Opening the door, he went up the old, cramped staircase.
At the top of the staircase, he paused to listen intently for a moment before opening another door and moving into the janitorial storage room.
The shelves were crowded with cleaning supplies, cartons of industrial-sized rolls of toilet tissue, and paper towels.
He crossed the room, selected a few rolls of paper towels, and let himself out into the hall.
The janitorial carl was waiting right where he had left it. He grabbed the handle and went down the corridor and around the corner to a private elevator marked Executive Offices.
Finding the stash of drugs had been easy, he thought. Maybe too easy.
Chapter 22
THE ALLEY WAS CHOKED WITH DAMP, GRAY MIST. AN uneasy chill flashed down Elly's spine and raised the hair on the nape of her neck. The close, looming walls of the buildings that lined the narrow service lane cut off much of what little light the fog allowed to filter through. She could barely make out the shape of the trash container across from her. The thick vapor acted like an otherworldly sound absorber, muffling the engines of the cautiously moving cars on the surrounding streets.
'Perfect cover,' she whispered to Rose. 'No one will see us.'
She went forward, unable to suppress an icy prickle of tension.
The fog
She found herself listening intently for the familiar clatter of a garbage can lid or the soft thud of footsteps behind her.
From time to time she glanced down at Rose, watching for signs of the dust bunny's second set of eyes.
Rose appeared alert but showed no indication of alarm.
When they arrived at the opening at the end of the alley, Elly felt a sharp sense of relief. The sensation vanished quickly when she discovered that the cramped street in front of her was disconcertingly empty of traffic and pedestrians. The entire neighborhood seemed to be suddenly deserted.
Hurrying across the pavement, she entered the alley that serviced the next block of shops. Maybe it was just her imagination, she thought, but the fog seemed denser and more ominous now. It had a disorienting effect on her sense of sight and direction. Rose rumbled softly in what seemed a reassuring manner.
She paused at the rear entrance of a shop to check the sign, afraid that she might overshoot her goal.
'Stuart Griggs, Florist,' she read aloud to Rose. 'Almost there. Bertha's shop is next.'
She looked down at the dust bunny and froze when she saw that Rose was staring very hard at the closed door of the florist's shop. All four eyes were wide open, but there was no sign of any razor-sharp teeth.
Rose rumbled softly.
'What is it?' Elly asked. She looked from Rose to the door and back again. 'I know you don't like Mr. Griggs, but I wish you wouldn't growl at his door. It's embarrassing.'
Rose's attention remained riveted on the door. Something was wrong; Elly felt it, but Rose was not acting as if she sensed a threat.
Herschel's comment about the floral shop being closed, too, went through her head.
Tentatively, she tried the doorknob. It twisted easily in her hand. Rose rumbled again, but there was still no sign of her teeth. She had not gone all sleek and dangerous, either, Elly thought. So far, so good.
She opened the door of the florist's back room. The faint hum of a refrigeration unit vibrated in the darkness. Her psi senses tingled gently. The rich, lush scents of cut flowers and greenery wafted toward her.
There was something heavy and unpleasant blended into the mix of floral smells, something that did not belong.
Probably dead and decaying flowers, she thought. Whatever it was, it made her feel queasy. She had to fight the impulse to turn and run.
The only thing that held her there, poised on the step, was the realization that Rose was still not displaying any indication that she sensed an imminent threat.
'Mr. Griggs?'
There was no answer. She knew then, deep down, that she had not expected a response.
The smell intermingled with the floral fragrances was that of death.
Chapter 23
ORMOND RIPLEY CHECKED HIS AMBER-FACED WATCH AS he went past his executive assistant's desk. 'Please tell Maitland I want to see him in my office in half an hour to go over the new set of financials.'
'Yes, Mr. Ripley.' The assistant reached for the phone. 'Mr. Dugan called while you were out. He said to tell you that he's found a new, very hot act for the club. The group will be auditioning at four this afternoon if you want to check it out for yourself.'
'Thanks, I'll be there.' He went to the door of his office. 'Send Maitland in as soon as he arrives.'
'Yes, sir.'
He opened the door and walked into his office, savoring as he always did the hushed atmosphere. In his considered opinion, the room exuded an aura of power and luxury that was infinitely more intoxicating than any drug and more compelling than any woman he had ever met.
The walls were paneled in wave-wood that had been cut and shipped from the jungles of remote islands. The intricately inlaid stone flooring had been quarried in the mountains of the Northern Continent.
The artwork on the walls had once belonged to the private collection of one of the founders of the Cadence Museum. The paintings had been destined for the museum's galleries, but Ormond had made certain that they ended up here, instead. He was no great fan of the softly hued works of post-Era of Discord modernism, but that was not important. What mattered was that the art of that period was considered by connoisseurs to be brilliant and extremely valuable; in short, the province of the most elite collectors.
He had come a long way from the dusty, backwater mining town where he had been born and raised, he thought, and every time he walked into this office he took a moment to reflect on that journey.
His dissonance-energy para-rez talents had been his ticket to a good-paying job as a Guild man. He'd had no family connections to lean on, but an aptitude for internal politics and an intuitive ability to choose the winning side had helped him rise within the Guild to the status of Council member.
But he had known from the start of his career as a hunter that he wanted to do more with his life than chase ghosts through the catacombs. His driving goal had been to establish his own empire. The Road to the Ruins was the culmination of his ambitions, and he gloried in the most minute details of the day-to-day operations of his kingdom.
He started toward the heavily carved wooden desk at the far end of the room.
The door of his private bathroom opened almost but not quite soundlessly. Startled, he turned on one heel.
He scowled at the janitor lounging in the opening.
'What are you doing here?' he asked. 'That bathroom is never cleaned at this time of day unless I request it.'
'We need to talk,' the janitor said, leaning on his mop. 'Better have your assistant hold your calls for a while.'
'Who are you?'
'At the moment I'm the only thing standing between you and an extended stay in prison.'
'Not my vacation destination of choice. What's going on here?'
