Free Unknown Means by Elizabeth Becka Page B

of traffic study or something, but otherwise, no. Sorry.” He opened the door of a large, white rectangle, nearly the size of a refrigerator. Behind it sat what seemed like a mile of wires, running in short loops from one small bar to another. She recognized the kind of green electronic panel found in computers, sticking out from between them. “This is the controller. To override the automatic system and make the elevator go to a certain floor, you’d have to jump out the circuits manually.”
    “Could someone get in at the lobby and come up here?”
    “It’s coded, like the floors. Only me, Gerard, and Frank have the code.”

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    “See?” Gerard said. “We’re going to wind up screwed, mark my words. You think one of these rich guys will go down for this? I’m calling my lawyer.”
    Virtually anyone could have attacked Marissa. Suspects in Grace Markham’s murder included Gerard, Jack, and Frank, who had means of entry—at least to the elevator shaft and controls—and opportunity but no apparent motive; William Markham, who had means and motive but no apparent opportunity; and some unknown person with apparent motive and opportunity but no means of entry.
    Even if he could get to the roof, he still wouldn’t have a way to get into Grace Markham’s penthouse without the code. Evelyn wondered if the young couple had made their elevator code an easy number, like their address or their wedding date, because it was beginning to look as if either the killer had guessed it or Grace Markham had invited him in.

    C H A P T E R
    7
    SHE FOUND RAFE JOHNSON IN HIS OFFICE, A FORMER
    supply closet outfitted with an overwhelming number of computers, monitors, TVs, VCRs, and one lone laptop, all connected to one another by yards of cable. It made her claustrophobic. “Hey, Rafe.”
    The video analyst didn’t turn. “Figured you’d be by.”
    “Got the tape from evidence lockup?”
    “You left a big, obnoxious note on my door, didn’t you?” For that of a very young, slight man, his voice struck notes like a string bass. He paused to tilt his head back and slide a long candy string into his mouth. “Despite a public education, I can read.”
    “Thanks.” She squeezed past a protruding Magnavox and perched carefully on a stool that had once had four legs. A vintage Chicago CD played softly in the corner. “You’re the best. What are you eating? I smell cherry.”
    “I ain’t touching that one with a ten-foot pole. It’s Twizzlers Pull-n-Peel, and no, you can’t have none. Now listen up.” The TV in front of him displayed the familiar grainy image of the La Riviere parking garage. “I’ve gone over the two hours before Marissa drives in. At least it’s not multiplexed, none of that jumping between fifteen cameras per second crap, so I still have some feeling left in my retinas.”

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    “You can feel your retinas? That don’t sound right, son.”
    “I’m glad you’re so funny this morning. Just a bucket o’ joy.
    Problem is, there’s no one. No one comes in, no one leaves. Don’t no one in this building ever go nowhere?”
    “It was late, on a weeknight. These are rich people.”
    “If I was rich, I’d go everywhere. Weeknight, weekend. The desk clerk ran out once to get himself some dinner. Nothing else.”
    “How do you know it’s the desk clerk?”
    “Because the second videotape covers the lobby. He leaves a little sign on the desk, walks out through the parking garage, don’t know why, maybe to save himself a couple of steps on the way to the deli. He comes back in fifteen minutes with a white bag, and then nothing happens for hours. Then Marissa walks right up to the camera. Look at this.” He tapped a button on the remote, advancing the tape frame by frame, twirling a dreadlock with his free hand.
    Evelyn felt herself tense, as if the attack were happening again right in front of her and she couldn’t do anything about it. Her