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Instead, I sent Hollis toward the main entrance as I rushed down a hallway in the opposite direction. My last words to the young detective were “Don’t do anything stupid. Just hang back and call me on the cell if you see him.” I knew advice like that was difficult for a young hotshot like Brett Hollis to follow. He was wearing the damaged proof on his face.
I loped down the empty hallway with my right arm loose at my side so I could reach my Glock if needed. I should’ve come to a complete stop and sliced the pie by looking around each corner, but there wasn’t time. Smart policies are all well and good, but no bad guys would ever get caught if we officers followed every policy to the letter, every time.
Sweat slipped down my forehead as my pulse picked up.
To my right was a marble staircase that headed down, away from the main floor. I took the steps two at a time. Just as I skidded onto the tiled floor of the lower level, a figure moved to my right.
I saw a flash of white shirt and dark tie.
> I let out a quick “Freeze!” as I reached for my pistol, and in the same instant, I recognized the uniform shirt of a security guard. The man flinched and scooted away from me.
I flashed my badge. “NYPD. Did anyone else come down here?”
He hesitated, then said, “I thought I heard footsteps, but it might have been yours coming down the stairs.”
A door down the hall was cracked open. I indicated it with a lift of my chin. “Where does that go?”
“Lower-level maintenance. Nothing there but conduits and heating units.”
I raced to the door without another word. The guard called after me, but I didn’t have time to waste words. I was hoping for action. I almost hoped he’d call for more security people. A group following me could be useful if the chase ended in a show of force.
I reached the open door and discovered that it led to a narrow, metal staircase descending into a dark, tunnel-like passageway filled with electrical boxes and abandoned computers stacked haphazardly against whitewashed cinder-block walls. Tracks of wires seemed to guide me in one direction. At the same time, something told me to slow down and make every move deliberate.
A light flickered a dozen feet down the hallway. I flipped my coat away from my right hip and slid my hand onto the butt of my duty weapon.
I pulled my phone from my pocket to check on Hollis. No service.
Could Bobby Fisher be down here, setting up for his next match?
Chapter 48
Fifteen minutes earlier, Daniel Ott had looked up from the public computer to see the same man he’d just read about on the internet standing by the door. He had done a double take, stolen several more peeks, then was certain. It was that detective, Michael Bennett.
For a moment, Ott calculated the odds of this being a coincidence. No: the police had to be here because of the dead librarian. But did Bennett know that the librarian and her friend were connected to his handiwork? It hurt his brain to think too much about it. He had to slip away. Fast.
Even if Ott hadn’t just been reading about the detective, he would have suspected something. Bennett and the other guy he was with just looked like police officers—fit, well-dressed, and alert. They had come into the room with an older black woman. Ott watched as the three of them stepped over to the information desk, and while they seemed distracted, he used his soft cloth to wipe the keyboard of prints, quickly gathered his things, and slipped out the door. Almost involuntarily, he’d picked up his pace to a near run.
Mistake. The detective had noticed him leaving.
At the bottom of the marble staircase, Ott fingered a screwdriver in his pocket. A screwdriver through the neck or in an eye would definitely slow down anyone chasing him.
He considered his next move, zeroing in on another stairwell that didn’t look public. No marble or frills. He raced for it.
Ott found himself in the lowest level of the library. The Ghostbusters may have prowled the subbasement stacks, but not the maintenance corridors. The stark layout here meant some part of him would be visible anywhere he crouched or lay down. There was no place he could hide.
Then he saw a junction box built into the wall. One of those big industrial suckers. It had to be four feet tall and two feet wide. It was a screw model with no handle.
He had an idea.
He snapped his head in every direction. His heart beat hard in his chest. His hands shook. He used his cheap tie with the Computelex logo to wipe sweat from his face.
The first screw at the top of the box was hard to reach. He was able to remove a couple more screws, but then they slipped from his hand and scattered on the rough concrete floor.
He wasn’t sure what he’d find when he opened the box’s door. Would it be a mess of wiring inside? Luckily for him, when he finally yanked the door open, he discovered there were no breakers or other more complex electrical connections. This was just a pass-through that redirected most of the wires up to the main floors of the library.
It would be tight, but he could fit inside it if he contorted his body just so. Ott hopped up, then pulled himself all the way into the box. He kept the screwdriver in his right hand. If someone opened the box while he was inside, he’d take a mighty swing at their eyes, leap into the passageway, then run.
With his left hand, he pulled the door shut behind him. He crouched uncomfortably inside the box, perspiration running down his back, ears straining to hear any noises outside.
