Fiddler & Fiora 05 - The Art of Survival - A E Maxwell by A E Maxwell

Author:A E Maxwell
Language: bg
Format: mobi
Published: 2011-05-08T13:00:37+00:00

EIGHTEEN

A quick circle around the parking structure told me there were no more security guards on the site. I parked the Cobra and walked in past the empty security office.

The guard's electric cart was still sitting by the office, the blue jacket was still in the compartment underneath the seat, and so was a baseball cap with a museum security logo on the front. The jacket was too small in the arms and shoulders, but my jeans nearly matched the uniform blue. The key for the golf cart was in the dashboard ignition. One twist and I became a guard on patrol. I pushed on the foot pedal and fell into line behind a Dodge Omni with press-photographer plates.

There were fifty or sixty cars on the first parking level and more pulling in all the time. I hummed along quietly, passing a row behind the Plymouth. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Harvey and Fiora in the car. He was slouched with his back against the door, watching her while he talked. She faced the windshield. I couldn't see her expression but her shoulders were rigid.

Harvey had parked in a position that gave him a clear view of all approaches... except one. I drove the cart up the ramp to the rooftop level and got out. There were three television crews in place now, killing time by lagging quarters against the waist-high balustrade. None of the men did more than glance at me.

The elevator car was on the roof level. The door slid open instantly when I punched the button. The drop to the lower level was only eight or nine feet, but the elevator ground along like a burro carrying a load of sheet steel up a hill. When the elevator finally stopped, the doors slid open without a sound.

I crouched and took a quick, low look to the left. All I could see was the front three feet of Harvey's Plymouth. The wall of the elevator shaft screened me from his line of sight. I eased out of the elevator and stood with my back to the wall until the doors slid shut.

The parking structure was so quiet that I could hear Fiora's voice. She had rolled down the window to dilute Harvey's cigarette smoke or his feral odor. Her words were clear, low, calm, coming from no more than eight feet away.

"What makes you think I know where the Tenorio woman is?" Fiora asked.

Her tone was a combination of impatience and adult restraint, as though she had become tired of the conversation but knew she had no choice except to pursue it. She uses that tone on people she doesn't like. It's designed to make them feel six years old.

"You know, baby."

Harvey had a fine, condescending edge to his voice that could only be described as sexual. He knew Fiora didn't like being close to him, and he knew he liked being close to her. But what really got him off was the

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