should have allowed for Murphy’s law, chaos theory, whatever they’re calling it these days. She should have realized the security guard might give her a hard time. She should have considered the possibility that other people might share a ride in the elevator.
She had been certain the thirty-sixth floor would be deserted by the time she arrived, but these two women are on their way to that same landing.
In this situation, three is definitely a crowd.
Gathering up the pearls at her throat, Gina cuts a glance to the woman across the car. The tall and slender stranger holds herself like a model or a dancer. Miss Tilson, the guard called her, and Gina recognized the name from an office on the thirty-sixth floor. What else had she said? She’d come to pick up a file?
Must be a terribly important client.
The brunette, who has closed her eyes and is leaning against the wall, doesn’t notice Gina’s scrutiny. She’s wearing jeans, but they’re adorned with a designer logo and the blouse beneath the raincoat has the soft sheen of silk. Her nails are short and neatly trimmed, her glasses tortoiseshell, her hair a chic brown cap. Even in denim and sneakers, the woman radiates success. She’s the type to notice things…so she’s one to avoid.
When the maid coughs, the brunette lifts her head and Gina hastily looks away. She’d give anything to be invisible at this moment, but she’ll settle for remaining anonymous.
She leans against the wall and peers over her shoulder at the thick Hispanic woman in the pink uniform. The maid is studying the floor—maybe she resents the water dripping off the brunette’s raincoat. Gina lifts a brow at the sight of the earbuds—what’s she listening to, mariachi music? In any case, she must be doing well. The managers of the Lark Tower take good care of their employees, even the foreigners.
She shifts her gaze as she thinks of the Hispanic families Sonny has insured over the years. Many of the Cubans in Tampa’s Ybor City are quite prosperous; she’s lost count of the quinceañeras she and Sonny have attended to celebrate the fifteenth birthdays of clients’ daughters. Those people spare no expense to honor their blossoming young women; they spend buckets of money on food, bands and party dresses.
If only they spent as much insuring their belongings and their loved ones. How many will be adequately covered if Felix rips their homes apart?
Gina folds her arms. Ordinarily she wouldn’t be aware of the other passengers in an elevator, but today she needs to notice everything. If the police ever launch an investigation into Sonny’s death, they’ll try to track down anyone who was in the building today.
The maid is not likely to be a threat. Many of Tampa’s Hispanics are transient; this woman may not even be around by the time Sonny’s case is investigated.
No need to worry about the maid, then. The brunette is a different story. With her, Gina should be polite, but detached. She should stay calm and try not to do anything that might stick in the woman’s memory.
She slides her right hand back into her pocket and curls her fingers around the pistol. She will warm it with her flesh, prepare it for the task ahead.
She must be patient and courageous. In less than five minutes she’ll be facing her husband; in less than ten minutes he’ll be dead.
She frowns at a sudden thought. How thick are the walls in this building? If either of these women hears the shot, will they assume they are hearing some noise associated with the approaching storm or will they run for help? Gina has never heard a live gunshot, but she’s read that distant gunfire often sounds like firecrackers. Surely no one would think it remarkable to hear a vague pop or two amid the howling of the wind.
She tilts her head and looks at the two women—neither of them look like the hero type, but maybe she ought to sit and chat Sonny up while these ladies do whatever they’ve come up here to do. Fifteen minutes of polite talk about the kids ought to be enough time…. Or maybe she should let Sonny know she found his secrets in the safe. After he’s had a chance to rattle off his excuses and protestations, she can give him the bullet he deserves.
A wry smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. Letting Sonny have a last word…why, that’d be more than fair. That’d be absolutely honorable.
After the deed is done, she might linger in Sonny’s office, giving the hurricane time to move closer. The police are already so strained it’s unlikely anyone will be dispatched if a shot is reported, but she shouldn’t take any chances.
While she waits, she’ll wipe her prints off the pistol and drop it on the floor. No one will think it strange that a successful downtown businessman was carrying his legal, registered weapon on a day like this. The scenario will make perfect sense—looters caught her workaholic husband in his office after the building had been evacuated. Sonny pulled out his gun; a trespasser wrested it away from him; Sonny caught a bullet. The murderer wiped the weapon clean and dropped it before leaving the office suite.
What could be more logical?
So she will proceed with her plan…even if it means spending an extra hour with a dead husband. Sonny’s been dead to her these last few months, anyway. When he does come home, he spends his time in his den, watching TV and reading the paper….
She can’t remember the last time he looked into her eyes and asked her opinion about anything.
Like that mother who drowned her children and then lined them up on the bed, Gina might pull Sonny into his executive chair, adjust his tie and roll him closer to the vulnerable windows. The windows might break in the storm, and water would do its part to eradicate any trace evidence she might leave—
She blinks as the overhead lights flicker and the elevator shudders to a stop. She looks at the panel—the thirty-six has gone dark. The seven is still lit, but they’ve been traveling far too long to be near the seventh floor. Because the twenty-five has not yet lit, she can only assume they have stopped somewhere between the seventh and twenty-fifth floors.
The brunette looks up and catches her eye. “This can’t be good.”
Gina doesn’t answer. As long as the lights remain on, they have power. As long as they have power, surely the elevator can move.
Without speaking, she steps in front of the brunette and presses the button for the thirty-sixth floor. The button won’t light and the car doesn’t budge.
“Let’s try this.” The brunette pulls her access card from the pocket of her jeans and slips it into the slot, then presses the thirty-six with a manicured fingertip. As some unseen power source hums, the car begins to rise.
Gina exhales the breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding. The brunette leans against the far wall and grimaces. “That’d be just what we need, wouldn’t it?”
Gina watches the elevator panel. They’re still rising in the concrete shaft, but the twenty-five has not yet lit.
Behind her, the cleaning woman barks another cough. Gina grimaces and hopes the maid doesn’t have avian flu or some other awful disease. Ventilation is terrible in elevators; what one person exhales, another inhales.
She stares at the twenty-five on the elevator panel, willing the button to light.
The brunette lifts her head, doubtless about to utter some other scintillating bon mot, then the lights flicker again; the elevator stops and darkness swallows the car.
