It was an old building that had been given a superficial rehab—just enough paint to justify a rent increase commensurate with the new construction in Dearborn Park. One of the cosmetic features was a heavy glass door with a double lock: you had to have working keys in both of them at the same time for the door to open. This would be a good test of the range of my picklocks. They had set me back seven hundred dollars, but were supposed to be up to this kind of job.
I also noted bitterly that the tenant addresses—listed next to a phone outside the outer door—were coded. Doubtless useful for private residents, but if you wanted to see a business, like Jonas Carver’s, how were you supposed to know what floor to go to? Fortunately the building was only eleven stories high—that would cut my exploration time down significantly.
Just to be on the safe side I dialed Carver’s code number. No one answered. Why would anyone be here at midnight, anyway?
Looking around to make sure no one was watching me, I set to work on the locks. After half an hour I began to wonder if I should bunk down in the Impala and go in on the coattails of the first person to arrive in the morning. I was also tempted just to pull out the Smith & Wesson and blow the door down. I didn’t think the noise would rouse anyone.
It was almost one when my delicate probers finally released the spring in the upper lock, enabling me to work the bottom one fairly quickly. The small of my back ached from bending so long. I rubbed it and stretched against the wall, trying to ease out the cramping.
A small night-light gave just enough of a glow to see the elevator buttons. The lobby was minuscule, about big enough for four people to wait together. I pulled out a quarter and flipped it: heads I would ride to the top and make my way down to Carver; tails I’d start on two and go up. In the dim light I could just make out Washington’s profile. I summoned the elevator.
The door opened at once. This meant the last person to use it had been heading down, a good sign even though I didn’t seriously expect to encounter anyone. As the door closed on me I saw an address board on the facing wall. I stuck a foot out, got the door open, and leaned out to get Jonas Carver’s suite number. He was on the sixth floor. Whether I had started at the bottom or the top it would have made no difference. Maybe my luck was turning a bit.
The lock on Carver’s office was much easier to negotiate than the lobby had been. A good thing, since my back protested when I leaned over to play with it. I knelt, trying to find a comfortable working angle, and .managed to slide the dead bolt back in about five minutes.
Carver’s office faced the air-shaft side of the building. No streetlamps bent their rays up here. The only light in the room came from a cursor blinking importunately in the middle distance. I groped my way toward it, found the desk it was sitting on, and fumbled around until I found a lamp switch. I don’t know why I hadn’t brought a flashlight with me.
The room, which had seemed immense in the dark, showed up small and austere under the lamplight. Besides the metal desk with the computer, it held two filing cabinets and a small table with an electric coffeemaker. A door at the far end led to a second room, presumably Mr. Carver’s personal headquarters. The desk here was veneered in fake wood; an imitation Chinese rug covered part of the floor. Carver, too, had a computer ready for action.
Information on the companies Carver managed was no doubt waiting behind the blinking cursor and would be revealed at the right command. My computer skills were not my strong suit; figuring out the right command would be a chore. I tried instead to find some hard copy in the filing cabinets, but they seemed devoted to tax laws and government guidelines on how to run closely held corporations. I also found manuals for using the computer. Gritting my teeth, I opened the binder and began to read.
Around half an hour later I figured I knew enough at least to get started. I bowed politely to the computer and asked it for a directory. The machine obliged with a speed and thoroughness that left me thoroughly confused. A line at the bottom asked what I wanted to do—browse, create, edit, save, exit—and blinked impertinently when I hesitated.
I finally figured out which function key allowed me to browse. The machine, impatient with my retardation, barely allowed me to hit it before demanding a file name. I gave it “Diamond Head.” It spat it back, “File not found.” I tried a variety of permutations on the name, but the machine didn’t like any of them.
Finally I found my way back to the directory and studied it carefully. Something called “ClientExec” sounded promising. I fiddled around with different letters and managed—after numerous false starts—a combination the computer liked. A few blinking lights and the client files lay in front of me. Not, of course, in ledger form— just another set of menu options.