Would the safe’s heavy walls blunt the radio signal when the time limit expired? Yes, it would, he told himself. Four inches of hardened steel should do the trick. It had to.
Peter stepped over Muller’s hemorrhaging body to the far window. The overhead lights reflected off skin, making Muller’s face look as lifeless as ivory. Peter tried to bury his feelings. He had never brought such physical pain to another person, but this was an unprecedented moment in his life, calling for unprecedented actions. He did what he had to and did it without further pause. And he didn’t have the luxury of dwelling on these thoughts. If he survived, he’d have plenty of time in the future for regret. As for now, he needed to move quickly and waste no time. He unlocked and opened the thick-glassed window. The exterior lights, beaming from multiple floodlights, made the ground as bright as day. The sounds of a siren filtered through the opening. The police were responding to the burglar alarm.
Muller’s internal phone line—on a corner table—flashed, diverting Peter’s attention. Peter picked up and listened: “This is Security . . .” Peter felt the concern in the hired cop’s voice.
When the guard said, “I know you told us not to interrupt, no matter what—” Peter had an inspiration. Doing his best imitation of Muller’s vile voice, he said, “Then fucking follow instructions,” and hung up. He hoped the guard feared Muller more than the chaotic situation going on around him, at least for a few more minutes.
Peter again stepped over to Muller’s desk. He retrieved a gold lighter he recalled seeing moments earlier. He swept the loose papers on Muller’s desk into a metal trashcan. Lighting the papers, he opened the windows on the west side of the office, making certain that anyone outside could see the smoke. The overhead vents pushed cool air out, into a breezeless night. Peter crossed over to, and opened, the south window. He put the lighter to the drapes. It took a precious few seconds for the material to ignite, but when it did, it burned steadily, contributing a rich, dark smoke.
He next yanked the fire alarm on the wall between those two windows. To the sounds of stereo alarms, people began to file out the exits while sprinklers spit a river, cooling Peter’s blistering skin. The smoke thickened and billowed with the downpour.
A minute later, a second set of emergency vehicles—fire crews and two ambulances—entered the compound. Out front, weekend cleaning crews assembled on the steps. Peter counted four analysts and two of their assistants leaving through the front door. Several security guards used flashlights to highlight the building walls. The sirens grew loud enough to drown out most voices, but not loud enough to break Peter’s concentration. He still didn’t know if Monica Franklin was dead or alive. He also had no idea where Muller held her hostage. He initiated his hundredth prayer that day, this one shorter than the others—he still had a hell of a lot to do and not much time left.
Grabbing the two bags of cash, Peter leaned through a third window, out of view of the masses assembling in the front, and targeted a thick, low hedge, ten feet from the building. He tossed the first bag and watched it vanish into the dense brush. The second bag followed. Satisfied that nobody on the ground could see the money, Peter returned to the first window in time to see the fire trucks pull up to the fire hydrant at the edge of the building.
He made it to the desk a third time, picked up the phone, and dialed Drew’s home number. He didn’t know what to say, but somebody had to initiate a search—assuming the explosives hadn’t already gone off.
When Drew picked up on the second ring, Peter said, “I’m sorry. I don’t know—”
“White Bread. Where are you?”
“It’s about Monica—”
“She’s home . . .”
Drew explained that a man had called Monica, convincing her that she needed to meet him in the middle of nowhere. She left Drew a note, she said, but Drew suspected someone broke into their house and removed it. “Her car broke down . . . it was one small disaster after another,” Drew said, the relief evident in his voice.
“She’s home?” Peter tried to figure everything out in the few seconds he had left before Stenman’s security forces barged in.
“What’s all that noise, Bread? Sounds like you’re in the middle of a war.”
“I am, buddy. I need you to get hold of Agent Dawson.” Peter fumbled for the slip of paper Dawson had stuffed in his shirt pocket back at the garage. “Here’s his number . . .”
When they finished, Peter looked at Muller’s suffering body and shook his head, disbelieving the insanity— Muller’s life, draining away, onto a third-story office floor, and all because of an elaborate ruse? Muller never had a detonator, only a prop made to look like one. It made sense, though. Muller was a classic bully, someone who used intimidation and threat to get his way. Thinking himself smarter than everyone else, he figured he could manipulate Peter with his mind and his words. What an asshole! What did he think I was going to do? Peter asked himself. Sit back and wait for him to admit what he was doing? Laugh at the brilliance of his joke?
Peter trailed over to Muller. Blood drained, forming a pool. Soaking into the gray carpet, it looked like wet rust. Peter took his jacket and wound it around Muller’s bloody stump. He pulled the bulky knot tight, hoping to stem the flow of blood. He then reached down and felt Muller’s neck pulse. It was weak, but detectable. That done, he returned to the window, away from the lapping flames consuming the drapes, leaned out, and yelled, “Help me! Get a ladder and get me out of here.” Peter looked at Muller and shouted, “And get a doctor up here. A guy’s hurt. Bad. He needs help fast.”
Ten minutes later, two bags tucked under his arm, Peter crawled into the back of one of the ambulances. He had soot smeared across his face, masking his features. He perched with his knees tucked to his chest, coughing convincingly. The medics attempted to put an oxygen mask over his face, but Peter indicated no. They sped off, sirens wailing. Just before the ambulance reached the freeway onramp, Peter insisted they stop. When they resisted, he opened a bag and pulled out a thousand-dollar bill, still crisp despite its age.
“You didn’t get a look at me. I held you at gunpoint. Say whatever you want. Just forget as much as you can about me and this trip.” When the driver hesitated, Peter pulled a second bill from the bag. “Two grand. That oughta do it.” The medics involuntarily nodded and Peter understood— money really could buy almost anything. It could even make people forget. Reaching into the bag one last time, Peter asked, “Anyone want to sell me their clothes?” Again, a willing seller.
A few minutes later, Peter jogged towards a hotel, up a hill overlooking the freeway. He changed clothes behind some brush and bought a room for cash. He left a message for Kate on Drew’s voice mail.
With eyes closed, he waited.
When Peter’s hotel phone woke him several hours later, he quickly picked up. “What took you so long, counselor?” he said. “I think I need an attorney.”
“You’re damn right you do.”
“You know what happened at Stenman’s?”
“No,” Kate said. “That’s not what I’m referring to.”
“What, then?”
“You haven’t heard?” Kate’s voice cracked.
“If you’re not referring to Stenman, Muller, and the fire, then no.”
“Ellen Goodman.”
“Ellen?” His former girlfriend’s was the last name Peter expected to hear. “What about her?”
“Where were you tonight, Peter?”
“At Stenman’s. Starting a fire.”
“That isn’t funny. Where?”
“I told you. At Stenman Partners. Third floor. Howard Muller’s office.”
“Can you prove it?”
“I think so. The guards saw me. Muller, he . . .” Peter didn’t know quite how to explain. “What happened with Ellen?”
“Ellen’s been raped and murdered. Somebody tied her to a bed, spread-eagled, and tortured her. The police are looking for you.”
“Ellen’s dead?”
“Peter, they think you’re involved.”
“Me? No way. I haven’t seen Ellen since the day I left my job. Dead? Are you sure?”
“I’m positive, and several things have the police convinced you’re involved. Your moonstone was in her bedroom.”
“I haven’t seen that since it was stolen.”
