The Elevator. Angela Hunt
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smiles as she runs her feather duster over the edge of the credenza and skims the letters on the computer keyboard. When the monitor flashes to life after she touches the egg-shaped thing they call a mouse, she backs away.
She has been warned about American tecnología. The government here has hidden wires in the walls to listen to phone calls and read e-mail messages. Cameras sit atop traffic lights and snap fotografías of passing cars; computers at the grocery know what she buys and when she buys it.
Computers make Isabel nervous. So many Americans depend on them, especially the people in this building. Sometimes she feels as if the sleeping computers watch her as she dusts, ready to spill her secrets if she touches them in the wrong way.
Florida’s attorney general has offices in this building—six floors of desks with computers—and his office terrifies her more than the others. She doesn’t know who the attorney general is or exactly what he does, but with such a title and so many employees, he must know everything about everyone in the state. Which means he might know about her…but doesn’t yet know he knows.
She must never give him a reason to search for any of her names on his computers.
She runs her duster over the back of Rossman’s chair, then peers out the wide window behind his desk. More color has filled the sky since her last look, but the sun is glowering behind a cloud. After giving the glass a quick spritz of cleaner, she swipes at nonexistent fingerprints. Apparently Mr. Rossman never stands at this window, never touches the glass out of appreciation for the view. Perhaps he takes the scene for granted.
She pauses as she looks toward the west. A series of darker clouds hovers in the distance, swallowing up the horizon’s light. The street lamps far below remain lit, but few vehicles move over the roads. Here and there, police cars hold a vigil at intersections, their lights flashing blue and red. Tampa appears quiet, almost deserted.
Donna Summer is singing “Any Way at All” when Isabel crosses the office. She is about to haul in the vacuum cleaner when she spies a large gold box resting on the arms of one of the visitor’s chairs. An extravagant bow adorns the lid, but the top of the box is askew and merely resting on the bottom. Someone has examined whatever lies inside and left the box open…almost.
What could be inside a box so beautiful?
She stands by the chair, wavering, then tosses her feather duster onto the cleaning cart outside the door. What would it matter if she takes a peek? She will not hurt a thing. She only wants to see what kind of present a rich American boss buys his esposa or novia.
She dislodges the fancy lid with a fingertip, then pushes it out of the way. A white softness lies inside the box, and on closer examination Isabel discovers a gloriously lush fur jacket.
“¡Está maravillosa!”
Oh, what she would give to have such a chaqueta. A man buys a coat like this only if his woman needs nothing else, for why would any woman need a fur coat in Florida? Owning a coat like this would mean the bills were paid, the baby had clothes and they owned a home of their own. No one in her hometown ever owned such a jacket, but on television she’s seen snowy landscapes populated by beautiful red-cheeked ladies in furs as white and lush as the snow surrounding them.
Isabel runs her hand over the garment, its softness like air beneath her palm. After glancing toward the door, she lifts the jacket out of the box and holds it up. The sleeves might be too long and the buttons a little tight, but what does that matter?
She turns to the mirror on the wall, then presses the jacket against her shoulders. The light color complements her dark hair and eyes, and the belt might make her look slender. She bites her lip, suffering a momentary jealousy of the woman who will claim this—why should she be so afortunada?
Isabel lowers her gaze as a wave of guilt slaps at her. What is she thinking? She has Carlos and Rafael and she is safe in wide, anonymous America. She might never own a fur like this, but she will never need one.
Still…maybe she could wear it for a minute?
Through the earbuds, Donna Summer urges her to follow her dreams.
Ingrained caution falls away as Isabel slips her arms into the coat. The silk lining, dyed to resemble a leopard pelt, feels glorious against her skin, and the fur collar softly tickles her throat. She wraps herself in the luxurious creation and ties the belt at her waist, then moves to the mirror to see if the chaqueta lives up to its unspoken promises.
A pale oval of apprehension stares out from the glass, then eases into a smile. Isabel relaxes with the stranger in the mirror, recognizing the fur-clad lady as a woman who could walk into any store in the country and not feel anxious. In this coat Isabel could shop at Nordstrom or Lord & Taylor; she could examine a fancy dress without some clerk rushing over to suggest that she would be better off looking…somewhere else.
She presses her hand to the soft collar and lifts her chin, determined to enjoy the moment. Even if by some miracle Carlos earns a raise and a promotion, they will always need money for Rafael’s food and clothes and medicine and school. One day her son will go to college; later he will become a doctor. He is an American, so he will speak good English and feel free to shop in any store. His wife might own a coat like this, and she will wear it with pride.
Isabel slips her hand into the pockets and flashes a movie-star smile at the mirror, then realizes one pocket is not empty. It contains a thin blue box, hinged on one side.
She gasps when she lifts the lid. On a bed of midnight velvet, dozens of diamonds have been strung together, more than she can count. It’s a pulsera, a bracelet, but unlike any bracelet Isabel has ever seen.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
The masculine voice rips through the music in Isabel’s ears. She whirls and sees a man—¿Señor Rossman?—coming out of the bathroom at the back of the suite, his hair wet and his shirtsleeves unbuttoned.
Terror lodges in her throat, making it impossible for her to reply.
CHAPTER 4
Gina fastens the clasp of the manila envelope, then stiffens at the sound of movement in the house. Is one of the children awake? Not likely this early on a Saturday morning, but Matthew might have decided to get up and turn on the Weather Channel. Of all the children, he alone seems to realize the danger Felix poses. The girls have grown inured to the threat of hurricanes; Samantha actually complained when she heard the malls would be closed today.
Gina tiptoes to her bedroom door, opens it a crack and listens. No sound comes from the upstairs bedrooms, so she must have heard the wind moving over the attic vents. She steps out and looks through the wide living-room windows, guaranteed to withstand hurricane-force winds. The curling fronds of the palms around the pool are swaying toward the sunrise, which means the wind is coming from the unsettled west.
Dangerous weather may be on its way, but she has plenty of time. The sky is cloudy, but not sagging; the wind is brisk, but not yet dangerous.
She inhales a deep breath to bolster her courage. She can proceed with her plan. She’ll freshen her makeup, pull on casual slacks and a light sweater. She needs to look like a devoted wife running upstairs to lend her husband a helping hand.
Few people, if any, will be in the building this morning. The first-floor deli, bank and florist are certain to be closed. She’ll speak to anyone she meets and make it clear that while Sonny may be workaholic enough to risk his neck, she’s not going to stick around. Maybe on the way out she should ask the security guard if the Pierpoint restaurant will open at all, implying that Sonny might need an afternoon snack.
She should be home before the kids wake up. Even if the wind rouses them, they’ll get breakfast and settle in front of the TV. A couple of hours could pass before they notice she’s gone.
Her family may not be perfect, but they are predictable. Sonny may not have come home last night, but the hurricane will force him to the office this morning, where he’ll be scurrying like a squirrel before an oncoming Mack truck.