R is for Ricochet (Kinsey Millhone 18)

"Oh, Marty. This is gorgeous. Beck said it was spectacular, but this is really over the top. Mind if we look around?"

"Just don't take long. I want to get home."

"I promise we'll make it quick. Think of it this way, if it weren't for that stint in prison, I'd be working here myself. Isn't there a roof garden?"

"The stairs are back that way. You can't miss 'em. I'll be in my office down that hall."

"You could get lost in this place," Reba said.

"Well, don't. Beck's not going to like it if he hears you've been here."

"Mum's the word," she said, producing her dimples for him.

Reba circled the reception area with me following in her wake. As long as Marty was present, she was almost childlike in her hand-clapping enthusiasm, popping her head into offices here and there along the way, oohing and aahing. He watched us briefly and then went off in the opposite direction.

The minute he was out of sight, Reba dropped all pretense of touring and got down to business. I kept pace with her as she checked the names posted on the wall outside each office. When she reached Onni's, she shot a look down the hall to make sure Marty wasn't there. She moved to Onni's desk, grabbed a tissue from the box, and used it as she started opening drawers. "Keep a lookout, okay?"

I checked the corridor behind me. Searching is my all-time favorite sport (except for time spent with Cheney Phillips of late). The edgy thrill of invading someone's private space is heightened by the possibility of getting caught in the act. I wasn't sure what she was looking for or I'd have joined her in the game. As it was, somebody had to stand guard.

Still opening and shutting drawers, Reba said, "God, I can't believe Marty's so paranoid. Must be off his meds. Ah." She held up a chunky ring of keys that she jingled midair.

"You can't take those."

"Poo. Onni won't be in until Monday. I can put 'em back by then."

"Reba, don't. You're going to ruin everything."

"No, I won't. This is scientific research. I'm testing my hypothesis."

"What hypothesis?"

"I'll tell you later. Quit worrying."

She left Onni's office, trailing a hand along the wall as she returned to the reception area, scanning the lines of the ceiling. When she reached the elevators, she circled the central core, measuring with her eyes. Large abstract paintings dominated the walls and the lighting was such that one's attention was irresistibly drawn from one artwork to the next.

"It would help if I knew what you were looking for," I said.

"I know how his mind works. There's something here he doesn't want us to see. Let's try his office."

I wanted to protest but knew she wasn't listening.

Beck's corner location was prime – spacious, with clear cherry paneling and the same footstep-muffling green carpeting. The room was furnished with low-slung chrome-and-leather chairs of the sort that require winch and pulley action to remove yourself once you've been foolish enough to sit. His desktop was black slate, a curious surface unless he favored doing his long division in chalk along the length. Reba used the same tissue to avoid leaving latent prints on his desk drawers. I loitered uneasily in the doorway.

Dissatisfied, she pivoted. She studied every aspect of the room and finally crossed to the paneled wall, where she tapped her way across, listening for evidence of a hollow space behind. At one point, she activated a touch latch and a door sprang open, but the only treasure revealed was his liquor supply, complete with cut glass decanters and assorted glasses. She said, "Shit." She pushed the door shut and returned to his desk. She sat in his swivel chair and did a second survey from that vantage point.

"Would you hurry up?" I hissed. "Marty could show up any minute, wondering where we went."

She pushed the chair back and leaned down so she could examine the underside of his desk. She extended her hand, almost to the length of her arm. I wasn't sure what she'd discovered and I didn't care to be a witness. I stepped out into the hall and looked toward the reception area. So far no Marty. Idly I noted the fact that the paintings were graduated in size with the largest near the elevators and the smaller ones, in diminishing proportions back here. From the viewpoint of a visitor, the effect would be to create the illusion of corridors much longer than they were – an amusing trompe 1'oeil effect.

Reba emerged from Beck's office and grabbed me by the elbow, steering me toward the wide stairs that led up to the roof.