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CHAPTER FOUR
“Let’s get those snack machines raided,” she muttered, grabbing up her ditty bag of goodies and heading for the door. Quinlan had been standing there, staring at her for what seemed like several minutes but had probably been less than thirty seconds. There was a hooded, predatory expression in his gleaming blue eyes, and she just couldn’t stand there, like a tethered goat, for another second.
He sauntered out in her wake, and she relocked the office door, then looked up and down the dim hallway. “Just where are these snack machines?” she finally asked. “I’m not a junk food junkie, so I’ve never used them.”
“There’s a soft drink machine at this end of the hallway,” he said, pointing, “but there are snack machines in the insurance offices. They have a break room for their employees, but they let us use them.” He set off down the long hallway, away from the bank of elevators, and Elizabeth trailed after him.
“How are we going to get in?” she asked caustically. “Shoot the lock off?”
“If I have to,” he replied, lazy good humor in his voice. “But I don’t think it will come to that.”
She hoped not. From what she could tell, insurance companies te
nded to be rather humorless about such things. She could well imagine receiving a bill for damages, which she could certainly do without.
Quinlan knelt in front of the insurance company’s locked door and unzipped the leather bag, taking from it a small case resembling the one in which she kept her makeup brushes. He flipped it open, though, and the resemblance ended. Instead of plush brushes, there was an assortment of oddly shaped metal tools. He took two of them out, inserted the long, thin, bent one into the keyhole, then slid the other instrument in beside it and jiggled it with small, delicate movements.
Elizabeth sidled closer, bending down to get a better look. “Can you teach me how to do that?” she asked in an absent tone, fascinated with the process.
The corners of his mouth twitched as he continued to gingerly work at the lock. “Why? Have you just discovered a larcenous streak?”
“Do you have one?” she shot back. “It just seems like a handy skill to have, since you never know when you’ll accidentally lock yourself out.”
“And you’re going to start carrying a set of locksmith’s tools in your purse?”
“Why not?” She nudged the black leather bag with her toe. “Evidently you carry one in yours.”
“That isn’t a purse. Ah,” he said with satisfaction, as he felt the lock open. He withdrew the slender tools, stored them in their proper places in the case and replaced the case in the bag. Then he calmly opened the door.
“Explain the difference between my purse and yours,” she said as she entered the dim, silent insurance office.
“It isn’t a purse. The difference is the things that are in them.”
“I see. So if I emptied the contents of my purse into your leather bag, it would then become a purse?”
“I give up,” he said mildly. “Okay, it’s a purse. Only men don’t call them purses. We call them satchels or just plain leather bags.”
“A rose by any other name,” she murmured with gentle triumph.
He chuckled. “That’s one of the things I like best about you. You’re such a gracious winner. You never hesitate at all to gloat.”
“Some people just ask for it more than others.” She looked around, seeing nothing but empty desks and blank computer screens. “Where’s the break room?”
“This way.” He led her down a dark interior hallway and opened the last door on the right.
The room had two windows, so it wasn’t dark. A variety of vending machines lined one wall, offering soft drinks, coffee, juice and snacks. A microwave oven sat on a counter, and a silent refrigerator stood at another wall. There was a vinyl sofa with splits in the cushions that allowed the stuffing to show, and a number of folding chairs shoved haphazardly around two cafeteria tables.
“Check the refrigerator while I open the machines,” Quinlan said. “See if there’s any ice. We don’t need it now, but it would be nice to know that it’s there just in case. Do it as fast as you can, to keep the cold air in.”
“I do know about refrigerators and power failures,” she said pointedly. Swiftly she opened the freezer compartment, and vapor poured out as cold air met warm. There were six ice trays there, all of them full. She shut the door just as fast as she had opened it. “We have ice.”
“Good.” He had the snack machine open and was removing packs of crackers.
Elizabeth opened the main refrigerator door but was disappointed with the contents. A brown paper bag sat in lone splendor, with several translucent greasy spots decorating it. She had no interest in investigating its contents. There was an apple, though, and she took it. The shelves in the door were lined with various condiments, nothing that tempted her. The thought of putting ketchup on the honey bun was revolting.
“Just an apple here,” she said.
He finished loading his booty into the leather bag. “Okay, we have cakes, crackers and candy bars, plus the stuff you got from Chickie’s desk. My best guess is we’ll get out of here sometime tomorrow morning, so this should be more than enough. Do you want a soft drink, or juice? There’s water downstairs, so we don’t need to raid the drink machines. It’s strictly a matter of preference.”
