Free Looking for Yesterday by Marcia Muller Page B

could climb, but when I looked up I didn’t see one. Nor was there a phone I could use to call for help—not that it would’ve done any good, seeing as the building was deserted.
    A small groaning noise.
    If the car fell, would it go all the way to the underground garage, crashing on the hard concrete? How far was that? How much of an impact? Enough to seriously injure or even kill me.
    My breath felt hot and constricted in my throat and chest. My lips and hands began tingling. Little pinpoints of light flashed in my eyes. I couldn’t hyperventilate now!
    Breathe slowly, shallowly. Don’t suck air in through your mouth. In, out. In, out.
    Finally the symptoms subsided, but the breathing exercise hadn’t calmed me at all. I cursed the elevator, then the building, and then Sly Lane. When I got to Ted, I stopped. My fault. I should’ve looked into his recommendation of new quarters for the agency more thoroughly. But I’d been busy with a personal case and…
    This isn’t getting you out of here.
    After a few minutes, I shifted my weight experimentally. There was a screech of metal on metal. The cage dropped about six inches, then stopped with a clunk. My hand slipped on the railing and I fell against the back wall. And then the lights went out.
    I reached for the railing and pulled myself up an inch at a time to prevent any sudden motion from dislodging the cage. Once on my feet I held my breath and stood still. A slight creak, that was all.
    Gingerly I took out my cell phone and speed-dialed Ted. Only his machine answered. I yelled into it in case he was screening his calls, but he wasn’t. His cell didn’t answer, either. Who else could help me?
    The management company, of course. But I didn’t have its number in this phone’s address book, and its office wouldn’t be open this late on a Friday night anyway.
    Well, there was always 911.
    Yeah, sure. Given emergency services’ dismally long response time and the fact that they’d consider this a low-priority emergency, I’d probably be trapped here all night. Or worse, my continued weight would cause what must be frayed cables to break, the cage to fall. And if the media caught wind of my predicament… I could picture the humorous squib in the Chron : “Private Eye Can’t Find Way Out of Own Elevator.”
    Call Hank.
    Of course. Hank Zahn, my best friend from college, the agency’s and my personal attorney. In all those years he’d never let me down, nor I him.
    His line had buzzed once when the cage gave another lurch, throwing me to the floor. The phone, jarred loose, banged against one of the walls. I covered my head with my hands.
    “Hello,” Hank’s voice said dimly.
    I reached for the phone; it was too far away, and I didn’t want to make a move that would send the elevator plunging to garage level.
    “Hank,” I yelled.
    Silence.
    “Help! Elevator on Sly Lane.”
    The cage jolted again, and I braced for the crash, but it stayed in place.
    Had Hank heard me? Or had the cell connection been dropped? How long would that damnable thing hang there?
    Sabotage, there was no doubt in my mind: the sound that had startled me earlier as I sat at my computer; the person I’d sensed watching me in Caro’s neighborhood.
    Why? My case was no threat to anyone—
    A minor settling, and the cage tilted slightly to the right.
    To avoid another attack of hyperventilation, I took small, short breaths, but the air in the cage had gotten stuffy, and my head felt light. Where was Hank? The call must’ve been dropped.
    Another lurch, more screeching. I curled myself into a ball, arms protecting my head.
    And felt the cage plummet down…
    11:59 p.m.
    “How many fingers am I holding up?”
    “Two.” I’d been down this route before.
    “What day is it?”
    “Friday, maybe Saturday by now.”
    “Your name?”
    I tried to sit up. “I know my own name, dammit!”
    Gentle but forceful hands pressed me back. “Your name, ma’am?”
    “Sharon McCone, okay?