to listen, and to observe. That method also provided time for things to happen around him. Tonight, if he had miscalculated and set off a silent alarm, he would be able to hear and see the police cars pulling up to the building below him. While he waited for them, he considered what he needed to do and what he should search for.
Forrest was a man with standing. If he’d had a problem with Phil Kramer the private detective, it probably was about money-getting or keeping it-or his reputation. There probably was no social connection, no business relationship that would have been public. That meant that what Jerry Hobart needed to find was secret information that either had Forrest’s name on it or the makings of a business deal that was so big that Forrest would be drawn to it.
Hobart looked at his watch. It was only eight twentyfive. He had begun his preliminary reconnaissance trip in the late afternoon, so he could see the way people and houses looked, what the traffic was like on a randomly chosen day, what the points of entry to important buildings were. Now that he was inside the security perimeter of the detective agency’s building, he wanted to be sure he was alone. He had given the cops fifteen minutes to arrive, and he had seen no office with its business-hours lights on while he was climbing up.
He went to the other side of the roof and looked over the edge at the street. There were cars parked at the curb, and while he watched, another pulled up and parked. The two front doors opened, and a young man with dark hair got out of the driver’s seat while a girl with very long black hair got out of the passenger seat. They waited while a couple of cars flashed past, then ran across the street, holding hands. Hobart watched them walk quickly a half block farther and go to the ticket window outside a movie theater.
Hobart turned and went inside the building. He stepped cautiously down the stairs and waited a few seconds, then looked into the hallway. It was empty. He walked to the stairwell and descended quietly to the fourth floor. He listened and opened the door a crack to verify that the hallway was clear, then stepped into it.
He moved up the corridor, reading the doors until he came to the one that said KRAMER INVESTIGATIONS in gold letters. He tried his knife again, but this time the lock was serious. Hobart was a patient man, so he went to work on the wood beside the lock with the lockblade knife. He carved his way to the two screws that held the strike plate, cut away the wood around them, then pushed the door open. He picked up the inch-square piece of wood he had cut from the jamb, pushed it back into the woodwork, gathered the shavings, and then stepped inside and closed the door.
Hobart turned on the lights and examined the office. It looked to him as though four people besides the boss worked here. Phil Kramer’s desk must have been the one in the private office with the big windows, and the one with the big telephone near the office door had to be for a secretary or receptionist. The remaining three desks must belong to the detectives. He could see there were filing cabinets in the inner office. He assumed the room would be locked, but he could break the glass without making much noise. When he reached the door, he saw that it would not be necessary: The door had already been kicked inward, splintering the frame that held it.
Hobart sat at the desk and looked around. It was always a good idea to determine what the other person could see when he was in his habitual position because that was probably where he’d been when he’d chosen the hiding place. Hobart could see the walls-mostly glass-of the inner office. There were a couple of visitors’ chairs along the wall, a computer and printer on a table, and the filing cabinets. The place was sparsely furnished. There wasn’t even a couch in here. It reminded him of the various offices in the state prison. He had been assigned to clean offices a few times near the end of his sentence, when he had served five years and had lost interest in pocketing things.
Hobart slowly rotated the desk chair around, making a full circle. There was the chance it was hidden in one of the desks of the detectives, or taped under a drawer. After a moment, he decided that would be one of the last places he would look because Kramer would have known that trusting another person with anything valuable was a bad idea.
Hobart assumed that there were at least two hiding places. No matter what form the information took-pieces of paper, a computer disk, an audio or video tape, or photographs-there would be one copy to show, talk about, and trade, and one to keep hidden as insurance. One-and only one-hiding place would be in this building. If Phil Kramer had information that Forrest wanted, Kramer would have made sure Forrest couldn’t simply take the only copy.
Hobart looked up, stood on the desk, and lifted one of the acoustic ceiling tiles out of its suspended metal frame. He stuck his head into the recess above the frame so he could see whether anything was hidden on one of the other tiles. He took out his Maglite to illuminate the dark space, and found it was clear.
He climbed down from the desk instead of jumping, so the sound wouldn’t reach the ears of anyone downstairs. Then he went on with his search. He looked inside and under each of the desks, the drawers, the tables and chairs for anything that showed signs of being hidden rather than stored. He moved heavy furniture and checked the floors for tiles that had been lifted. He went into the storeroom and examined the supply cabinets. He knew that a good way to hide a few pieces of paper was to open the wrapping on a new ream, put the paper in the middle and then glue the wrapper back together, so he opened all the packages of copier paper he could find.
After three hours he had narrowed the search to the inner-office filing cabinets. It took him a few seconds to recognize that Phil Kramer had an idiosyncratic filing system. The obvious file drawers, the ones that an average- sized man could reach without kneeling, were full of old time sheets and phone bills and rent receipts. The bottom drawers were devoted to guns and ammunition. This year’s files were in the rear of the middle drawers, behind what looked like junk mail, opened, flattened, and put into file folders.
The sight intrigued Jerry Hobart. It proved to him that Phil Kramer had been suspicious and secretive, and had routinely hidden even things that few intruders would care about. If Phil Kramer had wanted to hide a few sheets of paper in these cabinets, he could have slipped them in with the junk mail, or stapled them into the middle of one of the innumerable contracts and reports stored in the back of each drawer. It made him wonder how anyone as suspicious and secretive as Phil Kramer could have put himself alone in front of a gun on a dark street. Hobart glanced at his watch. It was after midnight, and he judged that he would have to be out of the building by five A.M. He had a bit under five hours left for the filing cabinets. He began the process of leafing through each file, finding nothing that seemed important, then putting the contents back and pulling the next file. After two hours of this, he heard a faint noise from the hallway.
Hobart heard it again. It sounded distant, but he closed the cabinet carefully, stepped quickly across the room and turned off the light switch. He stood just inside the door and listened. He heard the sound again, this time louder. It was the squawk of a radio. He felt a chill in his spine. This wasn’t a time when he could talk his way past a couple of cops. He was a convicted felon carrying a .45 automatic in an office that belonged to a detective who had been shot in the head just over a week ago.
Hobart pulled out the gun, disengaged the safety, and waited for the man coming along the hall to notice the damaged doorjamb. He heard footsteps coming closer, and the radio hiss, and the voice of a woman who sounded like a dispatcher. It stopped suddenly. The door swung inward toward Hobart. He held his pistol at chest height and watched the uniformed man step in to search for the light switch.
Hobart was surprised. This wasn’t a cop. It was a young Hispanic man about twenty years old wearing a baggy navy-blue uniform with a patch on the shoulder that said something about Ready Security. Hobart’s thumb reengaged the safety catch on his gun, and he set it in the potted plant by the door.
The boy’s ear caught the sound of movement, and he reached toward the revolver in his holster, but Hobart was already in motion. Hobart’s left hand gripped the boy’s wrist while his right plucked the gun out of the holster and tossed it behind him. His left arm curled around the boy’s neck and tightened.
The boy tried the predictable moves he had been taught: stamping his heel on what he thought would be Hobart’s instep, trying to throw his head back into Hobart’s face, jabbing his elbows at Hobart’s midsection, trying to deliver a hammer punch to Hobart’s groin. His flailing was quick and wild, but he simply wasn’t strong enough. Hobart’s stranglehold tightened, the struggling became urgent, and stopped, the boy’s hands now simply trying to grip Hobart’s thick forearm to wrench it away from his throat so he could prolong his consciousness for a few more breaths. Finally, the hands went limp, and Hobart was holding the unconscious boy upright.
Hobart loosened his grip tentatively to see if the boy was faking, but there was no swift move, no wriggle. The boy had been choked out. Hobart lowered the boy gently to the floor. He picked up his gun and the boy’s and stuck them in his jacket pockets. Then he un plugged the receptionist’s telephone at the wall and the receiver and used the cord to hog-tie the unconscious boy. He took the boy’s radio and keys, closed the office door, walked down the hall to the elevator, and rode it to the ground floor. He let himself out the back door with the keys. As Hobart trotted down the street to his rental car, he accepted the fact that he would have to make one more stop
