Pure Blood_ A Nocturne City Novel - Caitlin Kittredge [95]
“SEC?” Emmanuel frowned. “Like whistle-blowers and stuff?”
“Exactly like that,” I agreed. “We’re very concerned about certain transactions Seamus O’Halloran has been involved in.”
“That guy’s a scumbag,” said Emmanuel. “You know he cut health benefits for hourly workers last year?”
“That’s why it’s so important I get to see Mr. Mansfield right now,” I said. Emmanuel shot a look at the security guard, who was reading something with a bikini-clad woman on the cover, and then handed me a white plastic square.
“Keycard,” he said. “It’ll get you all the way to floor forty. After that it’s all private codes anyway.”
“Thank you for all your help,” I said sincerely.
“Hey, if I get to see the execs led out of here in handcuffs with news cameras flashing in their faces, it’ll be enough,” Emmanuel said.
I didn’t tell him that in Seamus’s case, I really hoped he got his wish.
The upper floors of the tower were all dark. Gerard Mansfield had long since gone home, but a cleaning cart sat at the end of the hall with a radio perched on top, playing that song about being all out of love.
I pilfered the key ring off the cart and found that they were neatly labeled masters with floor numbers on the face. Number 38 unlocked Mansfield’s door and I slipped inside, leaving the lights off.
A quick search of Mansfield’s desk uncovered a fondness for organization, chewing on the ends of pencils, and chocolate-covered cherries. What a saint. I almost felt bad about using him this way.
I found Mansfield’s keycard under the candy box, slightly sticky but usable. I had almost made it back into the elevator when the cleaning woman came around the corner and saw me.
“Who are you?” she demanded. “This floor is closed for the evening.”
Crap. Somehow I didn’t think an unscheduled visit from the Junior League would fly, so I smiled sweetly and said, “No hablo inglés, señora.”
“You stay put,” she said, loudly and slowly. Like that ever helped. “I’m calling security. You stay!” she barked at me when I reached for the elevator call button.
If she alerted Joshua’s men, I’d be screwed. I took a quick step, shifted my weight, and came in with a right jab just under her cheekbone. Her head snapped around and she folded before she even felt any pain.
This was a piss-poor heist, I reflected as I dragged her into the elevator with me and swiped Mansfield’s keycard for the top floor. James Bond never had to punch out a cleaning lady.
The elevator door opened into blackness at the top of the tower. Seamus’s office was ghostly in the lights from the city below, but I could make out the desk and chair and bar, and even the crack in the plaster where I’d fallen into the wall. Behind the crack I saw the gleam of a metal door.
I turned on some lights, sent the elevator to the basement with the cleaning lady, and carefully pulled away the broken section of the wall. The steel door leading to Seamus’s private apartment space was small and scarred, like it had survived a few previous assaults. There was no alarm pad, no high-tech laser grid, but even from here I could feel the prickle of the ward marks that sat like invisible barbs on the surface of the door.
Brute force would not get me through the door. If I touched it, I’d end up extra crispy for Seamus to find tomorrow morning.
“Thanks a lot, Shelby,” I muttered. As much as I had convinced myself that this break-in was a bad idea, I felt irrationally disappointed to be foiled by something as simple as a fire door. I slumped in Seamus’s high-backed chair with a sigh.
His phone caught my eye, neat prelabeled buttons for LOBBY, GARAGE and SECURITY.
The idea that popped into my head was terrible and dangerous, along the lines of sailing across the Pacific in a garbage scow or buying up real estate in Pompeii. But bad ideas always appeal to me, so I picked up the phone and punched the button.
The voice that answered was gravelly, like it had been catnapping and was trying very hard to disguise the fact. “Security.”
“You’ve got to help me!” I said, putting just enough