walked straight into this trap.
Behind us, a metal door clanged shut.
There was just enough ambient light from high windows to allow them to navigate around old furniture to the back end of this floor. My eyes adjusted quickly—until we passed through a thick doorway leading to a darker, narrow room with what looked like small rectangles decorating the walls. Just ahead of us Brad dropped Sargeant, where he landed in a sad thump. His voice was plaintive. “What are you doing? What’s going on?”
Sanker dropped me next to him. I landed on my stomach and rolled to my back. With my hands tied, I couldn’t easily right myself. In a moment of brilliance, Sargeant yanked his handkerchief out of my mouth. I screamed as loudly as I could.
“Won’t make a difference,” Brad said. “You’re in an old bank vault. And”—he turned and pointed to where Mrs. Quinones stood—“no one can hear you from here. We aren’t making any mistakes this time.” He gave a soft chuckle. “Once that door closes, there’s no opening it from the inside. You’ll be locked in. And nobody will know you’re here.”
Mrs. Quinones gasped.
“Don’t worry,” Brad said to her, “at that point, you won’t really care.”
I scooted toward Sargeant and backed my hands up to him. He untied me. Brad and Sanker didn’t seem bothered. This made no sense at all. “Why?” I asked Mrs. Quinones. “Why?”
She wasn’t paying attention to me. She’d run to the far end of the vault. As my eyes became accustomed to the darkness, I noticed another person in our little group. Mr. Bettencourt. Pieces began to click into place. She helped her father to his feet. “What’s wrong, honey?” he asked her. Bettencourt patted his daughter’s hand as she led him forward. “What happened? Why are you so sad?”
Mrs. Quinones faced Sanker. “I did what you wanted. Can we go now?”
He ignored her and pulled out a gun. Pointing it at us, he said, “Hand over your cell phones. Drop them to the floor.”
“But you said we could go once you had these two,” she said. “You promised you wouldn’t hurt anyone.”
“I lied. Cell phones. All of you. Now.”
We complied.
Brad made us step back before he gathered them up, stuffing them into his pockets. When he got to mine, he looked up and grinned. “They can be traced, you know,” I said.
“Not if they’re disabled.”
“Is that what you did with Patty Woodruff’s phone?” I asked. “Disable it? What was it to you, just a trophy?”
Sargeant jabbed me with his elbow. “Stop. You’re just making them angry.”
“So what, Peter? Do you think that if we behave like nice little captives they will let us go? Who cares if they’re angry?” My voice rose as I advanced on Brad. “I’m angry.”
Sargeant grabbed my arms, pulling me back.
Brad laughed, but Sanker was all business. “No screw ups this time, Brad. You ready?”
Brad pulled out a gun. “As I’ll ever be.”
He pointed it at me.
CHAPTER 24
SOUNDPROOF. EMPTY. THERE WAS NO ONE coming for us in this vault. No one riding to our rescue. Our Secret Service agent escorts were waiting for us out in front of Jean-Luc’s. I’d even sent Wyatt home. No one would miss us except Frederick and Millcourt. By the time they came to look, it would be too late.
All this rushed through my brain as I stared into the barrel pointed at my face.
A combination of bravery, fear, and down-to-my-toes realization that I was facing death made me wrench out of Sargeant’s grip to launch myself at Brad.
“What the—”
I jumped straight at him, banging his gun arm. The weapon skittered across the floor as I dug into his face with my fingernails. “Grab the gun,” I shouted.
No one heard me.
Sargeant was shrieking. Mrs. Quinones sobbing.
Sanker roared as he pulled me off Brad. I twisted in his grip and started punching his face, hoping to land one of those nose-to-the-brain shots. My adrenaline gave me power I didn’t know I possessed as I kicked and dug my fingers into anything that would give. “My eye,” he shouted, thrusting me off of him. He must have holstered his gun when he’d pulled me off Brad because both hands held his injured face. He swore and staggered backward.
Brad grabbed me tight, placing the barrel of his gun against my temple. “What do I do, Luis?” he shouted. “What do I do?”
Sanker grimaced as he doubled over in pain. I’d gotten him good, but I couldn’t take time to congratulate myself. We had to take advantage of the moment. As Brad dragged me closer to Sanker, asking again for direction, I turned to Sargeant.
“Run,” I mouthed. “Go. Run. Get help.”
For the first time in his life, Sargeant listened to me.
Mrs. Quinones tried to follow, pulling her father along. She was too slow, too late. Brad spun just as Sargeant cleared the vault door. “Go,” I screamed to him. “They’re coming.”
“Get back,” Brad shouted as he threw me to the ground. “Luis! We have to get him before he gets away.”
Sanker shouted expletives as he followed Brad out. Brad took a moment to glare at me. “You’re going to die anyway. You still lose.”
The vault door shut with a whisper. I heard metal turning, then all was silent. Cave dark. Like they tell you on tours…stay in long enough and your eyesight will atrophy.
“I’m so sorry,” Mrs. Quinones said from behind me.
I put my hands against the metal door. I guessed it to be at least two feet thick and the only way out was with a key, or via a mechanism put in place to save people who might inadvertently lock themselves in.
“You don’t understand,” she went on, “they told me they would kill my father. They said they would torture him if I didn’t bring you here.”
“And we see how well that plan worked.”
I wanted to ignore her, but my anger had built such steam I was afraid my head might pop off the top of my shoulders.
“You don’t understand—”
I spun to face her, despite the fact that I couldn’t even see. “I do understand. You had an affair with Chief of Staff Cawley. You got caught, and now he’s dead. What I don’t understand is who cares about your sordid business enough to kill him. Enough to kill Patty, too. What sense does that make?”
Even as the words tumbled out, I began to see a pattern emerge. Secretary of State Quinones had Secret Service agents watching his family around the clock. But the two who had captured us were not real agents. Could it be…? No, I thought. Too far-fetched.
But if he’d been jealous of his wife’s affair…
“You know what?” I said, turning back to the door, “I don’t care right now. There has to be a safety latch. There has to be.”
“They said there wasn’t a way out.”
I spoke over my shoulder through clenched teeth. “At what point do you intend to stop believing everything they tell you?”
I was being short with her, but she deserved it. My mind was on Sargeant. Where was he? Please let him have gotten away. If they caught up with him, I knew they’d kill him. Would they bring him back here first?
According to the doorman, this building had housed a bank in the nineteenth century. That meant this safe was old. Possibly too old to incorporate any safety features, but there had to have been a retro-fit at some point, right? Wasn’t that what the Occupational Safety and Health Administration was for? “Hey,” I said, as my fingers found an uneven bump between the door and its cold metal jamb. “I might have found something.”
Her hands were next to mine in seconds, confusing my sense of touch. “Back up,” I said. “I’ll let you know if this works.”
She did. I heard her murmur to her father as I pressed, tapped, and rubbed the uneven section. My fingers fanned out from it in concentric circles, looking for any mechanism, any moving pieces. There had to be a way out.
“Can we get a bite to eat?” Bettencourt said. “I’m hungry.”
Mrs. Quinones was sobbing again. “I’m so sorry, Dad.”
“It’s okay, honey, I can wait. I might have a peppermint in my pocket. Would you like it?”
The woman was falling apart by inches, yet I had no urge to console her. My mind was on escape, on Sargeant. By my best guess, we’d been alone here for no more than five minutes, but it felt like a lifetime.
I went over every square inch of the door’s edge, skimming, hoping a latch would make itself known, but came up empty. Starting from the bottom, I tried again, slower this time, my hopes dissolving with each brush of my fingers against steel.
“All this time,” I said to Mrs. Quinones, “I thought Ethan Nagy was calling the shots. He was just doing your husband’s dirty work, wasn’t he?”
She didn’t answer, but from the sound of her sobs, I’d hit it square on.
“What about Patty? I don’t understand. Why kill her?”
Mrs. Quinones took two deep, hiccupping breaths before answering. “My husband thought my affair would make him a laughingstock. I wanted a divorce, but he wouldn’t give it to me. Said he’d see me dead first. I was supposed to meet Mark Cawley that day at Lexington Place. I think I was supposed to die, too.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
“They…killed him.”
A fresh burst of sobs. I was really getting tired of this woman.
“Yeah, I got that. What about Patty?”
“I threw off the plan because I couldn’t make it to Lexington Place that day. They left Cawley there to come back to kidnap my dad. My husband wanted to prove a point to me. To let me know there was no escape. By the time the two men went back to pick up Cawley’s body later, that other girl, Patty, was there. They didn’t know what to do. S
o they killed her. They might have gotten away with it, but then you showed up.”
Her tone made it sound as though it was all my fault. “Yeah, well, next time tell them not to leave their dead bodies where people can find them.”
“You don’t understand—”
My fingers were going numb from the constant pressure of skin against metal. “You keep saying that,” I said into the darkness. “You’re right. I don’t understand. People have been killed. Not just Cawley, not just Patty, but a friend of mine, Milton.” I swallowed back the heat in my throat. “They’re dead and you don’t care.”
“But I do care. I loved Mark. I wanted—”
“I don’t care what you wanted.” I turned again—pointless, but I had to. “You know what I want? I want to keep on living. Because of you, I may not get to do that. Because of you, we may all be stuck here until we die of starvation or lack of air. You’d better hope…” I pressed my ear to the edge.
“What?” she asked.
“Be quiet.”
“Do you hear something?”
“Be quiet.”
Mr. Bettencourt sneezed. I heard him wipe his nose. “Dusty in here,” he said.
Whatever I thought I’d heard was gone. Probably just my brain playing wishful tricks on me.
“Be safe, Sargeant,” I whispered against the cold steel. “Be safe.”
CHAPTER 25
“WHAT’S GOING TO HAPPEN TO US?” MRS. QUINONES asked. Her father had been pestering her about being hungry, and now expressed the need to perform another human function.
“Where’s the lights around here, anyway?” he asked. “Somebody turn on the lights.”
She whispered to him—why, I have no idea, there was no one else around to hear—“Just a little longer, Dad. You’re okay, right?”
I’d given up my search for a safety latch. There wasn’t one. I wished I had one of those light-up watches so I’d know how much time we’d spent here. Of course, maybe I was happier not knowing.
