“It’s safe?”
I’ve been wondering the same thing. I’m not sure, but now that I’ve said it, I’m determined.
“Of course. It’s a hotel. There’ll be lots of people around, just not in the subbasement. Besides, everyone needs a little adventure in their life, don’t you think?”
By the slight furrow in his brow, he is unconvinced. “It’s just that…” He thinks for a second, then shrugs. “You know best.”
“I don’t know about that, but I still want to do it.”
“Hmm.” There’s something about the look he gives me then. A quiet masculinity he’s kept to himself until now. “I’ll have to thank Jack Samson for referring me. I’m very glad he did.”
Is it my imagination, or were his words slower in that last sentence? More inviting, even? Does he feel as I do? I won’t deny the attraction I feel for him, which grows every time I see him. But would a romantic entanglement mess up our working relationship?
Which is more important to me?
If it’s the work, I can give him a breezy “Oh yes. Me too.”
If it’s him…
The wine swirls through me, making me brave. I meet his pale, remarkably confident gaze and let my thoughts reach out to him.
“I am, too, Matthew.” I let the silence stretch just enough, and neither of us moves. “This project’s turned out to be… unexpectedly rewarding.”
chapterFOURTEEN
As I expected, the Dominion’s maintenance crew has gone home for the night. There’s no one in the basement when I arrive. I hear nothing but the constant hum of machines.
“Hello?” I call. “Is anyone here?”
Nothing. Encouraged by the quiet, I head to the secret locked door, which I have only opened once. I want to see what is so mysterious about this room, and I want to examine the crates within. I need to know what’s up with Montey Series Industries.
The door is, predictably, locked. I know from my work that most of the older locks in the hotel are Yale and Schlage in-knob and dead-bolt locks, and I don’t have a key. But just like Matthew Buchanan, I have done some research, only mine’s a little different. I pull my fancy lock-picking tools from my pocket and internally cross my fingers. Based on the half dozen or so YouTube videos I watched, all I need is pliers and a couple of paper clips. I followed the directions back at my place, bending them just like the pros have done, all the time marvelling at how easy it is.
Too late, I realize I probably should have researched a video of “Lock Picking for Dummies,” because I’m failing miserably. I straighten to give myback a rest, then I bend down and restart. This time I feel a click, but it’s still locked. I try again, then hesitate when a cool draft washes over me. I shudder at the brief sensation, remembering my ghostly experience at the Winter Garden. Sure, I could be imagining it, but the thing is, there is no source here for a breeze like that. There are no open doors or windows. Paul’s suggestion of ghosts sticks in my head, and I shiver again.
I have no time for this. I get back to work on the lock, and it’s easier now that I know what to feel for. At last, the latch releases, and I close my mouth against a “Yes!” as I successfully turn the knob.
I already knew there was no light switch in here, so I’d charged my phone completely before I got here. Now I flood the room with its white beam. The space is even narrower than I remember, and wooden crates are stacked tightly within. Every one of them is stampedMSI. Their placement is so strange. Why pile them all in here when they will only have to be squeezed through that door again? What if…
I aim the flashlight toward the end of the room, curious. Another door. Leading to where? Paul’s mention of smugglers comes to mind, and I wonder. Could it actually lead to a tunnel? If only Matthew was here. He’d be all over this. Another thought prompts me to shine my light overhead, and I’m right: the ceiling is lined by pipes. If that second door does lead to a secret tunnel, then any men within would be speaking in hushed voices. And those could have travelled up those pipes. Not ghosts at all.Men’s voices.
Onto the next step. Before I begin my exploration, I close the door behind me—after ensuring it won’t lock automatically.
The one other tool I brought didn’t fit into my purse. Before I left my apartment to go to dinner with Matthew, I wrapped a crowbar in my coat. I know: sounds ridiculous, but there is method to my madness. When I walked through the hotel’s front entrance, the same girl at the desk waved cheerfully, and I smiled back, relieved there was no metal detector. Then I made my way to the subbasement, tools in hand.
I’ve used a crowbar before, so it’s relatively simple for me to work the blade under the first crate’s lid, then carefully wedge it open. I can’t splinterany of the boards, because I don’t want anyone to know I was here. I work the crowbar around all four edges, then I lift the lid and shine the light within. Dozens of small white boxes are piled on top of each other. I open one, and I admit that I am a little disappointed to discover nothing but plain black screws. I open another and another, finding different-size screws, but nothing else.
This makes no sense. No one can explain to me who or what MSI is, the company doesn’t exist on Google, and I’m not allowed in this room. Why all the secrecy?
What if these little white boxes are providing cover for something else? I can’t stop here. I start digging through them, clearing out a few stacks, and when I reach a thin sheet of wood layered across the crate, my pulse picks up. I’ve found whatever I am not supposed to find.
It’s impossible to lift the board with all the boxes of screws piled on top, so I empty them out one at a time. I’ll put them back in the same order, if I can.
Unpacking the screws takes forever. There’s almost no room to put them beside the crates; there’s barely enough space for my feet to fit. I build towering piles of the white boxes, which topple over more than once. At last, I reach the wooden board beneath. Using my crowbar, I carefully pry it open.
I’m not sure what I expected, but I recognize what is packed in here as soon as my light reveals it. I’ve seen enough TV shows and movies to recognize the white powder, bundled into dozens of clear little plastic packages. If it’s not cocaine, it’s something equally dangerous. Heroin? Fentanyl?
Now what?
