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Reba moved to the wall opposite the elevator doors and pulled the padding aside to reveal a second set of elevator doors. On a wall-mounted panel to the right of them, there was a nine-digit keypad. She studied it for a moment and then raised a tentative hand.
"You know the code?"
"Maybe. I'll tell you in a minute."
"Guess wrong and won't you set off the alarm?"
"Oh, come on. It's like a fairy tale – you get three tries before the thing goes berserk. If I blow it, we'll tell Willie we made a wee mistake."
"Just leave it for now. You're really pushing your luck."
She ignored me, of course. "I know it's not going to be his birth date – even Beck wouldn't be dumb enough to use that again. But it might be a variation. He's a narcissist. Everything he does relates to him."
"Reba…"
She flashed a look at me. "If you'd quit whining and help me out we can get on with it and be on our way. I can't pass this up. It may be the only chance we have."
I rolled my eyes, trying to control my panic, which was already accelerating. She wasn't going to budge until we figured it out or got caught. I said, "Shit. Try the same date backwards."
"Not bad. I like it. That'd be what?"
"9-4-9-1-9-1-4."
She thought about it briefly and then made a face. "Don't think so. Too tough for him to rattle the number off the top of his head. Let's try this…"
She punched in 1949-19-4.
No deal.
She punched in 19-4-1949.
I could feel my heart thud. "That's two."
"Would you get off it? I know it's two. I'm the one punching in numbers. Let's just think about it for a second. What's another possibility?"
"What about O
"Let's hope not. I know it's November 11, but I'm not sure what year. Anyway, Beck hasn't been boffing her long so he probably doesn't have a clue himself."
I said, "11-11 any year would be eight digits, not seven."
She pointed at me, apparently impressed with my ability to count.
"What's his wife's birthday?" I asked.
"3-17-1952. But he's blown that one so many times he's probably spooked by now. Besides, he prefers numbers with internal co
"I thought you said he used your birthday at one point."
"True. That'd be 5-15-1955."
"Hey, mine's 5-5-1950," I chirped, sounding like a lunatic.
"Great. We'll do a joint celebration when the dates roll around next year. So what should I try? His birth date backwards or mine straight ahead?"
"Well, his birth date backwards has an internal logic if you group the numbers. 949-191-4. Would he break it down that way?"
"Might."
"Just do one or the other before I have a heart attack."
She punched in 5-15- 1955. A moment of silence and then the doors slid open. "My birthday. Sweet. You think he still cares?"
I pushed the Stop Run button and watched her wipe her prints off the keypad, taking care not to trigger the alarm. "Wouldn't want anyone to know we were here," she said, happily.
Meanwhile, I was staring straight ahead. The room was probably six feet by eight – not much bigger than a closet. The cleaning cart we'd seen was shoved up against the left wall. A U-shaped counter took up much of the remaining floor space. I looked up. The room seemed to be well ventilated, the walls heavily padded. A smoke detector and a heat detector had been installed in the shadowy upper reaches of the ceiling, where I could see sprinkler heads as well. Rungs embedded in the wall formed a ladder that went straight up. Around the perimeter of the ceiling, I could see rectangles of daylight roughly corresponding to the vents in the fake gardener's cottage on the roof. Reba was right. In a pinch, you could probably gain entry to the room from the roof. Or escape that way.
There were three currency-counting machines on one arm of the counter and four currency-bundling machines on the adjacent counter. Open suitcases were lined up on the third section, packed with tightly wrapped bundles of hundred-dollar bills. Under the counter, ten cardboard cartons were lined up, their top flaps open, packed with additional bundles of hundreds, fifties, and twenties in U.S. currency. Each bundle was shrink-wrapped, with paper adding-machine tape circling packets of five. There were two styrofoam coffee cups visible and a pile of empty cups in a wastebasket, which also contained wads of discarded plastic wrappers. Several silver-dollar-size plastic disks with small blades were being used to slit the wrappers.
Reba said, "Geez. I've never seen so much money."
"Me neither. It looks like they're pulling bundles from these boxes, removing the wrappers, ru
She advanced a few steps and checked the total on one of the currency counters. "Take a peek at this puppy. They've run a million bucks through this." She picked up a bundle and weighed it in her hand. "Wonder how much this is. Wouldn't you love to know?" She sniffed it. "You'd think it would smell good, but it doesn't smell like anything."
"Would you keep your hands to yourself?"
"I'm just looking. I'm not doing anything. How much do you figure is in one of these, twenty grand? Fifty?"
"I have no idea. Don't mess with that. I'm serious."
"Aren't you curious what it feels like? It doesn't weigh all that much," she said. She wiped her prints from the wrapper and put the bundle back, surveying the space. "How many guys you think work here besides the two we saw?"
"There's not room for three. They probably come in weekends when the activity's less conspicuous," I said. I reached out and put my hand on one of the styrofoam cups and nearly moaned in fear. "This is still warm. Suppose they come back?"
"No one can get to us. The elevator's on hold."
"But if they find the elevator on hold, won't they know something's wrong? We have to get out of here. I'm begging you."
"Okay, okay. But I knew I was right about the room. This is incredible, isn't it?"
"Absolutely. Who gives a shit? Let's go."
I backed out of the room and into the service elevator. The other set of doors was still open and I stuck my head out into the corridor to assure myself that no one had entered the premises while we were in the room. Reba was having trouble dragging herself away. I said, "Reba, come on!" sounding every bit as tense and impatient as I felt.
She moved into the elevator as though mesmerized and entered the seven-digit code. The doors on that side of the elevator slid closed. She replaced the wall padding and adjusted the quilted matting to conceal the second set of doors.
"What took you so long?"
"It's all so beautiful. Can you imagine having even half the bundles in there? You'd never have to lift another finger as long as you lived."
"No problem. Your life wouldn't last that long."
We exited through the elevator doors that opened into Beck's offices and Reba released the Stop Run button. We waited until the service elevator doors closed, and then went around the corner and got back on the public elevator.
She released the hold button, the doors closed, and we began our leisurely descent. I was nearly sick with anxiety, but she didn't seem affected. The woman had nerves of steel.
When we reached the lobby level and stepped off, Willard looked up from his desk with a smile. "You find it?"
I held up my shoulder bag to show our mission had been accomplished. My hands were shaking so badly I thought he'd spot the trembling from across the lobby. I was doing what I could to maintain a semblance of normality until we could ease out the front door and be on our way.
Reba, true to form, made a point of crossing to his desk, where she stretched up on tiptoe and rested her arms on the counter, holding her injured finger close to his face. "You got a first-aid kit? Look at this. I about crippled myself."