17
Jack closed the door to Cordova's office behind him.
The duct tape was back on the alarm plunger, the pick gun and the HYRTBU disk were in his pockets, the brand-new hot plate was under his arm, his flashlight was in his latex-gloved hand and lighting his way through the dark reception room.
So far so good. No one had seen him come in, no one else on the second floor.
The idea of searching for the backup disk in the receptionist's desk vanished almost before it arrived. Right, like Fat Richie would leave his precious blackmail photos where someone could dip into them.
No, if it was anywhere, it was in the boss's lair.
Jack laid the brand-new hot plate on Cordova's desk. What a job finding one. He'd figured someplace like Macy's would carry them in their kitchen section, but no. Not a one. He'd finally found a selection at a chefs supply shop. Of the two single-coil models, he'd noticed that one was made by Acme. Remembering a certain coyote's bad luck with that brand, he'd bought the other.
Jack squatted in the kneehole of the desk and slipped Russ's HYRTBU disk into the floppy drive. He turned on the computer and crossed mental fingers. If Cordova hadn't had antivirus software before, he surely had it now. But Russ had promised that his disk would slip past any protective program and reinsert HYRTBU. He'd better be right.
As the box beeped and the hard drive rattled to life, Jack went through the desk first, being careful to replace everything in the exact position he'd found it. Cordova might be a fat slob, but that didn't carry over to his home or office.
No luck.
He moved to the file cabinets. A lot of stuff in these. He knew from his last trip here that going through them would take a while—a long while. He hated the thought of pawing through every one of those folders again, so he decided to leave the cabinets till last.
He searched the furniture as he'd done last night—under the cushions, the undersides of the seats and drawers, between the desk and the wall. Nada.
And then a d'oh! moment.
The computer—what if Cordova had left the backup disk in the CD drive?
Jack quickly hit the eject button. The tray popped out, looking like a coffee-cup holder—an empty one.
That left the file cabinets. What made the prospect of rummaging through them again so daunting was the possibility that Cordova had taken the disk home w?ith him. But why would he? In fact there were good reasons not to take it to Williamsbridge—like losing it along the way, for instance.
But he'd never thought of Cordova as smart. Crafty and devious, yes. But no brainiac.
He was about to pull open the top drawer on the first cabinet when he heard a noise at the outer door—a key rattling in a lock.
Cleaning service? Receptionist? Cordova? Shit!
Jack turned off his penlight and squeezed back against the filing cabinets as the lights in the reception area came on. He pulled his Glock from its holster at the small of his back—he knew Cordova had a carry permit—as he listened to the beeps of someone punching a code into the alarm keypad. Then with a gut-spiking jolt he noticed the hot plate sitting on the desk. He did a quick tiptoe out from hiding, grabbed the plate, and ducked back out of sight just as the office overheads came on.
Back pressed against the wall, he waited. He couldn't see who it was but from the wheezy breathing figured it must be the Fat Man himself.
What the hell was he doing here? He was supposed to be back in Williamsbridge, either drinking in Hurley's or at home, just like every other night.
Jack hadn't turned on the computer monitor, but Cordova might notice the glowing power light or hear the hard drive. He held his breath, waiting. When he heard a grunt on the far side of the room, he chanced a peek.
Cordova's arm was in mid-reach behind the radiator. He pulled out the padded envelope Jack had seen last time, checked inside, and smiled.
The disk—he must have put it with the money. Good thing Jack hadn't found it, otherwise Cordova would go on a rampage and find Jack in the process.
Ten seconds later the lights were out and the outer door was closing.
Jack remained where he was for a few heartbeats, wondering what to do. He needed that disk, had to get it away from Cordova before he returned it to his safety deposit box, otherwise three days of work would go up in smoke, and Sister Maggie would still be on the hook.
Jack retrieved the HYRTBU disk, turned off the computer, and moved toward the door.
Time to improvise.
Jack hated to improvise.