“Hi there,” Travis said cheerily. “My name’s Sam Jones. I’d like to see Mr. Catuara. I’m an old family friend.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
“I’m afraid not. But he’ll want to see me.”
“Is he expecting you?”
“In a way.”
“That’s odd,” she said, “since he isn’t even here.”
“Well … do you expect him in later?”
“No.” She batted a pencil against her desk.
“Well … do you know where he is?”
“Of course I do,” she replied.
“Well … would you like to tell me where he is?”
She seemed to be considering at great length. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt. Since you’re an old family friend. He’s at his home.”
“Oh. And where is that?”
“You’re an old family friend, and you don’t know where he lives?” Her voice carried more than a hint of suspicion. “I’m not authorized to release that information.”
“Maybe you could give me his phone number.” With which Crescatelli could obtain his address, Travis thought.
“No.”
“Aw, what could it hurt?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “And I don’t plan to find out.”
“Mr. Catuara will be mighty disappointed if he finds out I was in town and he didn’t get to see me.”
“I’ll take that risk.”
“Look, it’s vital that I talk with him today. As soon as possible. Can I at least make an appointment?”
“I’m not authorized to make appointments for Mr. Catuara. He does that for himself. I can take a number, though, and ask him to call you.”
“No, that won’t work.” Travis searched his brain for a different approach. He leaned across her desk, hovering precariously over the out box, and stroked her chin. “Are you sure you can’t help me out here?”
“I’m afraid not,” she replied frostily.
“I bet you have his home address right there in your Rolodex,” Travis continued. “You could just sort of … look away for a moment. I’d be very appreciative.” He ran his fingers across her cheek and down her neck.
The secretary removed his hand from her face. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave, Mr. Jones. Or whatever your name is.”
“There must be some way you can help me.”
“I can help you out the door. That’s it.”
“But surely—”
She picked up her phone. “I’m calling Security. They take a dim view of office mashers.”
“But I didn’t—”
“Five more seconds, then I cry rape.”
“I’m going, I’m going.” Travis slid off the desk. “I’m gone.”
Cavanaugh was waiting for him in the hallway outside. “Good work, Casanova.”
“You were watching?”
“From a respectful distance. You should’ve let me go. Your act isn’t exactly subtle.”
“How was I supposed to know she would be—”
“What? Offended by your heavy-handed pseudosexual advances? You were supposed to get into her Rolodex, not her pants.”
“Pseudosexual? What’s that supposed to mean? I can’t tell if you’re mad or just jealous.”
“Jealous? Why, you insufferable—” She swung her fist around and socked him on the shoulder.
He rubbed his arm vigorously. “All right, since I’m such a loser, let’s hear your brilliant plan for getting Catuara’s address.”
“Well, the easiest methods are all gone now because she’s going to be suspicious of anyone who comes near that Rolodex. We need a diversion.”
“And so you’re going to … what? Do a striptease in the lobby?”
“Just stay out of the way and watch, pig.”
She marched back toward the elevators and directed Travis’s attention to the fire alarm.
“You’re not going to set that off, are you?”
“Why not?” Cavanaugh responded. “It’ll ring for maybe ten minutes until Security discovers there’s no fire. But the secretary will have to leave her office.”
Travis shrugged. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea, even if it was hers.
Cavanaugh pulled the handle. There was a delay; it was probably a silent alarm that triggered something on the security people’s control panel. After about ten seconds, a very audible alarm sounded. The shrill wail filled the twenty-fourth floor. Travis and Cavanaugh ran back to the Elcon offices and positioned themselves around the corner where they could keep an eye on the office door.
Workers strolled out the few other offices that were open on Saturday morning, mumbling variations of “Is this another drill?” and “I don’t have time for this.” The floor emptied, except for the Elcon office.
Finally the front door opened. Travis watched as the secretary stepped out of the office … and locked the door behind her. She continued down the hallway to the stairwell.
“She locked the door,” Travis said.
“Thanks for the color commentary,” Cavanaugh replied. “I noticed.”
“Well, Ms. Former Skip Tracer, do you know how to pick locks?”
“With lock picks. But I don’t have any.”
“Know anyplace we could get some?”
“Yeah. But not before she gets back from the fire drill.”
Travis shoved his hands into his pockets. Looked like this was strike two.
58
10:05 A.M.
“THIS IS A MONUMENTALLY ridiculous idea,” Cavanaugh observed.
“Cut me some slack. We tried your idea. It bombed.”
“This from the guy who tried to seduce the secretary on top of her desk.”
“Would you forget about that? As far as I’m concerned, we’ve each got one out. But this ploy will drive the ball over the fence.”
“I like the macho sports analogies, but I’m reserving judgment on your conclusion.” She put on his windbreaker and tucked away the Rolodex and the pencils they bought in the office-supply store downstairs. “Maybe I should take your sunglasses. Tell her I’m from the Council for the Blind.”
“And you said I was insensitive.” He took her by the shoulders and steered her toward the door. “Don’t overact, Cavanaugh. The simpler the performance, the better. Go.”
Cavanaugh marched into the Elcon office before the secretary had a chance to instruct her otherwise. “Good morning. My name is Marilyn Smith and I’m raising funds for the Mars Initiative.”
The secretary peered up from her crossword. “You’re—what? From Mars?”
“Yes, Mars. We believe the American space program has been moribund for too long. We want to see some action—not just talk, but actual missions. American citizens exploring the final frontier, reaching for the infinity of the stars. Will you assist us?”
“I don’t exactly know what I …”
“Patriotism begins at home.”
“But I really wouldn’t know what to do.”
“It’s very simple.” Cavanaugh reached into her jacket and withdrew the pencils. “Just a few dollars from you can help guarantee the immortality of the species. All you have to do is buy these special commemorative space pencils.”
The secretary took one from the box. “They look like ordinary number-two pencils to me.”
“You don’t want us to spend all our funds producing cheap souvenirs, do you? Of course you don’t. Now, if you’ll simply donate enough to buy all of these”—she fanned the pencils across the desk—“you’ll become an associate member of the Society for the Mars Init—oops!”
She feigned stumbling and spilled the pencil box. The entire assortment dropped onto the floor behind the secretary’s desk. The secretary jumped back as if they were ballistic missiles.