Elevator Pitch

by Linwood Barclay

  “That son of a bitch,” Zachary said. “How the hell am I supposed to get upstairs? I can’t walk up to eighteen. I’ll be dead before I get to ten.”

  Mrs. Attick said, “What about Griffin?”

  “Who?”

  “My cat. The super said there’s no way to know how long this is going to go on. Could be hours or it could be days! Who’s going to feed Griffin?”

  Zachary hated cats and didn’t much care what happened to Mrs. Attick’s. He just wanted to get back up to his apartment, where he could watch what was happening here on his TV while he made himself some coffee.

  “My daughter came and took me to lunch,” Mrs. Attick said in her high-pitched voice. “But she dropped me off without knowing what had happened! She would have gone up and fed Griffin. She works out four days a week. She could have run up those stairs like it was nothing. Griffin’s going to be worried sick.”

  Zachary was more worried about his yogurt. He needed to get it into the refrigerator.

  He was about to go hunting for the super when the main doors flew open and in came two male paramedics—one short, one tall—with a wheeled gurney. They looked frustrated, but not shocked, when they saw the Out of Order signs.

  “Did you reach the super?” the short one said into the small radio attached to a strap just below his chin. “We need a working elevator.”

  His radio crackled. “On his way,” a voice said through static.

  “Yes!” said Zachary under his breath. They’d have to get the elevators operational if there was a medical emergency somewhere in the upper reaches of the building.

  Seconds later, the superintendent, a heavyset, olive-skinned man, came into the lobby from a nearby stairwell door.

  “You got to get one of these going,” the paramedic said.

  “Yeah, yeah,” the super said. “I just got the middle one back on. It’s Mr. Gilbert, in 15C.”

  A stir of excitement from the residents. What a break, that Mr. Gilbert was having another one of his heart attacks.

  The super hit the Up button and the center elevator doors opened. But Mrs. Attick had already positioned herself close to them, and when they parted, she wheeled herself in like someone trying out for the Paralympic Games.

  “Lady!” the tall paramedic shouted. “Get out of the way!”

  “My cat!” she cried.

  She hadn’t yet turned around, so the shorter paramedic was able to grab the handles on the back of her chair. But as he attempted to pull the wheelchair back out, Mrs. Attick grabbed the railing on the elevator wall. That only slowed the paramedic for half a second, who yanked harder.

  Everyone heard a snap.

  Mrs. Attick screamed.

  “My wrist! Oh God, my wrist!”

  At which point, Zachary wondered if they would treat her first, right here in the lobby, which would allow him to use the elevator to get to his apartment and put his yogurt into the fridge.

  It did not work out that way.

  They got Mrs. Attick out of the elevator, tipped the gurney up on one end, hit “15” on the pad, and up they went.

  They were too late.

  Mr. Gilbert was dead, and had been for the better part of half an hour.

  As was Zachary Carrick, who had decided, what the hell, he would make the climb. He was rounding the stairwell by the door to the fifth floor when his heart exploded.

  The good news was, a sixth-floor tenant, Grant Rydell, twenty-three, an unemployed Broadway actor who was heading down to the lobby to check the mail—he was hoping his mother, back home in Saginaw, had sent him a check to cover that month’s rent—discovered Zachary in the stairwell and, before calling 911 on his cell phone, helped himself to his Zabar’s purchases.

  Turned out that he and Zachary both loved strawberry yogurt.

  “Terrorist!”

  Ettan Khatri turned around when he heard someone shout the word. Not because he thought anyone was shouting at him, but because when anyone shouts “Terrorist!” you want to look around and see what’s happening.

  Was somebody waving around a machine gun? Had some nut wandered into the lobby of this office tower on East Fifty-Seventh Street with dynamite strapped to his waist?

  But when Ettan turned around, he saw a man pointing straight at him.

  Of course, this kind of thing had happened before over the years. His parents were from India, and he was born and raised in the United States. Nevertheless, if your skin happened to be a little bit darker, and your hair was jet-black, there was always some asshole who thought you were an Islamic extremist. You could tell them you were Hindu, but they’d just look at you and say something like, “Same difference!”

  Ettan, twenty-eight, was in the building for a job interview at a gallery that specialized in rare posters. Ettan had an art degree from Boston College, but he’d spent the last three years working behind the counter at the McDonald’s on Third just north of Fiftieth. When he saw the online posting for an assistant sales position at the gallery, he applied immediately.

  So here he was, and given that the gallery was on the fifth floor, getting there by stairs was not going to be a hardship. He’d already checked in with security and was told he would find the stairwell door just beyond the bank of elevators.

  It was as he was walking past the elevators, each decorated with a strip of yellow tape reminiscent of the kind used at crime scenes, that he heard the man yell.

  He was a big man. Three hundred pounds, easy. Wearing khakis and a checked shirt and a ball cap with no logo on the front.

  “Did you sabotage these?” the man asked, pointing a thumb at the elevators as he closed the distance between them.

  “What?” Ettan said, at which he raised his palms in a defensive gesture, but not quite quickly enough.

  The man drove a fist into Ettan’s mouth.

  The world went black.

  It started in the Spring Lounge when, sitting across from him at their table, Faith Berkley slipped off one shoe and ran her foot up the inside of Andre Banville’s leg.

  Supposedly, this meeting had been to discuss purchasing one of Andre’s French landscapes. The bar was just around the corner from his gallery, but also just happened to be very close to Faith’s new, twentieth-floor luxury condo on Broome Street.

  “Maybe,” Faith said, “if you saw our place, and our color palette, and how the light filters through the blinds, you’d have a better idea of our needs.” She put a little spin on the last word.

  “Excellent idea,” Andre said. “Will Anthony be there to offer some suggestions?”

  “As it turns out,” Faith said, “my husband won’t be home until later. We’ll have to manage.”

  “Why don’t you finish that drink and we’ll do just that.”

  They were on each other the second after the elevator door closed and Faith had tapped the button for her floor. Andre pushed her up against the back wall, put his mouth hungrily on hers, slipped his tongue between her teeth. He untucked her blouse and ran his hands over the lacy bra she’d bought the day before from Agent Provocateur, while she reached down to stroke him through his jeans.

  “Jesus,” she gasped, “you could cut glass with this thing.”

  A button popped off her blouse as Andre explored beneath it with his hands. “When we get to your room,” he whispered, “I’m going to pull down your panties and I’m—”

  The elevator stopped. They were at the twelfth floor.

  “Shit!” Faith whispered, pushing Andre away and frantically tucking in her blouse. “It’s not supposed to stop! It’s supposed to go directly to our floor.”

  But the doors did not open. And the elevator did not move.

  “What’s going on?” Faith asked.

  She pushed the button for her floor again. Nothing. Then, a static crackle. A male voice emanated from a speaker next to the buttons.

  “Is there someone in there?”

  Faith said, “Elmont?”

  Andre looked at her, eyebrows
raised. She whispered, “Doorman.”

  “Ms. Berkley? Yes, Elmont. We’re bringing all the elevators back down to the first floor and taking them out of service.”

  “Why on earth are—”

  “Some kind of emergency, ma’am. Happening all over the city. They say—”

  “Faith?”

  Another man’s voice.

  Her husband.

  “Anthony?” she said.

  “I’m here with Elmont, honey. Raced home from the office soon as I heard what was going on. Wanted to be sure you were—”

  “I’m fine!” she said, glancing at Andre. “It’s okay! Go back to—”

  “Not a chance,” Anthony said. “I’ll be right here when the doors open.”

  At the Empire State Building, hundreds of people who had bought their tickets and lined up to be taken to the 102nd-floor observation deck were told that they wouldn’t be heading to the top of the city’s most famous building after all. There was grumbling and confusion as tourists formed new lines to get their ticket money refunded.

  It was a different story on the observation deck, where dozens of visitors were informed their trip back to street level was going to be somewhat more arduous than their ride to the top. Soon, the stairwells were filled with people, and not only those who’d been to the top, but also the thousands of people who worked in the building and were heading home.

  A similar scene was playing out over at the Top of the Rock, the viewing area atop Rockefeller Center. Managers of almost all city tourist sites, even those that did not soar into the sky, decided to close their doors. Museums shut down. The guards on the various floors displaying art at the Guggenheim, which could have been accessed by walking up the gradually sloped floor that circled the atrium, announced that everyone was to leave the building. The consensus was that if the city’s elevators were a possible terrorist target, so might be notable landmarks.

  The fear was that whoever was messing with New York was just getting started.

  The millions who traveled countless stories upward every day were cutting out early. Anxiety around being trapped at work had prompted many to get out while they knew they could. But what awaited them when they got home, if they happened to live in a towering apartment building, was the same situation in reverse. Thousands decided to delay their return and went out to dinner, hoping that within a few hours the city would announce that the crisis was over and the elevators were once again safe to use.

  Tourists arriving at JFK and LaGuardia, unaware of the mayor’s decree, were stunned when they got to their hotels and learned they could not get to their rooms if they weren’t prepared to take the stairs. Not good news if you’d brought half a dozen suitcases with you. Hotels reported scores of cancellations from those who had not yet left for New York but had seen the news.

  In short, it was one big shitshow.

  Forty-Six

  The mayor, in his City Hall office, jumped from channel to channel, seeing reports from all corners of the city. In the room with him were Valerie, Vallins, and Glover.

  “What a goddamn clusterfuck,” Headley said, shaking his head with despair.

  “It is that,” Valerie said.

  “You heard anything?” he asked her.

  “I just got off the phone with Homeland, and the chief. There’s nothing new.”

  “We have to get a fucking handle on this,” he said. “They’ve got to find whoever did this and they have to do it right fucking now! I’m being crucified out there. We need to come up with a new statement, something that offers some reassurance.”

  Valerie said, “Inspections are being made. I’m hearing that a few elevators are already back in service. But I think we’re looking at a couple of days before things are back to normal.”

  “Jesus Christ.”

  The cell phone on the mayor’s desk started buzzing. Vallins was closest, and grabbed it.

  “Mayor Headley’s office,” he said.

  “Put the son of a bitch on,” a man said.

  “Who’s calling?”

  “Rodney Coughlin.”

  Vallins said, “Hang on.” Headley looked at him. “You’re probably going to want to take this. It’s Coughlin.”

  Headley took a moment to prepare himself, then took the phone. “Rodney,” he said.

  “What the fuck are you thinking?” Coughlin said.

  “Listen, I know—”

  “Maybe you’ve forgotten what’s happening on Thursday. Does Thursday ring a bell, Dick? Huh?”

  “I know. I know.”

  “How do you think my guests will like walking up ninety-seven flights of stairs for the official opening of Top of the Park? Better have some pretty fucking amazing appetizers to make that kind of trek.”

  “It’s a temporary measure,” Headley said.

  “Who found a way around the rules to give half a mill to your campaign?” Coughlin asked. “It’s slipped my mind.”

  “Rodney, I know. Look, have your people do a complete sweep of the elevators. I’m guessing they’ve already been told what to look for. I’m sure—”

  “You know who’s going to be here, for the opening of the tallest residential building in the entire fucking country?”

  “Rodney, I—”

  “I’ll tell you who. Everybody.”

  Vallins waved a hand, trying to get the mayor’s attention. Headley put his hand over the phone and whispered, “What?”

  “Send me,” he whispered.

  “What?”

  “Tell him you’re dispatching one of your aides to personally make sure everything will be okay.”

  Headley squinted. “What do you know about elevators?”

  Vallins shook his head, signaling that wasn’t his point. He whispered, “I’ll get someone. I’ll oversee it.”

  Headley nodded, then went back to the phone. “Rodney, listen to me.”

  The mayor made his pitch. The second he ended the call, his face went red and his body shook.

  “That fucking son of a bitch,” he said, and then pitched the phone in his hand directly at the TV screen, which had been showing a YouTube video of several people stumbling all over each other in a high-rise stairwell.

  The screen shattered.

  Valerie stifled a scream.

  “Goddam fucking hell,” Headley said. “Who does Coughlin think he is, talking to me like that?”

  Glover, who had said nothing through any of this, walked over to the mayor’s office window and gazed out at the city.

  And smiled.

  Forty-Seven

  More than two dozen NYPD detectives crowded into the small, rectangular conference room. Some had taken chairs, others were leaning against the wall along the perimeter of the room. Nearly everyone had a takeout coffee in hand.

  Jerry Bourque and Lois Delgado stood off to one side, arms crossed. At one end of the room, with an oversized computer monitor on the wall behind, were Chief Washington, a woman from the Federal Bureau of Investigation, and Homeland’s Brian Cartland.

  The detectives summoned to this meeting had originally been told they’d be focusing on the three elevator tragedies, but the scope of the investigation had been broadened.

  They were now also looking at the taxi bombing on East Forty-Ninth Street. While there was not yet anything specific to indicate a connection between the elevator events and the bombing, the fact that the two incidents happened within minutes of each other could not be ignored. It was possible, the chief speculated, that the goal of the person or persons responsible had been to sow chaos by triggering simultaneous crises.

  Attempts were being made to acquire whatever surveillance video existed from the three buildings where the elevators had been sabotaged. Two detectives across the room from Bourque and Delgado said these efforts were being undercut because none of the buildings had cameras set up in the elevator control rooms, where they believed the perpetrator would have had to make some initial connections between the main system and the portabl
e controller. And as for saved video or images from other cameras, they had no idea when the elevators might have been tampered with. Should they start looking at video from last week, or six months ago?

  But for sure, someone had to have gotten into those shafts at some point to mount cameras that would provide a view to what was happening inside the cars. Computer experts, the detectives said, had been brought in to determine whether it was possible to tell where the images being transmitted by the cameras had gone. They hoped to have more on that within twenty-four hours.

  Street surveillance video was being gathered to help with the taxi explosion investigation. The car’s route that morning, up to the moment of the blast, was being traced, and once that was nailed down, cameras along that path would be found and video examined. A preliminary examination of the destroyed vehicle suggested the explosion had originated in its center, suggesting further that the bomb had been left on the floor of the backseat by a passenger.

  “They seem like very different crimes,” observed a detective at the back of the room.

  “True,” said Washington. “And they may very well have been executed by different individuals or groups with no connection to each other. But I want those following the taxi bombing and those on the elevator incidents comparing notes, in case there are links.”

  “Yeah,” said Delgado. “A bomb left in a car is pretty low-tech compared to the elevator stuff. One requires a tremendous amount of planning, the other, not so much. Who we looking at?”

  Washington went to a laptop set up at the front of the room. The screen on the wall lit up with photos of a bombed coffee shop.

  Cartland said, “The list of groups that might want to set off a bomb in New York is long. We’ve had a few ISIS and ISIS-inspired events in recent years. But also on our radar are people identifying with the Flyovers movement. They’re believed to be behind this bombing in Portland, Oregon. These Flyover types are taking credit for similar events in coastal cities in recent weeks and have, indeed, claimed responsibility on Twitter for the taxi explosion, although we’ve not been able to confirm the claim’s legitimacy. Agent Darrell, from the FBI, can speak to this.”