The Book of Fate - Brad Meltzer [165]
98
Haven’t these people ever heard of a parking lot?” Rogo asked as he drove past the landscaping by the frosted-glass entrance and veered around to the back of the white office building.
“There,” Dreidel pointed out as they turned the corner. Around back, a wide lot was dotted with eight or ten cars.
“That’s a good sign, right? People still working?”
“Unless it’s just janitorial staff,” Dreidel said, eyeing the building through the passenger window.
“How many janitors you know drive brand-new Mustangs?” Rogo asked, parking next to a shiny black convertible Ford Mustang. “The only thing I can’t figure out is why they have all that space in the front of the building and instead put the parking lot around back?”
“Maybe it’s a zoning issue.”
“Yeah, maybe,” Rogo said.
“What, you still think it’s some kinda mob doctor?”
“All I know is, they’re about a block away from the Bada-Bing and the porn shop, there’s a funeral home next door, and that Mustang has a personalized license plate that says Fredo.”
Dreidel glanced down at the license plate, which read MY STANG. “Will you please stop? It’s a doctor’s office, Rogo. You can tell it from here.”
“Well, color me a stickler, but I’d still prefer to see it for myself,” Rogo added, flicking the car door open, hopping out into the drizzling rain, and running for the back door of the building. Halfway there, he looked straight up as a soft high-pitched whistle exploded into a deafening, rumbling earthquake. Another 747 coming in for a landing. Behind him, he noticed that Dreidel was at least ten steps behind.
Rogo finally reached two sliding frosted-glass doors that were almost identical to the entrance in front. Stepping onto the pressure mat, he waited for the doors to slide open. They didn’t move.
“Anybody home?” Rogo announced, knocking on the frosted glass, then pressing his face against it, trying to peer inside. Diagonally up on his right, a pinprick of red light revealed a shiny black security camera that was as thin as a calculator with a tiny round lens no bigger than a dime. Rogo turned away, too smart to stare. No way was a doctor’s office spending money on high-end tech like that.
“Don’t look up,” Rogo whispered as Dreidel stepped next to him.
“You sure no one’s—?”
Rogo raised a knuckle to knock again, but before he could tap the glass, the doors slid open, revealing an annoyed security guard with stringy brown hair and a close-cropped mustache.
“Can I help you?” he asked, looking at Dreidel, then Rogo, then back at Dreidel.
“Yeah, we’re looking for Dr. Eng,” Rogo said, trying to step inside. The guard stepped in front of him, cutting him off, but Rogo kept going, his short meatball build ducking quickly under the guard’s arm and into the salmon-colored marble lobby.
“Sorry . . . it’s just . . . it’s raining,” Rogo said, pointing outside and flicking excess water from his hands.
The guard didn’t say a word, still staring at Dreidel. Rogo noticed that the guard was armed with a 9mm pistol in his belt.
“Anyway,” Dreidel interrupted, “we’re here to see Dr. Eng.”
“Sorry, he left already,” the guard shot back.
“That’s fine—if we could just see his office assistant.”
“Dr. Eng is gone. His office is closed for the day.”
Up the hallway, Rogo spotted a tenant directory on the wall next to the elevators. “Listen, if we came at a bad time, I apologize, but can I just ask one favor?” Rogo pleaded. “I’ve been driving for over an hour in tear-your-hair-out traffic. We’ll get out of your way—we’ll call Dr. Eng tomorrow—but first, can I please just use your bathroom? We’re talking real emergency here.”
The guard stared at him, unmoving.
“Please,” Rogo pleaded, doing an anxious shuffle with his feet.