Living with the Dead - By Kelley Armstrong Page 0,101

he saw why. A middle-aged man stood in the medical building lot, his key fob extended, now stopped to watch what was unfolding at the fence line.

Colm checked over his shoulder one more time, then broke into a full out run for the building. The man in the parking lot watched Colm, his key fob still in hand, other reaching toward his car door. When Colm reached the building door, the man nodded, as if he’d done his duty, seen the boy to safety. He opened his car door.

Colm reached for the building door. If it was locked, he’d run to the man in the car, make up some story. If it opened, that meant there were more people inside and he could hide there.

He pulled the door. It swung open. He ran through.

FINN

* * *

IN POLICE COLLEGE, one of Finn’s instructors claimed the greatest impediment to justice was prejudice. The ability to assess a situation free from those shackles was the greatest gift an officer could possess. And any officer who thought he could achieve that absolute lack of prejudice was deluded.

The human brain is designed to make connections. It looks for similarities and patterns, and when it finds them, it is happy. A cop can’t help that initial flood of associations and, yes, prejudices. But he can recognize them for what they are and reassess based on facts.

Standing on the sidewalk, looking up at Nast corporate headquarters and instantly disliking it, Finn was aware that this was a conclusion based on stereotyping.

The building annoyed him, plain and simple . . . maybe because the building itself was not plain or simple. The block was full of historical landmarks, stately and dignified. In their midst, the Nast building looked like a Euro-chic runway model swanning through a room of refined dowagers, contempt in every glance she cast on her elderly neighbors.

Finn guessed that one of these grand old dames had been felled by a wrecking ball to make way for this soaring postmodern blot. Could he overcome that prejudice?

He doubted it.

Though it was Sunday, the lobby lights blazed. When he pulled a door open, it made a sucking sound, as if the vestibule was vacuum sealed. Past the second set of doors, a young man sat behind a stainless steel desk that bore an uncanny resemblance to a morgue gurney. His trim build and suit suggested he was more reception than security, but Finn suspected that was for appearance’s sake.

Finn reached for the interior door. Locked. The young man looked up sharply, as if Finn had set off an alarm. There was a whoosh as the door behind him closed tight.

He couldn’t help thinking of those movies where a guy walks into a tiny room that seals behind him and slowly fills with poisonous gas. The faintly metallic smell of the cold air blowing down on him didn’t help. Nor did the guy at the desk, who watched him, blank-faced as a cyborg.

Finn turned to say something to Damon . . . and saw him still outside on the sidewalk. He discreetly gestured for Damon to walk in. Damon not-so-discreetly gestured that he couldn’t.

Finn opened the outer door, abashedly relieved to see that it would open. Damon walked up to the opening and bounced back. He put his hand out and his palm flattened and whitened, as if pressing against glass.

“Huh,” Finn said. “Maybe you’re a vampire now. You need to be invited.”

“A joke? I’m impressed. We’ll need to work on your delivery, though. Right now . . .” Damon rapped his knuckles against the invisible barrier. “Small problem.”

“Is this what happens when Robyn’s around?”

Damon’s eyes lit with hope, then it faded. “Nah. With Robyn, I get relocated, like a raccoon wandering into the city. I’ll look for another way in.”

When Finn stepped back into the vestibule, the guard was still watching him, face still impassive, as if he saw guys leaning out the door talking to themselves all the time. On the Sunday shift, he probably did.

The guard made no move to come to the door or turn on the intercom and ask Finn’s business. Even when Finn buzzed, the man continued to sit there.

As Finn raised a hand to buzz again, the man finally pressed a button. A speaker overhead clicked.

“Nast Corporation. How may I help you?”

Finn held his badge to the glass. “Detective John Findlay, LAPD.”

For almost twenty seconds, the man sat there, as if waiting for a better explanation. Finally, he pressed another button and