There was no time to waste. Tracie marched quickly across the lobby — an authoritative woman walking with a purpose — and stopped at a small reception area two-thirds of the way across the floor. A young woman was in the middle of a conversation with the receptionist, a hefty older lady with silver-blue hair wearing an old but clean business suit.
Tracie stepped directly in front of the desk, cutting in front of the customer. The young woman sputtered, beginning to complain, and Tracie turned and flashed her FBI ID, first at the customer and then at the receptionist. “I’m FBI Special Agent James,” she said. “Please excuse the interruption, but I’m here on critical, time-sensitive government business.” The woman took a quick look at the card and backed off a step. She raised her hands and turned away.
“How may I help you?” the receptionist asked.
“I need to speak with your supervisor,” Tracie said.
“That would be Mr. Foley, but he is in a meeting and currently unavailable. Did you have an appointment?”
“No appointment,” Tracie said, “but it’s critical I speak to him now. Get him.”
“I’m sorry, but—”
“Pull him out of his meeting and get him out here now. It’s the last time I’m going to ask.”
“Or what?”
“Or I go get him myself. This is literally a matter of life and death.” Of course, it was a bluff. Tracie didn’t have a clue where to begin looking for the receptionist’s supervisor, but time was short and getting shorter, and she was desperate to light a fire under this bureaucratic battle axe.
It worked. The receptionist took one last frosty look at Tracie’s ID, now back in her breast pocket with the photo facing outward, and then punched a button on her telephone with a look on her face that suggested she would rather be eating bugs. She spoke quietly into the handset for a few seconds, listened, said something else, her face wrinkled in distaste, and then hung up.
“Mr. Foley is on his way,” she said, refusing to look at Tracie.
“Thank you for all your help,” she replied sweetly, doing her best to look earnest and sound sincere. “Thank you, also,” she said to the customer she had interrupted, this time hoping she actually did seem earnest and sincere.
She turned on her heel and moved to the center of the lobby, conscious of the seconds ticking away. Moments later, a middle-aged man with perfectly coiffed silver hair and an air of authority stepped out of an elevator and walked hurriedly toward the receptionist’s desk, glancing around the lobby as he did so. Halfway to the desk he spotted Tracie and turned toward her like a guided missile. The man had impatience written all over his face—that makes two of us, Tracie thought — and was dressed in a suit that Tracie guessed cost more than her monthly salary.
As he approached, Tracie flashed her FBI ID and the man waved it away, fluttering his fingers as if shooing away a pesky mosquito. “FBI Special Agent Madison James,” she said, doing her best to sound clipped and officious, guessing that tone would appeal to a man who struck her as the very definition of the word “officious.”
“Doug Foley,” he answered, taking her hand reluctantly, giving it one moist pump and then dropping it as if perhaps he feared he might catch something contagious. “Would you mind telling me why I had to interrupt my weekly meeting with the claims department? We’re very busy here and I don’t have time to hold the FBI’s hand.”
“I wouldn’t mind at all,” she shot back. “It’s about President Reagan’s appearance, which is due to begin down the block in just,” she glanced at her watch, “nine minutes.”
“Yes,” he said exasperatedly, “what about it? You folks were a major disruption yesterday, disturbing my employees and poking around my building. Last night I was promised these disruptions were over with. So, what is it now?”
“We’ve had a report of a man acting suspiciously in the area. The report stated the man may have entered this building. I need to take a walk through to check it out. I just wanted to let you know I’ll be here for the next few minutes. Oh, and I’ll need a key for the roof access. Preferably a master, if you have one.”
The manager huffed and looked at his watch distractedly. “Fine, look around, just try not to disturb my people too much this time.” He didn’t specify whether he considered the employees or the customers — or maybe both — to be “his people.” He pulled a set of keys out of his pocket and fussed with it, finally removing one, which he handed to Tracie.
Tracie took it. “I’ll return the key to your receptionist when I’ve finished. Thank you for your time.”
The bank manager had begun striding away before she finished talking, barreling back toward the bank of elevators on the far wall. She lowered the hand she had begun to offer him and followed, moving quickly. She didn’t trust the speed of the elevators, so her goal was the fire stairs, the doorway to which was in the same corner of the lobby as the elevators.
When Foley stopped suddenly and turned, she almost plowed him over. He blinked in surprise at finding her right behind him. “You say there may be someone inside the building who’s been acting strangely?” he said.
“That was the report,” she answered brusquely, anxious to get to the roof.
“You know, there was one odd incident this morning,” he said, cupping his chin with one hand.
“Yes?”
“That’s right. We employ a security staff of one during overnight hours. Break-ins are not uncommon in this neighborhood, and it just seems prudent.” He seemed to be waiting for a response, so Tracie nodded impatiently and he continued. “Well, the guard on duty last night, Sean Sullivan, never clocked out at the end of his shift and he was nowhere to be found when we opened up this morning. Nothing is missing and the janitorial staff reported that he was here to let them into the building at midnight last night.”
“Maybe he simply forgot to sign out before he went home,” Tracie said.
“I don’t think so. Sean has been with us for over five years and has never forgotten to sign out before. He is ex-police and very professional. Anyway, with the report of a suspicious person, I thought you should know. We’ve been trying to get in touch with our man at home, but so far, no luck.”
“Hm,” Tracie said, thinking. “What time do the rest of the employees usually show up for work?”
“The managers and supervisors around eight, and the rest of the staff just before nine.”
“Okay, thank you,” Tracie began, but the man had once again dismissed her. He turned and punched an elevator button. Tracie pushed through the door to the stairs, and began sprinting up them two at a time.
The guard was dead, Tracie was certain of it. There was no doubt in her mind what had happened — the KGB’s man had overpowered the guard sometime between midnight and eight this morning.
Her calves began to tighten as she rushed up the stairs. She tried to tell herself maybe she was wrong, that the assassin might simply have neutralized the guard and then tied him up somewhere. But it didn’t feel right. There would be nothing for the KGB to gain by leaving a witness alive. The guard was dead, his body dumped somewhere out of the way. He would be discovered in the next day or two.
The floor numbers were posted in the stairwell next to the doors. Tracie passed the fifth floor and pushed herself harder. Two more to go. She was beginning to breathe heavily. A few seconds later she arrived at the seventh floor landing, surprised to see the stairway suddenly end. There was no roof access.
She paused, taking a moment to get her breathing under control and to think. There had to be a way to access the roof from inside the building. If it wasn’t via this stairway, then there would be another one somewhere. Maybe at the opposite end of the hallway.