He rattles one, feeling for the weight. “Sure.” He lifts the top one and sets it aside. “Good?”
I try not to feel sorry for him. He’s paid to work, not pout. “Sorry. The vent I need is at the bottom.”
Wordlessly, he continues to disassemble the mountain of crates.
“There it is,” I say as he’s reaching for the lowest crate. “You don’t have to move that one at least.”
I step in and reach for the vent. All seems to be working fine, the air tickling invisibly through my fingertips as it should. Then I notice a vertical crack in the wall beside it, which makes me curious. I don’t know if they’ve built expansion joints in this area, and I’m not about to knock down a wall on a hunch, but it’s odd to see a crack like this in the middle of a wall. I slide my finger down the line, then I spy another one farther along, hiding behind a different crate. Gary sees the apology in my expression, and he moves that crate as well.
Another crack appears. I squeeze my arm between the wall and a crate and follow the line upward this time, to where it abruptly ends. And where it abruptly starts again, only horizontally.
“Gary?”
He moves another crate, exposing a door. It’s painted the same colour as the wall, as is the latch.
“Why is this covered up?” No answer from either one. “Paul, you’re down here a lot. You ever seen this before?”
Apparently neither man has any idea.
Paul shrugs. “Could be the old smugglers’ tunnel. Prohibition and all that.”
Gary leans in and jiggles the latch. “It’s nothing. Just another storage room. Locked, anyway.”
“You don’t have a key?”
Both of them shake their heads.
I don’t recall this door in the blueprints, so I unroll them again and skim my finger across, locating the spot on the wall. There is no record of any doorway there.
“Did you get what you need?” Gary asks, impatience creeping into his tone. “I mean, other than opening this door, which we can’t do.”
“For now. Thank you for your help.”
I take a photo of the door as well as the crates set beside it, then I take one from farther back so I can see exactly where it’s positioned in the room. Gary piles the crates back where they were, and I take a closer photo of the Montey Series Industries stamp. I see no other information, like where they’d come from, what they contain, or where they are headed. Opening crates is beyond my remit, but this secret door is a mystery I need to solve.
chapterNINE
Done for now at the Dominion, I step out of the hotel and glance at my phone. I’m astonished by how fast the time has flown, and I pick up my step. I was supposed to be at the Nickel project an hour ago. Claudia has made it clear that even though I won the contract, that project is hers, but since she’s out of town, I’m responsible. See how that works?
The Nickel project is called “the Sixes.” It’s a ridiculously high hotel/condo building in its final stages of construction. The top storey is number 66, but there are another six floors underground. Calling it “666” doesn’t seem like a good idea to me, especially if a person is superstitious. But maybe that’s part of the appeal. That said, you’d be hard-pressed to find the thirteenth floor marked on any condo or apartment building in the city.
I get that we need more housing, but honestly, these condos are not the answer. They’re incredibly expensive, which means they don’t even make a dent in the homelessness crisis. There is no need for more foreign-owned “luxury” condos with alarmingly small square footage, most of which sit empty. But developers run this city, and they are constantly trying to outdo each other. We have fifty-four storeys at Yonge and Davisville, fifty-five on Harbour Street, Trump Tower on Bay Street is fifty-seven, then we jump tosixty-five storeys at the Shangri-La, and finally seventy-eight at the “Aura” at Yonge and Gerrard. Every day I wait to hear that someone has hit the one hundred mark. Heights don’t bother me, but I’ll be honest. I don’t want that contract when it comes. I’m only working on the thirty-seventh floor today, and I wish I didn’t have to.
The Sixes’ elevators are fast and eerily quiet. My ears pop while I watch a little monitor over the door constantly streaming news, weather, and traffic. I can’t help but think about the Dominion’s sophisticated elevators, with their polished, etched brass doors, the carved wood around the cab, and the classy metal grates around the top that let me see the lights of the floors as I fly by them. This elevator has mirrored walls on two sides, where people will soon primp before disembarking. In the Dominion elevators, there is one tastefully framed, spotless mirror. On my way up to the thirty-seventh floor of the Sixes, I contemplate the ceiling of nothing in particular and recall the gorgeous wood inlay in the Dominion’s elevators, with their Art Deco lighting. The carpet under my feet is fine, but nondescript. Nothing compared to the Dominion’s stylish tiles.
I sigh, resigned to reality, and step out at the thirty-seventh floor. Everything smells new: the carpets, the paint, the drywall dust, even the gunmetal-black hardware. Empty boxes line the hallway, and I hear the satisfying songs of drills and hammers behind closed doors. I check the vents and outlets in the corridor as I walk to today’s condo inspection. Inside, the construction guys have left me a short ladder so I can climb up to see the crawl spaces, checking for firewalls and potential issues. I spy a small water circle on the floor and trace it back to the bathroom plumbing, so I mark down the leak on my list, then I climb out and keep inspecting. The last thing I check is the fuse box in the front closet. Cardboard boxes fill the space, and I do a double take.
MONTEY SERIES INDUSTRIESis stamped on the sides.
Until today, I’ve never heard of that company. It’s especially odd to see them here as well as in a historical building like the Dominion, since they’re so different. I make a note to investigate, even though it’s not myresponsibility, then I give in to my curiosity and carefully pry open the top box. Inside are smaller, unmarked, white boxes. Trying not to bend anything, I peel one open and see it’s just hardware, as marked. As Paul and Gary had said, Montey Series is just a new supplier that I haven’t heard of, but now I want to know who they are.
I step out of the condo and head down the hall to the next one, which has an identical floor plan to the last. People always think they’re getting something special in these shiny new places, but really, they’re cookie-cutter. I go through the inspection and am just finishing up when the door opens. In steps Paul from the Dominion, who has a sack slung over his shoulder like Santa. It’s strange, seeing him here at the Sixes. He said he’s been at the Dominion for fifteen years. It’s not as if he isn’t busy enough over there.
“Hey, Paul,” I say, picking up my bag. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”
He’s visibly startled. “Hey. Nice to see you. I’m just making a delivery here before I see Mr. Samson.”
“You’re working two jobs?”
