from remembering clearly some things he had seen and done, so that he would not to be able to disprove Prescott’s assertion.
The killer had stepped to the center of the grate to steal the padlock, but the center was directly in front of the door. The camera mounted inside the building had been aimed at the door, so that if an intruder opened the door and entered, it would catch him full on. But the store had been closed, and the big CLOSED sign had been hanging over the glass upper half, blocking the view. All Prescott had seen was a blurred, shadowy shape drift from the right side of the alcove to the sign, then pause for a couple of seconds to unlock the padlock, take it with its chain off the grate, open the grate, and grab the CLOSED sign as he slid off to the right again.
Prescott caught movement in the corner of his eye. In the lobby of the building, one of the security guards was up and walking. He went to the elevator. The other guard, a younger man, kept fiddling with something at the console in front of him, staring closely, but he said something that made the older one stop, look back, then change his course. The older man called something to the younger man, waved his arm, and then moved quickly to the staircase. The younger man stood up and hurried toward the rear of the building, out of Prescott’s sight.
Across the street, Prescott was already through the glass doors and hurrying out onto the sidewalk. His eyes first moved up and down the street—what had he missed?—then up at the windows of his own building. There was nothing obvious enough to see from here. He waited for a car to pass, then trotted to the center line before the next one arrived, and waited for three cars to race by in the other direction before he dashed the rest of the way across. He had his key in his hand when he reached the big glass door in the center. He turned the key, punched his entry code into the panel beside the door, heard the buzz, and jerked the door open to slip inside. He listened for footsteps from beyond the elevators, but he heard none. The younger guard must have been heading for the other set of stairs at the rear of the building.
Either an alarm had been tripped somewhere in the building or they had seen something in one of the television screens on their console. He stepped around the desk to see: the screens were all black. Prescott looked at the three rows of alarm indicators: all were glowing a steady green.
He wondered for a moment whether his punching the keypad and coming in had reset the system and made a break indication go away, but he dismissed the idea. They must have seen something on one of the television screens before they had all gone out, or they would not have known where to go. He was pretty sure he knew what they had seen.
Prescott stepped to the elevator, but stopped himself without pushing the button. If he rode up that way, then when he reached the ninth floor, the indicator light above the ninth-floor doors would go on, the bell would sound, and somebody—either a scared guard or a killer—would be standing in front of them when they opened. At least if Prescott went up the stairs, he would not be the one making the most noise. He slipped into the rear staircase and started upward.
He climbed the stairs as quietly as he could, rushing up a flight and then crouching at the inner rail at the top of the flight to look and listen. The younger security guard must have left the stairwell already, because there was no noise coming from above. Prescott was particularly worried about him. The older guard was one he had seen a number of times, one of the men he had talked to before he had leased an office here. His name was Chet or something like that. No, Cal. The younger guard was one Prescott had never spoken to, and he might very well take a look at Prescott and assume he was the problem. Prescott stopped at each floor, cautiously opened the door to the hallway a crack, and listened. On the fifth and sixth floors, he heard nothing. On the seventh, he put his hand on the grip of his pistol. He wanted it where he could reach it, but he didn’t want to have one of the guards see him in profile holding a gun, and pop him.
While he was climbing, he revised a few theories. The killer must have wanted, as he had expected, to get into Prescott’s office. But everything else was wrong. Prescott had expected him to case the building tonight, not make an attempt on it. Somehow or other, this killer had skipped a couple of steps. He was already past the alarm system and inside the building. He had somehow disabled the electronic surveillance system. The only mistake he seemed to have made was to assume he could do that without having the guards notice it and come after him.
It was disconcerting to be wrong about so much, but Prescott was still certain that the killer would be on the ninth floor trying to get into his office.
Prescott moved to the stairwell door on the eighth floor, opened it a crack, and listened. He heard nothing, so he slowly, carefully pushed it open another six inches. There was still no sound. He slipped out and eased the door shut behind him. The best way to do this was to let the complete emptiness and silence of the building magnify and sharpen his senses. He needed to know precisely where the three men in the building were. He moved close to the elevator door, put his ear to it, and listened. There was no hum. He moved to the front stairwell, the one he had seen the older guard, Cal, enter. He put his ear to the door and listened, then opened it a crack and saw the shoes.
The body was lying face-down on the landing above him, and the feet protruded over the highest step. Prescott climbed higher, and knelt to reach for the carotid artery to feel for a pulse, but withdrew his hand without touching it. The head had been wrenched to the side and the neck broken. The gun was still in its holster.
Prescott stepped over the body and out of the stairwell onto the ninth floor. He moved to the first turn of the hall, then kept going past the corner into the center, staring at the hallway along the barrel of his gun. There was nobody in sight. He waited, listening for footsteps, then carefully made his way toward his office. Each of the possibilities suggested itself to him: the killer had planned to wait inside the office until Prescott showed up in the morning, but the security guards had made it impractical; the killer wanted to booby-trap the office, so when Prescott opened the door he would be either perforated or fricasseed. Prescott hoped that was what it would be, because that took time, and the killer would be fully engaged for a few more minutes.
What worried Prescott most was the younger guard. Could this guy have killed them both already? No, the older guard had been killed silently. At that point the younger guard had still been alive: there was no reason for silence if there was nobody alive to hear. The second one, he would simply have shot. Prescott moved into the corridor where his office was. As he silently approached, he kept his eyes on the doorknob, watching to see it turn. He had never let the photographs of the bodies in the Louisville restaurant fade from his mind: all rapid, clean shots done without moving anything but the gun arm. If Prescott saw this character, he probably wasn’t going to get more than one shot unless the first one cut flesh.
He stepped to the door, moved to the side, set his left hand on the knob, and held the pistol in his right. He formed a clear, sharp image of the office in his mind, tracing the way every shape would look from here. Whatever did not perfectly conform to that picture had to be shot, a round placed in the middle of it instantly.
Prescott heard the elevator bell ring and he spun, then froze. He heard the elevator doors open. If the killer was in Prescott’s office, he must have heard it too. Prescott couldn’t let the young security guard stumble into the middle of this. Prescott held his gun in front of him and began to back away from his office. He heard the elevator doors slide shut. He backed to the turn in the hallway and looked. The indicator lights lit up as the elevator descended.
Prescott dashed to the stairwell and slipped inside. He bent over the body again, checking for the keys. The elevator would not work unless it was operated with a key. The older guard’s keys were still clipped to his belt. Prescott shoved his gun into his jacket pocket, grabbed both railings, and began to vault down the steps four and five at a time.
On the fifth floor, he paused and opened the door to look at the elevator. Above it, he could see the number two, just lighting up. He kept going, trying desperately to reach the lobby in time. When he arrived at the ground floor, he was winded, but he flung open the door, his gun ready. The elevator was open, the lobby deserted.
He ran to the telephone at the security console and dialed 911. As soon as he heard the click of the connection, he said, “My name is Roy Prescott, and I’m at 98503 Wilshire Boulevard. An armed killer has just murdered a man and left the building. He’s extremely dangerous, and he’s dressed as a security guard.” Prescott paused and then added, “Might as well send the bomb squad too. He’s the sort of person who may have left a little something.”
7
Prescott sat in his office and piled objects into cardboard boxes that had once held reams of paper, and put
