She turned and stepped out, and Foreman followed. Together they walked down the hall to its dead-end fire-stairs door. Liz’s mind raced to find a way around this. Foreman remained a half step behind her and to her left. She couldn’t turn and outrun him. She needed a break, a way to put even a few seconds between them, seconds in which he would not miss her.
At the galley she introduced Foreman to the caterer as “a law enforcement officer.” Liz explained he needed a cover, and that she’d thought of his taking the place of one of the waiters for just a few minutes.
“He’d need a white shirt and tie,” the woman replied.
“I’m aware of that,” Liz said. “That’s why we’re speaking to you.”
The woman sized up Foreman like a fashion designer. She said, “Let me talk to Michael. He’s about your size.”
A few agonizing minutes later Foreman faced a young man carrying a white shirt and bow tie. “We’ll use the office,” Foreman said, indicating the door down the hall. “Wait here,” he said to Liz.
Foreman and the waiter moved down the hall and entered the office to exchange shirts and let Foreman tie the tie. He left the office door ajar to prevent her from slipping past.
Liz winced a smile. The mouse had walked willingly into the trap, all of his own accord.
Liz drew the caterer close and whispered, “When he asks, you tell him you had your back turned and didn’t see which way I went.”
Before surprise had a chance to fade from the caterer’s expression, Liz gently pushed against the stairway door’s panic bar, then threw her hip into pushing it open and slipped out. Cool air slapped her face. Her limbs and chest went feverish with adrenaline. At the bottom of these stairs was freedom, and for a moment that temptation weighed on her like gravity.
Before she reached the first landing, she heard a flurry of footsteps from below. Someone-security, probably-was coming up. Coincidence? she wondered. A random security check? Or had LaRossa’s ID triggered a full-scale search? If a search, they wouldn’t be busting through the front doors of a formal party but using the stairs, as she now heard so clearly. She debated returning to the relative safety of the twenty-fifth floor behind her. The footfalls continued to climb toward her, and at a pace that indicated someone in shape, reinforcing her belief it was a security guard. At last, with nowhere to turn, she stiffened her posture, took hold of the railing, and descended-walked-one hand on the rail. She was one of the five most powerful people at WestCorp, and this building belonged to WestCorp-at least for a few more minutes.
Bobbie Gaynes rounded the landing in the black-and-white uniform of the caterers. “Mrs. B.,” she said, clearly surprised. “What’s wrong?”
“Danny Foreman’s up there.” She explained her predicament and what she needed from Gaynes, speaking quickly and in a hushed voice.
“Okay then,” Gaynes said, when Liz had finished.
“You can’t get onto twenty-five without an ID card-from this side, the stairs. It’s restricted access.”
“So I’ll pound until someone opens up,” Gaynes said.
“If that doesn’t work…” Liz fished into Daphne’s purse and passed Gaynes the LaRossa ID, telling her to use it, “But only if no one opens the door for you. And if Danny asks if you saw me… ”
“Foreman doesn’t know me. I’ll just be a waitress who sneaked out for a smoke and got locked out.” She added, “Hopefully the caterer goes along with that.”
The women reached out and grabbed each other’s forearm at the same time. It seemed an awkward gesture to Liz, somewhere between a handshake and a hug, but she was grateful for the contact. “Five minutes, tops,” Liz reminded.
“Got it.” Gaynes bounded up the stairs effortlessly.
Liz turned and hurried down to twenty-four, believing she still had a chance to accomplish the transfer on time. Floor twenty-four lacked the security of the data department immediately above. Liz passed into a darkened corridor, switching on the lights and running through the maze of hallways. Inside, the pounding of her heart counted the passing seconds; the lighting of the cake and the darkening of the room were only minutes away.
When Boldt saw the first set of lights appear in the windows on the twenty-fourth floor, his first thought was housecleaning. But then another string, and a third string illuminated, and the short time between them suggested someone in a hurry, and his blood rushed to his face. It looked as if security were chasing someone. He thought of Gaynes and Liz.
At that same moment, the police-band radio sang with exchanges between the command van and Special Ops officers who had failed to locate Liz inside the theater, frustrated and limited in their effort by the darkness and the audience’s penchant for jumping to its feet in spontaneous song. Judging by the growing agitation in Riz’s voice, he sensed he’d lost his mark and feared his surveillance had failed, which in turn reflected directly on him and his ability to lead. Riz was a smart, capable cop. Soon he’d be checking with his people already in the bank, those assigned to watch the security monitors. How much longer until Liz was spotted, and what would the repercussions be?
The string of lights now stretched entirely across the twenty-fourth floor. Boldt craned his neck and put his face to the windshield to see.
Unable to tolerate another minute of this, and understanding the need for someone to distract Riz’s people from seeing Liz on a security camera, Boldt left his Crown Vic and marched through a light drizzle toward WestCorp Center, well aware that as he did so, he became a target of his own surveillance.
Liz reached the elevator bank on twenty-four and called an elevator, the wait excruciating. She knew that by now Foreman would be frantically searching for her, probably dressed as a waiter and moving through the guests, tray in hand.
Use of the elevator meant risking identification by the security guard operating the car. Her hope, that the car might arrive filled with smokers or late arrivals, that she might meld into the mix, proved too optimistic. The doors opened and she boarded an otherwise empty car-she and the guard. He stared at her, well briefed.
“Yes, it’s me,” she said, once the doors had closed. The one floor ride would be over quickly.
“I thought so,” he said.
“They probably didn’t tell you about this part,” she said.
He said nothing.
“Don’t blow it by saying something,” she said, just as the doors came open. She walked out, glancing directly at him once more to show him the strength of her conviction.
As the doors shut behind her, she had no idea if her ruse had worked, but she didn’t have the luxury of worrying about it. By the time the guard reported her and the announcement went up the chain, she needed to be sitting in front of the AS/400 making the transfer.
Liz moved through the main door, Charlotte at the table to her right, looking for a tall, African American waiter, so she could steer clear of him.
“Elizabeth Boldt?” a heavily accented voice asked from her left.
She turned to see a big man with a beard and dark, piercing eyes. She lowered her sight to the name tag stuck to his lapel, his name written in a casual cursive, not the calligraphy that her staff had arranged and paid for.
“Yasmani Svengrad,” the man introduced himself, extending his hand.
She found herself rooted, frozen in place. She did not offer to shake his hand, and a moment later he lowered his own.
“S &G Imports. We’re a private banking customer,” he said, naming WestCorp’s elite customer program that required seven-figure net worth. Phillip’s staff, not hers, had handled the invitations to the private banking customers. “Eight ounces,” he said.