R is for Ricochet (Kinsey Millhone 18)

"Maybe we should take another look," I said. "I don't get how anybody figures this shit out. I wouldn't know where to begin."

Reba unfurled another floor plan, this one dated August of '81. We studied a couple of the drawings next to one another. Having seen the offices firsthand, I had a fair idea what I was looking at, with certain notable exceptions. Where the employee break room was located in reality, the floor plan indicated a conference room, which had been moved closer to reception. "How many sets do you have?"

"Tons, but these seemed the most relevant. From March to August, there's not that much difference. It's the changes that show up in October that looked interesting to me." She wrestled a fourth sheet open and placed it atop the third. Much crackling of paper as the two of us examined the specifics of employee restrooms, wheelchair clearances, metal decks, and rigid insulation – the whole of Beck's fifteen-office suite visible in one sweep.

"Are we looking for anything in particular?" I asked.

She pointed to an oblong area on my sheet adjacent to fire stairs and the elevator envelopes. "See that? The location of the elevators shifted from there to there," she said, moving her finger from my drawing to hers.

"Break room moved, too, but so what?"

"Well, look at it. I mean, I understand they made changes, but there's space unaccounted for. Here it's called storage, but in this drawing, the space is still there with no reference to it at all."

"I still don't see the significance."

"I just think it's odd. I'm telling you, there was a room there on one of the early floor plans. I asked Beck what it was and he blew me off, like I didn't need to know. On the initial blue-line drawings, the architect labeled it a gun vault, which is totally ridiculous. Beck's a pussy about firearms. He doesn't even own one gun, let alone a collection of the damn things. At the time, I figured maybe it was a panic room or whatever you call them…"

"A safe room?"

"Like that. Something he didn't want anyone else to know about. Later I wondered if he intended to use it as a love nest, a hidey-hole where he could take his lady friends. I mean, what could be better? In the same building but out of the public eye. Think how easy it'd be to get a little ass on the side."

"Maybe the architect vetoed the idea."

"Nobody vetoes him. He knows exactly what he wants and he gets it." She laid a finger on an unmarked area just off reception. "Couldn't there be space behind this wall?"

I went back in my mind and pictured the gallery of paintings and the trompe 1'oeil effect created by the diminishing sizes of objects as the eye traced them down the hall. I looked back at the floor plan. "I don't think so. If there's a room there, how the heck do you get in? There aren't any doors in that wall that I remember."

"My recollection, too. Because I counted off five offices and Onni's was in the middle. After Jude's office – you know the one with all the black-and-white photographs?"

"Right, right."

"Yeah, well, the gallery picked up from there and that wall had to be a good twenty-five feet long."

"What about that room where they kept office supplies?"

"That's right there. I went around this part twice and there weren't any doors there either, so if it's a room, it's been sealed."

"Maybe it's something to do with the building infrastructure. All the nuts-and-bolts stuff. Don't you have plans any later than this?"

Reba shook her head. "I was in prison by then."

We were both silent for a moment. Then I said, "Too bad we don't have plans for the offices below his. You're just assuming that's a room, but it could be a mechanical chase or something that goes all the way down."

She curled the plans together and made a cylinder of them, replacing the rubber band. She tossed them into the backseat and turned the key in the ignition. "Only one way to find out."

Reba drove around the block, slowly circling Passages Shopping Plaza, peering across me through the passenger-side window as she scanned the exterior. On the south side of the mall she pulled over to the curb, her attention taken up by an entrance marked "Deliveries." A steep ramp led down into the shadows and out of sight.

"Hang on. I gotta see this," she said. She killed the engine and got out on her side of the car while I got out on mine. We walked down the ramp, which descended two levels to what must have been a subbasement. At the foot of the ramp was a portcullis secured with a big handsome padlock. Through the grillwork, we could see ten parking spaces, a blank double door at the end of a cul-de-sac, and a single metal door to the right. I said, "You think this is the only way in?"