The Lock Box, page 4
Just as she was about to bail on the buzzer, she heard a heavy latch release. The right-hand door swung open, revealing a trim man in a finely tailored charcoal suit. To her surprise, he wasn’t wearing a mask. Gray flecks dotting his otherwise jet-black hair, prominent cheekbones, and square jaw all screamed serious businessman, while the absence of a tie and his open shirt collar seemed his only nods to the office being closed.
“Ms. Locke,” he said. “You work quickly.”
“I try, Mr. Sakamoto,” she said, trying to determine whether his deep voice was the same as this morning’s call. “I felt bad, you having to be here at the office all by yourself.”
After a humble shrug, he flashed her a slick, toothy smile that seemed to require a maximum amount of effort. “I prefer the peace and quiet. Please, come in.”
As he motioned inward with one hand, the lawyer took a pronounced step back, creating a buffer of space. Locke smiled at the quarantine courtesy, but her grip on the crowbar tightened.
She’d been hired countless times over the phone. The client—or their lawyer—would call out of the blue, often late at night. No time to meet over coffee, to have a consultation. It was box first, questions later. So she’d learned to do her due diligence. Like this morning, she checked websites, she verified deposits.
And one other thing.
Locke’s all-time favorite TV show was Mad Men, the drama about 1960s advertising execs. It had debuted right as she was leaving the army—part of her reentry to real life. One episode contained the best line of the entire series: a boss screaming at an employee, “That’s what the money’s for!”
So whenever a client hired her sight unseen, Locke instructed them to say that line when they met, like a code. This morning she’d told Sakamoto the same thing: “When I say, ‘It’s a shame you’re here all by yourself,’ you say, ‘That’s what the money’s for.’”
Slick wasn’t the one from the call.
CHAPTER
4
WITH SLICK HOLDING the door open on her right, Locke expected one of the gunmen would be hiding just inside on her left, weapon trained at the doorframe.
Tensing her right shoulder, she led with her left foot as she approached, preparing to duck and throw all her weight into an upward swing of the crowbar. Best case, she figured the steel rod would catch the guy’s forearm and shatter it. If it merely nailed him in the balls, that’d work too.
When she crossed the threshold, though, Locke found nothing to her left but empty air. Trying not to show surprise, she sidestepped in that direction. That gave her more space and kept the wall behind her—one direction she didn’t have to watch for an ambush.
As she shifted her gaze back to Slick, Locke got a quick glimpse of the law firm’s reception area. Typical stuff: desk on one side, seating area on the other. The far wall was glass, with conference rooms behind it staring out on the city skyline. A hallway stretched to her left, and she guessed another would extend in the opposite direction, back behind Slick and the door he was holding open. Whenever Locke visited offices like this, they struck her as human hamster cages, circular tracks surrounding the elevators in the middle.
Those offices had been bustling and alive, though. This one stood darkened and dead. The whole place smelled warm and stale, same as the air that blew out the side of Locke’s ten-year-old laptop if she left it running overnight.
Without warning, Slick shoved the heavy wooden door shut.
It relatched with a solid-sounding thunk that echoed around the room. Slick’s eyes, which had dropped to the floor, now crept up over Locke like a spider. An electric prickle spread across her skin. Although she had him beat by six inches and twenty years—even though she was the one holding the crowbar—this guy caused a twinge of panic in her stomach.
When he raised an outstretched hand, she almost flinched.
“Shall we?” Slick gestured toward the conference rooms.
Locke decided she wasn’t going anywhere with him. But strolling back out the front door obviously wasn’t an option. Seeing she was correct about the hallway behind him gave her an idea.
“I hate to ask,” she said, letting her voice slip upward an octave, “but could I use your ladies’ room first?”
He cocked his head.
“Long drive, you know? And too many Monsters.” Locke batted her eyes twice. She had no idea if the mystery man knew his energy drinks, but if she could have blushed on command, she would have.
“Of course.” With a nod, he spun on his heel.
Locke followed at a distance as he moved down the hallway. After several steps, she spotted a pair of doors ahead on their right. In her mind, she could picture the restrooms running behind the elevator shafts. Most times, these skyscrapers were built that way, the plumbing stacked inside the core with the utilities.
When they reached the restrooms, Slick turned back to face her. She pushed her way into the ladies’ room, saying, “I’ll be quick.”
Once the door shut completely, Locke sucked in a breath and hurried inside. Her heart leaped when she saw what she was looking for.
To avoid forcing workers to circle the entire office just to tinkle, the bathroom had been built with a second entrance that faced the opposite side of the building. Locke made for that, pulling a metal stall door closed along the way in case Slick was eavesdropping.
When she reached the rear exit, she inched it open, half expecting the creepy little man to be standing there somehow. But all she found were empty cubes.
Locke tiptoed out, cushioning the bathroom door as it closed. The back entrance to the elevator bay loomed just yards away. She crossed to it quickly.
As she reached for the door handle, though, its lock released with a loud clack.
Locke winced.
A glance up revealed a motion detector on the ceiling that had unlocked the door automatically. Thankfully, when she opened the door, the elevator bay stood as dark and deserted as when she’d arrived.
Dashing to the down button, she mashed it several times with her fist. Although she kept her eyes on the office’s main entrance and raised the crowbar just in case, an elevator chimed open almost immediately.
Locke backed into the car and pressed the LOBBY button. Seconds later, the doors slid shut and the car plunged downward.
Despite releasing the breath she’d been holding, she warned herself against relaxing. Slick wouldn’t wait forever. After a minute or two, the fake lawyer would barge into the bathroom, see she’d split, and come scrambling after her.
He might even radio reinforcements—gunmen might be waiting downstairs.
She watched the floor numbers until the counter reached 3. After securing the bag on one shoulder, she raised the crowbar in both hands like a Louisville Slugger. When the doors finally chimed open, Locke charged from the elevator and rounded the corner into the lobby.
A quick glance showed she still was alone.
Eager to keep it that way, she kept running, pumping her arms to accelerate toward the opposite end. The garage elevator seemed to take forever, even as she banged on the button. Once it came, though, it delivered her downstairs in a matter of moments.
Locke scanned the garage as she crossed to the van. Although she didn’t see anyone coming, she climbed in quickly. A check of the back revealed nothing but her toolboxes and damp coveralls.
Tossing the bag down next to her, she keyed the engine. Its roar gave her a jolt of energy and relieved some of the tightness across her chest. She peeled back out of the spot, tires squealing against the concrete. Ahead, she saw the exit gate was still raised.
She dropped it into drive and gunned the gas.
The van burst from the garage, bouncing violently as she took the ramp at speed. Thankful for the lack of traffic, Locke used the entire width of Hope Street to pull her turn. The van leaned precariously to one side, but she accelerated through it. Once the van wobbled itself straight, she really started driving.
Downtown LA was a maze of opposing one-ways, but she zigzagged through them, tires chirping at each sudden turn. Her eyes spent as much time in her mirrors as on the road ahead. She searched for the white plumbing truck from the mansion. For the Volvo SUV she’d seen in the garage.
She watched for any other vehicle that might be tailing her.
Anything at all.
But she saw nothing. She was alone.
* * *
After ten minutes suspiciously circling, Locke decided she could cut to the freeway. She grabbed the 110 at 3rd Street and cruised north to the 5.
That stretch usually felt cramped, claustrophobic. Near Dodger Stadium, walls funneled inward until the lanes felt narrower than the van’s wheelbase. And Locke had never liked the Figueroa Street tunnels—the concrete caverns were historic and all, but if she was forced to drive through holes dug in a mountain, she’d prefer construction from this century, thank you very much. Stuck in traffic, the two-mile drive could take an hour, leaving lots of time to consider all the things that could cause a cave-in.
With the roads empty, though, she sailed through all of it. She kept a wary eye on her mirrors, but cruising at seventy, she saw nothing suspicious.
If she was being followed, it was by CIA-level pros.
Still, there were more precautions to take. Following the 5 up through Burbank was the straightest path home, but Locke turned onto the Glendale Freeway and connected up to the 210. She preferred the long, steady climb through the foothills—not only was it a reliable traffic beater in more crowded times, but she found the exposed rock and scrub-covered mountains out east far more attractive than the strip malls and movie lots you passed farther west.
Even better, the lack of traffic had cleared the air. Normally, you glanced out and the second or third row of hills was shrouded in grayish haze that made you wonder if you were overdue for the optometrist. Today, Locke felt like she’d just washed the windows: a cornflower sky stretched to the horizon, every detail below it crisp and clear. On the hilltops, chaparral yucca had bloomed, their creamy white flowers looking like rows of candle flames in the distance.
The forty-mile detour took just thirty minutes, and soon Locke was pulling off the freeway into Sylmar.
Despite stopping in the little town whenever she went to work, she knew virtually nothing about it. Freeway signs proclaimed that a National Guard airport and a Metrolink station existed somewhere in Sylmar, but she hadn’t visited either one. Her only landmark, a tiny strip mall containing a Dollar Tree and a smoke shop, stood adjacent to the off-ramp.
Tucked behind that, with an uninterrupted view of the mountains, was a self-storage lot. After the shootout at Big Bo’s, Locke had checked every storage place north of the 101 and found only three with the kind of extra-large units she wanted. When one finally freed up here after a six-month wait, she’d pounced on it like one of the feral cats she’d since seen skulking in the bushes at the lot’s eastern edge.
Locke pulled the van to a stop along that line of scrub and left it running. Throwing the bag over her shoulder, she crossed to her unit, the last one in the row. The lock showed no sign of tampering when she keyed it open. And while the rolling door seemed to rumble louder than usual, everything inside looked exactly as she’d left it this morning.
Particularly the Prius.
The silver-and-black hybrid couldn’t have been more different from the van: quiet, clean, polished. The kind of car a suburban soccer mom might drive. And, just as Locke had allowed the van’s paint to rust, she’d adorned the Prius with purposeful little touches. Decals in the rear window showed a stick-figure family of four with a dog and cat. The license plate frame proclaimed love for a German shepherd. One of those Coexist stickers, each letter formed by a different religious symbol, was mounted on the back right bumper.
All of it bullshit, but that was the point.
With the car parked against the right-hand wall of the storage unit, Locke could open the driver’s side door enough to toss the bag in and slip through sideways. She backed the car out and away from the entrance, then returned to the van.
Squeezing that into the unit was a much tighter fit, but years of practice had taught her exactly how much room she could spare. Once she’d parked, she stepped into the van’s rear compartment and stripped off her boots, socks, and coveralls. After draping everything to dry, Locke donned a pair of rainbow flip-flops and popped out the back. The unit’s rolling door cleared the van’s bumper by five inches, and the lock gave a satisfying click when she closed it.
The Prius’s clock read 2:25 as she steered back out to the freeway. Once she’d navigated the ramp, Locke inhaled deeply through her nose. Inside the quiet hybrid, the sound of her breathing was even more pronounced. She held the air down deep in her lungs a moment, then let it slip past her lips in a near whistle. Although the Jaws mask reflected the hot air back against her cheeks, she felt her shoulder muscles loosen.
She peeled off the mask, then rolled her neck, listening to the crinkles and cracks. Climbing into the car always prompted a physical reaction—like slipping into her comfiest PJs, pointing the Prius toward Val Verde made her feel like she’d left work behind. That whatever dirty, heavy, difficult job she’d faced down was finally complete.
After today’s craziness, though, her grip on the wheel felt like cradling a crowbar in her hand; she found safety and security in the firmness of it. Slick had looked for her, had found her. Monna Locke, safecracker. But he’d have a hard time connecting that name to anything else in her life. The deed to the house still listed the Mule as the owner. The storage unit, this hybrid—everything besides the van, her phone, and her business license—had been purchased or rented under her real last name, Maguire.
My legal last name, she corrected herself.
Maguire wasn’t any more real because it had come from her dead mother. Or because it was the last remaining trace of her. If anything, Locke was the reality—she’d created that name, building it from scratch along with her business and her reputation.
Monna Maguire didn’t sound as sexy as Monna Locke. It certainly didn’t make anyone think of vaults or safes. But paranoia, she’d learned, had its place. Safecracking was a job about secrets, and the incidents with Big Bo and others had taught Locke to keep some of her own.
Her eyes drifted to the bag resting in the passenger’s seat.
Whatever secret that little wooden cube was hiding sure had caused a ton of trouble. Enough that she’d need to figure out a way to deal with it. Destroy it, toss it, lock it away—something.
She’d look inside the box tonight, discretion be damned.
While she hated to wait that long, when she first got home she’d need to check on Constance, make sure Evan got dinner. Once they finally dozed off, she’d get a moment to herself. That’s when she could peek inside the little box and decide what to do.
Locke’s eyes returned to the road. She’d reached the 5 again, and as she merged, she checked her mirrors.
Nothing to see but six lanes of concrete.
CHAPTER
5
RATHER THAN TAKING the 126 as usual, Locke remained on 5 up to Hasley Canyon Road before exiting and turning west. She followed surface streets as they narrowed from three lanes to two, then one. The asphalt’s condition worsened, the double yellow faded. For long stretches, civilization’s only markers were telephone poles and ranch fencing, zigging and zagging with the road as it wound between ridges. Unlike the scrub-covered mountains she’d seen earlier, these hills glowed bright green, grown over with thick grasses. And there were no palm trees, only mature wild oaks and hearty cottonwoods casting shadows down from their branches.
This was Locke’s California.
As beautiful as the beach could be, glittering sand and sparkling waves had never felt quite right. Locke was an inland girl, raised here in the valley where people preferred steak to sushi and sipped Budweiser instead of trendy microbrews. Out where “good rides” meant horses, not surfboards.
A final turn took Locke up a narrow street wedged between two steep hills. This portion of the drive always caused her heart to catch in her throat, and today was no exception. The first time the Mule had brought her here, she hadn’t known quite what to expect. Since then, the little lane had become far more of a home than her childhood trailer had ever been.
No houses were visible from the street, only gravel driveways that spilled downhill through the tall grass. The only clues about who lived at the far end of each stony path came from their mailboxes. Years ago, long before Locke had ever visited, Carlos Crocker on the corner had built himself a fancy red-and-white mailbox shaped like a barn. Not to be outdone, Jaye McCracken across the street put wheels and windows on her polished silver box, making it look like a horse trailer. Soon, everyone had something special. The Carrizosas had a doghouse. Richie Narvaez, a fishing boat. The newest neighbor, Constance Rojas next door, had a black-and-white cow wearing a pink frilly tutu.
The Mule’s mailbox, fittingly, was a rusty toolbox. Not a mailbox made to look like a rusty toolbox, mind you, but an actual rusty toolbox he’d carried down the driveway one day and nailed to a post.
In all the time she’d been back, Locke hadn’t had the heart to change it.
The man she called “the Mule” was Karl Muehlenberg. Not that she’d come up with that nickname—growing up, every kid at Val Verde High School knew the Mule, whether they found themselves in his metal shop class or not. White hair shaved into a permanent high-and-tight, pencil wedged behind his ear, arms folded across his barrel chest, he roamed the halls each morning, barking at students like one of Locke’s basic training instructors would later on. His raspy baritone was so loud, so distinctive, it bent around corners and echoed down halls. Everyone heard the Mule coming.
