The Lights of Tenth Street (59 page)

Three words from the police phone call resounded in her head—words she hadn’t shared with her coworkers.

“… 
under suspicious circumstances
…”

All her training told her this could mean only one thing—someone had taken him out. And why now, after all this time? She recalled Tiffany’s face looming in the doorway, Tiffany who had overheard something she couldn’t possibly have understood. But you didn’t have to understand something to repeat it to the wrong ears … and Tiffany had been leaving to go meet Wade and who knew who else. Happy-go-lucky Tiffany, clueless Tiffany, must have said something … and someone
had
understood it.

And that meant they would be coming here. Looking for her.

Within seconds, she found the file she had discreetly copied to Marco’s hard drive while helping him with the CD. All her instincts were telling her this little audio file was now critical, was worth discovery, was worth any effort to get it out of here, to get it to safety. She set up her Palm Pilot and beamed the file via wireless connection straight to her hand-held device, watching the download proceed with fevered eyes.

It was taking too long! This file was too large for her hand-held device to e-mail out. She would have to get the Palm Pilot itself out of the club and find a better e-mail connection or, better yet, bring the Palm Pilot straight in.

Maris looked at her watch, practically sick with haste. Three minutes. Too long … too long! They might be here any minute—might be here already.

She heard the soft beep and checked the face of the device: “Wireless download complete.” She yanked the Palm Pilot off the desk and hurried for the door. She did not notice that the screen of the computer bore the same message.

Ronnie came running into the club. She found Tiffany in the dancers’ room, and the two friends hugged and cried for a few minutes.

“Where is everyone else?” Ronnie looked around at the sparsely populated room.

“In the break room, probably. Maris said the police asked everyone to wait.”

Ronnie looked in the mirror and grimaced at her reddened, mascara-streaked eyes. She dumped her car keys on the makeup table. “I look awful. I’m going to go splash cold water on my face.”

Tiffany gave her a dull nod. “It’s not like any of us are looking too great right now.”

Maris took a few breaths to settle her pounding heart, then stepped out into the hallway.

Almost immediately she was accosted by staffers. Where had she been? What did the police say? Would they still be paid tomorrow?

She tried to reassure everyone, answering their questions, urging them to wait in the break room until the cops arrived. Her brain was screaming at her to bolt for the back door. But there were so many people with questions, she couldn’t move five steps without being accosted.

The young hostess tugged on her arm and told her two men were out front looking for her. They were talking to Brian, the bouncer. She thought maybe they were the police?

“Are they wearing uniforms?”

“No, just—you know—clothes.”

“Tell them I’ll be right there.” She set off down the hallway toward the break room. Just shy of the door, she jerked to a halt, listening.

“Where is Maris, the waitress?”

The voice was unfamiliar. She heard one or two people say they hadn’t seen her. Maybe she was in Marco’s office?

“Go check.” A different voice issued a curt order.

She heard heavy steps heading toward the break room door, and she set off down the back hallway, timing the paces in her head. She’d never make it to the exit … never make it.

She heard the heavy footsteps rounding the corner just as she pulled even with the ladies’ room. She hurled herself against the door, ducking inside, and heard the
man pounding on Marco’s office door, just down the hall.

Trapped! She should call in, should at least tell her team what was going on. But her cell phone and other gear were in her locker in the break room, as inaccessible as the moon.

The pounding turned to kicking, and she listened to Nicks familiar voice approach the man, his tone alarmed.

“What are you doing?”

“Stay out of it.”

“Hey, listen, you—”

The man’s voice changed slightly. “I’m conducting an official investigation, and time is critical. I need to find the waitress, Maris.”

“I’m sorry … I think she was in the office a minute ago.”

There was a heavy thud, and the crack of a door giving way.

“Hey!” Nick sounded angry.

“Like I said—official business. Stay out of it!”

Maris started to pull open the bathroom door, every muscle tensed to spring down the hallway toward the exit.

Suddenly, someone pushed on the bathroom door from the outside, and she gasped, jerking back, her hand raised to deliver a blow.

Ronnie shrank back against the wall, her reddened eyes wide. “Hey!”

Maris shouldered past Ronnie and peered out as the door began to swing shut.

Good. The hallway was clear, the man—or men—still in Marco’s office. Poised to move, she turned her head toward the back exit.

There was a sudden noise, and the heavy exit door was wrenched open from the outside.

Maris jerked back into the bathroom, letting the door silently swing shut.

“Maris?” Ronnie’s voice quavered. “What’s wrong? What’s going on?”

Maris held up a sharp hand for silence, straining to listen through the closed door.

There was a male voice, talking so low that she couldn’t capture all the words.

“… still be in the building … car’s still here.…”

A second voice was a bit louder.

“The PC was compromised. Someone had just downloaded something—and not to a disk. To a hand-held device of some kind. That bartender says she owns a Palm Pilot. She must have the file.”

The first voice swore. “Find her. Search every inch. No one gets in or out.”

“They say the cops are on the way.”

“Better hurry, then.” The voices began moving away, and Maris could hear them
calling someone to stand guard over the back door. “And one other thing …” the voices were growing faint “… those other girls …”

Ronnie realized that Maris was staring at her long and hard. She looked back, puzzled, then Maris pulled her away from the door and into the large handicap stall at the back of the bathroom.

Ronnie tried to resist, her voice rising with alarm. “What’s going
on?
”

“
Shhhh!
” Maris closed them into the large stall, locking the latch behind them. “For pete’s sake, I thought you were smarter than that!”

“Fine! Would you please tell me what’s going on?”

“If I told you, it would take all night. They’ll be in here any minute.”

“
Who
will?”

“Just listen!” Maris hissed. “I can’t explain. But I need you to do something for me. Will you do it?”

Ronnie looked in her eyes and glimpsed something she’d never seen before. Something … fierce. Determined. Something beyond the snappy Bronx waitress she’d always known.

She took a breath. “Okay.”

Maris pulled a Palm Pilot out of her apron and handed to Ronnie. “I need you to hold this for me for a little while, to hide it on your person.” She brought out a pen, tore off a scrap of her order pad, and scribbled a series of numbers on it. “If anything happens to me, call this phone number. Give them this code, and you’ll be connected to the right people. You’ll need to get them this Palm Pilot immediately, if I can’t. I just downloaded a critical file.”

Maris showed her the long series of numbers, then tucked the torn slip of paper inside the Palm Pilot’s leather sheath. Ronnie looked at the hand-held device as if it would bite her, her brain still ringing with the words, “
if anything happens to me
 …” She looked back up at Maris.

“Who would I be calling, exactly?”

“The local branch of the FBI.”

“The FBI!”

“I don’t have time to explain. I need to get you out of here before they search the bathroom.”

“Who is
they?
What’re they looking for?”

“ ‘They’ are some very bad people, Ronnie. And they want what you’re holding in your hand. They won’t suspect you; they’ll just think you were using the bathroom. But if you think they’re suspicious of you—run. Don’t look back. Get out of
here immediately, and call this number.”

She gripped both of Ronnie’s arms and looked her straight in the eyes. “Ronnie, I wouldn’t ask this under other circumstances. I don’t want to involve you. But there’s much more at stake here than you can possibly imagine—an issue of national security. Tens of thousands of lives could be at stake. Ronnie, this Palm Pilot—this file—
must
make it to the FBI.”

“But what about you? What will they do to you?”

“Don’t worry about me. I’ve got to get you out of here.”

Suddenly, both girls heard voices outside the door, loud voices, heavy steps.

Maris whirled and hissed at Ronnie. “Climb up on the toilet and hide that Palm Pilot! Do it!
Do it!
”

Ronnie clambered onto the toilet seat as Maris whipped out of the stall, hurrying for the door.

With fumbling fingers, Ronnie untucked her shirt and slipped the Palm Pilot in the back waistband of her jeans. Then she crouched so her head wouldn’t be visible over the top of the stall.

She heard Maris open the door, heard the sounds of discovery, heard men rushing in, someone being pushed up against a wall.

“What are you big lugs doing?”

Not ten feet away, Ronnie listened, shaking, as the men explained in graphic terms just what they were doing, what they were looking for. She heard Maris being bashed up against the wall, heard her choking with pain. Ronnie covered her mouth to keep from crying out.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Maris again, weakly protesting. “I do have a Palm Pilot, but I left it behind the bar. It’s down on one of the shelves where we stash our things.”

“Show us.” More pushing and scuffling noises, and they were out the door, voices raised, calling someone for assistance.

Down the hall, a stern-faced man wearing a black leather jacket watched as Maris was hustled out of the bathroom and past him. He whistled for the man at the back door to follow them.

The second man hurried over. “I thought you told me to block the exit.”

“I’ll watch it. The cops’ll be here any second. Go help them search the bar.”

He watched as the second man hurried toward the bar, and a small smile softened his face. As soon as the second man was out of sight, he looked upwards as if listening and nodded. Then he vanished.

Out at the bar, a hard-faced man in a black leather jacket sneered as Maris was hauled out to the bar, oblivious to the dumbfounded looks from the patrons and staff. He began barking out orders. Where was the Palm Pilot? Search the bar!

Another man came running out to the bar from the staff area, then slowed, confusion on his face as he spied the leather-jacketed man.

“What are you doing away from the back exit?” The leather-jacketed man barked.

“Uh—I thought you—Someone else was watching it.”

Leather-jacket nodded and lowered his voice, glancing around at the chaos all around him. “See if you can get someone on the staff to point out those two girls—Sasha and her roommate. If you find them, bring them here. Quietly. We’ll need to find a way to get them out of here before the cops arrive.”

Ronnie crouched on the toilet seat. She had to move. Mouth dry, she clambered down and hurried for the door, feeling the awkward weight of the Palm Pilot against her back. She felt like throwing up. She couldn’t do this.

She listened at the door as Maris had done, and heard nothing. Shaking, she cracked open the door a trace. Nothing. She straightened and emerged from the bathroom as if puzzled about what had just gone on. There was no one in the hallway—and no one guarding the back door! She raced toward the dancers’ room. Had it only been five minutes since she left Tiffany?

She banged through the door. “Tiffany!”

Tiffany turned at her cry, jumping halfway out of her seat. She put a hand to her chest. “Where’ve you been?” She gestured into the room. “This officer was just taking our names and statements. I’m next.”