'Frame you?' The Japanese laughed. 'You sound like Jimmy Cagney.'
'Believe me, I was lucky to get away. I thought the police were going to charge me. I'm still not sure they've entirely given up on me. I had to surrender my passport.'
'Who would want to frame you, Cheng?'
'I don't know,' shrugged Cheng. 'Maybe someone from the Yu
Corporation. Maybe you. Yes, maybe you did it.'
'Me?' The Japanese sounded amused by the idea. 'Why me?'
'Maybe you killed that security guard.'
'I sincerely hope you didn't present this theory of yours to the police.'
'I didn't mention you. How could I? I don't even know your name. You've been careful that way.'
'Maybe you're wearing a wire as we speak.'
'Maybe.' But as he said it Cheng unbuttoned his shirt to show that there was nothing taped to his chest. 'Anyway,' he added, 'the demo's ended. Someone in City Hall got on to Immigration and had us all checked out. One or two were in violation of their visas. They were supposed to be studying English, not making money working in restaurants.'
The Japanese shook his head sadly.
'That's too bad,' he said. 'I guess now I'll have to get involved myself. Score something off my own bat.'
'Like what?'
'Oh, I don't know. Maybe a little sabotage. You wouldn't believe what I'm capable of.'
'You're wrong about that. I think you're probably capable of just about anything.'
The Japanese stood up.
'You know, if I were you, Cheng, I'd make sure I'd got myself a good alibi.'
'When for?'
The Japanese threw some bills on to the table.
'For as long as it takes.'
Allen Grabel telephoned Richardson Associates and asked to speak to Mitch.
The receptionist was called Dominique. 'Who shall I say is calling?'
Grabel had an idea that Dominique did not like him much, so he restricted himself to his Christian name. Mitch probably knew two or three people called Allen. He waited for a few moments. Then
Dominique said, 'I'm sorry. There's no reply. Can I take a message.'
'Ask him to give me a call.' Grabel left his number. She was hardly likely to recognize that. 'As soon as he gets back.'
Grabel replaced the phone and glanced at his watch. He had fifteen minutes to go until his next drink.
Why had Mitch not called him back? There could only be one reason: his witch of a wife had not passed on the message. No wonder Mitch was having an affair with that woman he had seen outside the Gridiron building. Then it came to him that the Gridiron was probably where he would find Mitch. He was hardly thinking straight since that night. But Mitch would understand, he would know what to do.
Grabel picked up the phone and punched out the number. As soon as it started to ring he replaced the receiver. With the telephone system they had at the Gridiron you never knew who might have been listening in. He glanced at his watch again. Ten minutes to go. But he couldn't very well go back there. He was afraid, scared of what might happen to him. Suppose he had imagined it all? What would they do to him then? It was almost as scary as the alternative.
Kay Killen spent the day before Ray Richardson's pre-PCI inspection in the boardroom on the twenty-first level checking through the twodimensional plans and three-dimensional models of the Gridiron on computer. She also looked at the visual record of the project on Photo CD, just in case Richardson wanted to analyse any part of the scheme in detail, or demonstrate the evolution of the design. She had even arranged to have the main model of the building transported from Richardson Associates' offices on Sunset to the Gridiron boardroom, not to mention full-sized mock-ups of some of the components used in its construction. Where Ray Richardson was involved it was always best to be prepared for any eventuality.
It was late when she finished, leaving Mitch still working out an inspection schedule with Tony Levine, Helen Hussey and Aidan Kenny. She was glad to be getting out of the place. Although she was used to working late in empty office buildings, there was something about being in the Gridiron at night that she did not care for. She had always been sensitive to atmosphere, which she attributed to her Celtic ancestry and, unlike the rest of the project team, she was more than ready to believe in feng shui. Kay saw nothing wrong with trying to build something that was in harmony with the natural environment and in tapping the goodness of nature to benefit man. That the spirit of the land must be respected was, she thought, just another kind of environmentalism. Her privately held belief was that the place would feel better when the criticisms made by the feng shui consultant had been fully accommodated.
By the time she reached the cavernous garage her heart was beating quickly and she was beginning to feel a little nauseous. Public spaces, especially at night, made her nervous. Living in LA, she told herself, she was hardly unusual in this respect. But this was more than just urban paranoia. Kay suffered from a mild form of agoraphobia. Knowing she sometimes felt this way did not make it any easier to deal with. Nor did the fact that her car, a new Audi, refused to start.
Anger displaced nervousness for a few crucial minutes. Kay cursed and got out of the car to call the AAA from the security guard's office upstairs. She had the sensation that she was being watched, and performed a couple of walking pirouettes as she headed back across the garage, her heels echoing on the non-slip floor like the ticking of a metronome. Who else could be down here? Now that Sam Gleig was dead Abraham handled night-time security. Apart from her colleagues on the twenty-first level there was no one else in the building. Kay felt relieved when she re-entered the brightly lit elevator car and rode up to the atrium-
When the elevator doors opened the floor was in darkness, with only the light from the car behind her and emanating from some of the upper levels to let her see where she was going. The floor lights were often turned down at night. Since people who were working late usually exited the building from the garage, Abraham was saving energy. But his infrared sensors and cameras were supposed to note her arrival and switch the lights back on.
She was trying to work out why this had not happened when the elevator doors closed behind her and most of the available light disappeared.
Kay suppressed her panic. It was not as if she needed much light to know her way around the Gridiron. Her memory of the building's plan on every level was almost photographic. She had only to imagine herself seated in front of a work-station, using the CAD and steering her mouse to know exactly where she was going. Even before it had been built Kay had known her way around the Gridiron. When finally she went on-site and walked round the finished envelope she had experienced a sensation of odd familiarity.
But as she started to walk towards the security guard's office, she heard a voice she seemed to recognize.
'Can I help you, Miss?'
She felt her hair rising on her head.
'Is there anything the matter?'
Sam Gleig was standing in his familiar position at the front desk, his big hand resting on the gun he kept bolstered on his hip. And, althought it was dark, Kay realized that she could see him perfectly, in every detail, almost as if he had been standing in his own personal zone of artificial light.
'They say what happened to Mr Yojo yet?'
'What — what do you want, Sam?' Kay started to back away towards the elevator. 'Who are you?'
Sam laughed his big slow laugh. 'I don't mean to bother you at all,' he said. 'So who's working late tonight?'