Surely he didn’t think I was reaching for a…
I’ll never know, but suddenly, another guard materialized to my left. He stood a few feet away, but I caught him in my peripheral vision. I heard a slight whirring noise and looked up. A video camera, discreetly tucked into a row of track lighting, slightly adjusted its lens. I imagined another guard in an unseen room zooming in on me to see what I was about to withdraw.
Yikes.
I pulled out the paper and opened it, my hands shaking slightly. The receptionist, however, seemed to relax slightly and dropped his shoulders.
“Umm… twenty-two F,” I said. “Lucas in twenty-two F.”
I purposefully didn’t give Lucas’s last name. I had no idea if he used the same one he used for films, but I bet not. For that matter, he might not have been using the same first name, but it was all I had.
“Of course.” The bulldog moved his lips into an approximation of what would have been a smile on a human face. He picked up a phone and pressed some numbers. “Mr. Ford,” he said. “There’s someone here for your apartment.” He paused for a moment, listening. “One moment.”
“Mr. Ford wasn’t expecting anyone,” he said to me. “Your name, please?”
Shit. I hadn’t thought of that. Dumb.
If I told him my name, then what? Would he ask the guard to inquire why I was there? What would I say? Anything close to the truth ran the same risk as calling ahead would have. Now that I was here, it seemed even more risky to set off his alarms. Forget being kicked out-I had the probably paranoid but unshakeable feeling that if I said the wrong thing, they’d shoot me.
The few seconds these thoughts ran through my head seemed much longer. I felt a bead of sweat run down my back. I wanted to scratch it, but was afraid any sudden movement would get me thrown to the ground and handcuffed. Unless I was mistaken, the guard to my left was a foot or two closer.
“Brent,” I answered, hoping the answer wouldn’t get me killed. “Please tell Mr. Ford it’s Brent Haven.”
The guard relayed my name. He listened again and his brows knitted together. “Of course, Mr. Ford.”
He punched some buttons on a keyboard I hadn’t noticed under his desk.
“Would you mind looking there, sir?”
He pointed at the lights where I’d seen the video camera hidden. A surveillance system. He must be able to patch the feed into the residents’ apartments.
I said Brent Haven was here, and Lucas didn’t believe it. He had to see it with his own eyes.
What did that mean?
A number of people who’d known Brent remarked how much I resembled him. At least, on first glance. By the second one, though, I imagined the differences were clear.
I had a feeling Lucas would be looking very closely.
I’d been in other apartments with video cameras for visitors. The feeds were always grainy and indistinct. But this was the exceedingly high-tech and high-security El Santuario. The video was probably hi-def. Maybe even 3D. Who knew?
I faced the camera, but as slightly as possible. I shifted my weight from one foot to the other and subtly shook my head back and forth. Maybe some movement would make my image blurrier.
The bulldog listened to the voice on the phone. His eyes narrowed.
“Mr. Haven,” he said to me.
“Uh-huh?” I didn’t turn to face him. I could see him in the corner of my eye and that was enough. I could no longer remember why I’d thought him a friendly bulldog at first. Now, he seemed quite growly. Maybe even rabid. My nerves were out of control. If I had to meet his eyes again I was afraid I’d fall to my knees and confess everything.
That wasn’t the only reason I didn’t want to turn my head, though. If Lucas was buying me as Brent, I didn’t want to chance that seeing me in profile would ruin the illusion.
The bulldog hung up the phone.
The guard to my left was suddenly at my side. Shoulder to shoulder.
Shit.
“If you’d go with Mr. Smith…” the bulldog said, nodding toward the guard.
I shifted my weight to the balls of my feet and tried to remember how far behind me the front door was. Should I make a break for it? I didn’t know where Mr. Smith intended to take me, but I was pretty sure I didn’t want to go there.
“… He’ll call the elevator for you,” the bulldog finished.
He looked at the guard. “Floor twenty-two, Matthew.”
“Very well, sir. This way, please.” For the first time, I saw the guard straight on. He was actually pretty cute, very tall and thin, with a long, horsey face that looked equally dopey and bright. He spoke in a clipped British accent that increased his adorableness by a factor of five.
His eyes twinkled with a manic energy that he struggled to keep hidden. He looked more like a mad scientist than a security guard, but I had no doubt he could handle himself if a situation turned hairy.
Much to my relief, this one didn’t.
“Thank you,” I said to the bulldog. Now that I was cleared for entry, he smiled again and looked friendly. I resisted the urge to pat his head.
I followed Matthew Smith to the azure-doored elevator, one of the few spots of color in the otherwise neutral entranceway. He called it by punching a six-digit number into the keyboard. No simple “up” and “down” arrows at El Santuario. Another layer of security.
I wondered if the people who paid millions of dollars to live here realized how much their luxurious homes felt like a jail. I felt lucky not to have been strip-searched before gaining entry, although, had Mr. Smith been doing the search, it might have been fun.
“Do enjoy your visit,” the mad doctor instructed me as the doors of the blue box he’d called for me opened. He gave me a little wink that made me wonder if he knew more about Mr. Ford than a simple name change could conceal.
“I intend to,” I lied.
30
For such a new and high-tech building, the elevator seemed to be taking an awfully long time to reach the twenty-second floor. But then again, maybe it was my nerves stretching out the minutes like a prisoner on the rack.
In any case, it was long enough for me to have the increasingly intense suspicion I was walking into a trap. But what? I was probably just being overdramatic.
The doors opened with a ping that made me jump. Nervous much? I pinched my arm. Get over it. I stepped into the chicly stark hallway.
Just as the doors of the elevator closed behind me, it occurred to me what was wrong.
What if I was mistaken about Lucas using a new alias?
Maybe Mr. Ford wasn’t Lucas at all.
Maybe it was The Patron who’d allowed the guard to send me up.
The Patron with a secret worth killing for.
I ran through the conversation with the bulldog again.
I said I was here for Lucas and he called upstairs.
Whoever answered, the guard called him “Mr. Ford.”
But he hadn’t said, “There’s someone here to see you, ” had he?
He’d said, “There’s someone for your apartment.”
At least, that’s what I thought he’d said. I wasn’t paying that much attention, as I was mostly focused on not
