“How much time?”
“Ninety minutes. Threes. This guy’s obsessed with threes and progressions of threes. Call her!”
Kevin set his drink down, jumped for the phone, and punched in her number. He relayed the information quickly.
“On the room phone,” he said.
“No, he called back on the cell,” Sam corrected him.
“He called back on the cell,” Kevin relayed.
Sam spread the phone directory map open and searched the streets. Thirty-third. A warehouse district.
“No cops. Remind her no cops. If she has any ideas, call, but keep the others out of it. He was very clear.”
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. It was the only answer that made immediate sense. But why would Slater choose such an obvious riddle?
She looked up at Kevin. “Tell Jennifer that I was wrong about Slater. You were in the room when Slater called.”
Kevin looked at her with a raised eyebrow, passed on the message, listened for a moment, and then addressed Sam. “She says she’s on her way. Don’t move.”
Only Jennifer could know specifically where they were. She would have picked up the caller ID when Sam called her on the room phone. How had Slater tracked them down so quickly?
Sam stepped forward and took the phone from Kevin. “Don’t bother coming, Jennifer. We’ll be gone. Work the riddle. I’ll call you as soon as we have something.”
“How will leaving help you? I want Kevin back in my sights where I can work with him. You hear me?”
“I hear you. We’re out of time now. Just work the riddle. I’ll call you.”
“Sam—”
She hung up. She had to think this through.
“Okay, Kevin. Here we go. Slater’s into threes; we know that. He’s also into progressions. Every target is larger than the one before. He gives you three minutes, then thirty minutes, then sixty minutes, and now ninety minutes. And he gives this number, 36933. The 369 follows the natural progression, but the 33 doesn’t. Unless they’re not part of the 369. I think we have an address: 369 Thirty-third Street. It’s in a warehouse district in Long Beach, about ten miles from here. What wants to be filled but will always be empty?A vacant warehouse.”
“That’s it?”
“Unless you can think of anything better. Opposites, remember? All of his riddles have been about opposites. Things that aren’t what they want or seem to be. Night and day. Buses that go around in circles. A warehouse that is designed to hold things but is empty.”
“Maybe.”
They stared at each other for a few seconds. They had no choice. She grabbed his hand.
“Come on, let’s go.”
17
THE WAREHOUSE IDENTIFIED AS 369 on Thirty-third Street stood among a dozen others in northern Long Beach, all constructed from the same corrugated tin, all two stories high, all addressed with the same large black numbers above the doors. Years of neglect had worn most of them down to a dull gray. The 369 was hardly more than a shadow. No sign identifying a business name. Looked vacant.
Kevin slowed the car and peered ahead at the looming structure. Dust blew across the sidewalk. A faded Mountain Dew bottle, the two-liter plastic variety, bumped up against a single-entry door to the right of the loading bay.
He stopped the car thirty yards from the corner and eased the gearshift into park. He could hear several sounds—the purring of the engine, the blower blasting air over their feet, the thumping in his chest. They all sounded too loud.
He glanced at Sam, who stared at the structure, searching.
“What now?”
He had to get the gun out of the trunk; that was what now. Not because he thought Slater would be here, but because he wasn’t going anywhere without his new purchase.
“Now we go in,” she said. “Unless the fire codes were nonexistent twenty years ago, the building will have a rear entrance.”
“You take the back,” Kevin said. “I’ll take the front.”
Sam’s right eyebrow lifted. “I think you should wait here.”
“No. I’m going in.”
“I really don’t think—”
“I can’t sit around and play dumb, Sam!” The aggression in his tone surprised him. “I have to do something.”
She faced 369 Thirty-third Street again. Time was ticking. Sixty-two minutes. Kevin wiped a trickling line of sweat from his temple with the back of his hand.
“Doesn’t seem right,” Sam said.
“Too easy.”
She didn’t respond.
“We don’t have a key—how are we getting in?” he asked.
“Depends. Getting in isn’t the concern. What if he’s rigged it to blow upon entry?”
“That’s not his game,” Kevin said. “He said ninety minutes. Wouldn’t he stick to his own rules?”
She nodded. “Has so far. Blew the bus ahead of schedule but only because we broke the rules. Still doesn’t seem right.” She cracked her door. “Okay, let’s see what we have here.”
Kevin got out and followed Sam toward the building. As far as he could see in both directions, the street was empty. A warm late afternoon breeze lifted dust from the pavement in a small dust devil twenty feet to his right. The plastic Mountain Dew bottle thumped quietly against the entry door. Somewhere a crow cawed. If Jennifer had figured out the riddle, at least she wasn’t making the mistake of swarming in with the cops. They walked up to a steel door with a corroded deadbolt.
“So how arewe getting in?” Kevin whispered.
Sam eased the plastic bottle aside with her foot, put a hand on the doorknob, and twisted. The door swung in with a creak. “Like that.”
They exchanged stares. Sam stuck her head into the black opening, looked around briefly, and pulled back. “You sure you’re up to this?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“I could go in alone.”
Kevin looked at the dark gap and squinted. Black. The gun was still back in the trunk.
“Okay, I’m going around back to see what we have,” Sam said. “Wait for me to signal you. When you go in, find lights and turn them on, but otherwise touch nothing. Look for anything out of the ordinary. Could be a suitcase, a box, anything not covered in dust. I’ll work my way through the warehouse in the dark just in case someone’s in there. Unlikely, but we’ll take the precaution. Clear?”
“Yes.” Kevin wasn’t sure how clear it was. His mind was still on the gun in the trunk.
“Go easy.” She edged to the corner, looked around, and then disappeared.
Kevin ran for the car on his tiptoes. He found the shiny silver pistol where he’d hidden it under the carpet behind the spare tire. He shoved it into his belt, closed the trunk as quietly as he could, and hurried back to the warehouse.
The gun handle stuck out from his belly like a black horn. He pulled his shirt over the butt and flattened it as best he could.
Darkness shrouded the warehouse interior. Still no signal from Sam. Kevin poked his head in and peered through the oil-thick blackness. He reached in and felt for a light switch along the wall. His fingers touched a cool metal box with a plastic switch on its face. He flipped the switch.
A loud hum. Light flooded the warehouse. He grabbed at his midsection and withdrew the gun. Nothing stirred.
He peeked again. A vacant foyer with a receiving desk. Lots of dust. The smell of mildewing rags filled his nostrils. But nothing like a bomb that he could see. Beyond the receiving area, stairs led up to a second floor. Offices. A panel of switches was mounted to the wall at the foot of the stairs. Marks broke the dust directly up the middle of the steps. Footprints.
He instinctively pulled his head from the door. Slater! Had to be. Sam was right; this was it!
Still no signal from her. Unless she’d called him and he’d missed it. With all these walls it was possible.
Kevin held his breath and slipped through the door. He stood still for a moment and then walked on the balls of his feet toward the receiving desk. Behind the desk—could be a place for a bomb. No, the footprints went up . . .