Page 87 - Labelle Gramercy, On the Case
P. 87

Overtime

        upstairs.  “It  does  identify  the  probable  murder  weapon:  this
        building.”
          I digested that absurd conclusion in silence as I escorted her out
        of HR into the first floor lobby. We were about to enter an elevator
        when a couple of office workers hustled through the entrance (only
        one of them had to use an ID card to open the door, I noted) and
        made a dash for our car. I intended to hold the doors open for them,
        but Labelle stopped me before I could take a step in that direction.
          “Hold it, Mr. Taper. You dropped one of your folders.”
          I  turned  my  head  to  look  back,  and  as  I  did  so,  somehow  the
        employee orientation packet, which I had picked up as a prop to lend
        a touch of authenticity to our tour and which had been firmly in my
        grasp, had fallen to the carpeted floor about ten feet behind me. I
        retrieved it, beginning to wonder how that had happened, and turned
        around in time to see the elevator doors closing on the late arrivals.
        Labelle immediately punched the call button and we had the next car
        to ourselves.
          As  soon  as  the  elevator  started  moving,  she  pushed  the  stop
        button and pulled out something like a Swiss Army knife from inside
        her jacket. Before I could say anything she had removed the panel
        above the floor buttons and was studying the wires within.
          “Lieutenant, is this necessary? I could have the building engineer
        show you the blueprints for every aspect of this structure, and all the
        inspection reports since it was opened three years ago.”
          “Thanks, I’ve already seen them. I just wanted to verify that any
        tampering with the programmed controls outside the software would
        leave traces. That is indeed the case: you can see the seals left by the
        last inspector.”
          I  couldn’t  see  anything  in  the  shadowy  mass  of  disemboweled
        wiring  she  was  handling  rather  casually.  A  safety  bell  rang,  and  a
        guard’s voice came over the intercom: “Are you all right in there?”
          “Oh. So sorry,” chirped Ms. Gramercy, unconvincingly imitating a
        feather-brained  high-school  dropout.  “I  must  have  leaned  on  this
        little red button when I was putting on my lipstick.” And she pulled
        the button back.
          Our  ascent  resumed  and  concluded  without  further  incident.  “I
        will simply point to the spot where I found Kates,” I whispered as we
        stepped  out  into  the  entry  hall  on  the  fifth  floor.  I  indicated  the

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