produces a little cloth keycard wallet with GT stamped on the front in gold. âThis is yours. Also two spares.â
Billy touches one of the keycards to the reader and steps into what would be a small reception area if this were a going business. Itâs stuffy. Stale.
âJesus, someone forgot to turn on the air conditioning! Just a second, wait one.â Hoff punches a couple of buttons on the wall controller and has an anxious moment when nothing happens. Then cool air begins to whoosh from an overhead vent. Billy reads Hoffâs relief in the slump of his shoulders.
The next room is a big office that could double as a small conference room. Thereâs no desk, just a table long enough for maybe six people, if they crammed in shoulder to shoulder. On it is a stack of Staples notebooks, a box of pens, a landline telephone. This roomâhis writing studio, Billy supposesâis even hotter than the antechamber because of the morning sun flooding in. No one has bothered to lower the blinds, either. Giorgio flaps the collar of his shirt against his neck. âWhew!â
âItâll cool quick, real quick,â Hoff says. He sounds a bit frantic. âThis is a great HVAC system, state of the art. Itâs starting already, feel it?â
Billy doesnât care about room temperature, at least for the time being. He steps to the right side of the big window facing the street and looks down that diagonal to the courthouse steps. Then he traces another diagonal to the small door further on. The one courthouse employees use. He imagines the scene: a police car pulling up, or maybe a van with SHERIFFâS DEPARTMENT or CITY POLICE on the side. Law enforcement gets out. Two at least, maybe three. Four? Probably not. They will open the door on the curb side if itâs a car. The back doors if itâs a van. Heâll watch Joel Allen clear the vehicle. There will be no problem picking him out, heâll be the one bracketed by cops and wearing handcuffs.
When the time comesâif it comesâthere will be nothing to this shot.
âBilly!â Hoffâs voice makes him jerk, as if waking him from a dream.
The developer is standing in the doorway of a much smaller room. Itâs the kitchenette. When Hoff sees he has Billyâs attention, he gestures around palm up, pointing out the mod cons like a model on The Price Is Right .
âDave,â Billy says. âIâm Dave.â
âRight. Sorry. My bad. You got your little two-burner stove, no oven but you got your microwave for popcorn, Hot Pockets, TV dinners, whatever. Plates and cookware in the cupboards. You got your little sink to wash up your dishes. Mini-fridge. No private bathroom, unfortunately, the menâs and womenâs are at the end of the hall, but at least theyâre at your end. Short walk. And then thereâs this.â
He takes a key from his pocket and reaches up to the rectangular wooden panel above the door between the office/conference room and the kitchenette. He turns the key, pushes the panel, and it swings up. The space inside looks to be eighteen inches high, four feet long, two feet deep. Itâs empty.
âStorage,â Hoff says, and actually mimes shooting an invisible rifle. âThe keyâs so you can lock it on Fridays, when the cleaning staffââ
Billy almost says it, but Giorgio beats him to it, and thatâs good because heâs supposed to be the thinker, not Billy Summers. âNo cleaning in here. Not on Fridays, not on any other day. Top secret writing project, remember? Dave can keep the place neatened up himself. Heâs a neat guy, right, Dave?â
Billy nods. Heâs a neat guy.
âTell Dean, tell the other security guyâLogan, yeah?âand tell Broder.â To Billy he says, âSteven Broder. The building super.â
Billy nods and files the name away.
Giorgio hoists the laptop bag onto the table, pushing aside the
Tom Clancy, Steve Pieczenik, Jeff Rovin