The Prisoner - Carlos J. Cortes [126]
After keying in a later time, she selected the recording from her executive elevator and ran it forward until the pair entered the car after their tumultuous meeting. Suddenly the screen went black. Frowning, Odelle stopped the image and backtracked to the lightning-fast gesture, to analyze the recording in slow motion. Ritter had removed his beret and draped it over the camera. What had he passed on to Genia? What couldn’t wait until they reached the garage? No, she corrected herself: At the garage, they’d meet their respective security details and then board separate cars. Still, what couldn’t wait? Suddenly the image returned and Ritter was adjusting his beret. Genia looked dazed. Then her lips moved. Odelle paused the recording, went back to the moment when the image returned, and hiked the volume.
What was that?
A short pause.
Heroic gestures have the strangest effect on me.
She ran the digital recording twice more, noting the short exchange as Genia exited the elevator car, far too feeble to be registered by the microphones. It can’t be.
“Pet, security.”
Two clicks and a low-frequency buzz. “Sergeant Oscar Sanchez.”
“Who is in charge of recordings?”
“Pardon me, ma’am?”
“Who staffed the screens this morning?” She changed tack. “The cameras?”
“Oh. That would be Agent Cossio.”
“Have you registered any incidents, camera failures, or glitches in the elevators?”
“Yes, ma’am. Er … this morning there was a—”
“Has anyone studied that tape?”
“Agent Cossio filed a report.”
“That’s not what I asked,” Odelle snapped.
“Well, Agent Williams has run the tapes several times and—”
“Is he on duty?”
“Well, yes, bu—”
“Thank you, Sergeant. Send Agent Williams to my office at once.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Odelle killed the line, paged floor security, and told George Wilson, her aide, to let Williams through.
In fewer than five minutes, a nervous young man stood before her desk, looking ill at ease. She kicked her chair back a foot and waved a hand to Williams. The young man swallowed and walked around the table like a lamb to the slaughter. Odelle ran an eye over Williams and fought back a smile. You’re thinking I’ll order you to service me on your knees? Just for the hell of it, she stared into his ridiculously young face. The guy was practically quaking.
Odelle nodded to the oversize screen on her desk. “Have you seen these images?”
After an audible sigh, Williams croaked, “Yes, ma’am.”
She ran the recording to the point where Ritter covered the camera, then she hiked the volume as high as it would go.
“Have you examined this recording before?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Why?”
“I … er, there was a report filed by the morning staff. They thought the camera was broken.”
“Have you analyzed the sound? What’s going on there?”
Silence.
Odelle turned to Williams, whose face had acquired a healthy reddish hue. “Out with it, son. What’s happening in that elevator?”
“They’re … They’re making out. I mean—”
“I know what you mean, Mr. Williams. I wasn’t born yesterday.” Then she rewarded the young man with a thin smile and waved her hands at him, as if shooing chickens. “That will be all. You’ve been most helpful.”
When Williams left her office, Odelle leaned back in her chair and stared at the black surface of her computer screen until it blurred. Making out. Just as she thought, but … couldn’t it wait? Her mind flew to another elevator—at the Atlanta Marriott Hotel, a sixty-eight-story obelisk—and a memorable ride to the roof terrace, a finger firmly pressed on the door override. No matter how many times the elevator stopped, the doors refused to budge. Making out in an elevator—of course she knew what it meant.
Outside, the clouds must have parted, because a sudden beam of moonlight subdued by tinted windows caught her eye. Ritter and Genia’s behavior, however unprofessional, didn’t even count as a misdemeanor in an age where interdepartmental personal relationships had stopped being frowned upon, thanks to the damn