Killing Rain

ceramic. To my left were stalls that could more properly be described as closets, separated as they were by marble walls and featuring floor-to-ceiling mahogany doors.
    The stalls looked promising, although I was concerned that, after his recent experience in Manila, Manny might have some sort of phobic reaction if he entered a restroom and noticed that one of the stall doors was closed. But then I noticed something that might be even better.
    Between the sinks and the urinals was a large mahogany door. On it hung a brass sign with black lettering:
    B
    UILDING
    O
    RDINANCE
    (C
    HAPTER
    123)
    N
    OTICE
    D
    ANGER
    L
    IFT
    M
    ACHINERY
    U
    NAUTHORIZED
    A
    CCESS
    P
    ROHIBITED
    D
    OOR TO
    B
    E
    K
    EPT
    L
    OCKED
    Interesting, I thought. If the passenger elevators went up only to thirteen, this access must be to a freight unit. The door opened out, and there were three sets of heavy brass hinges running up its left side. I tried it, and, per the ordinance, found it was indeed locked. The lock, though, was a cheap single wafer model, what you might find on an old desk or filing cabinet. It wasn’t there to protect valuables, just to comply with a local building ordinance. After all, who in his right mind other than a maintenance man would want to access the lift machinery?
    I didn’t even need a lock pick—I simply forced the mechanism with a turn of the Benchmade folder. Then I slipped the knife into the crack between the door and the jamb and eased the door open. The hinges gave a long squeal and I thought, Shit, hadn’t thought of that. Should have brought some lubricant.
    I glanced inside. There was a small corridor, providing, I supposed, maintenance access to the elevators. It looked good. There were variables—Manny might have a new bodyguard, or might otherwise not show up alone, or he might not come at all—but this could work.
    But what about those hinges.
    I walked back to the sinks and picked up one of the bottles of lotion.
    Gardner’s Hand Lotion, the label advised, Replete with Lavender and Other Essential Oils.
    Well, it wasn’t WD-40, but let’s see. I emptied a healthy amount onto one of the wash towels, then wiped down the hinges. I swung the door open and closed a few times, and the essential oils worked their magic. The squealing stopped.
    I wiped down the bottle, put it back on the shelf, and tossed the wash towel into a basket that the China Club had thoughtfully provided for this very purpose. I exited the restroom and began to descend the winding staircase. A waiter on his way up passed me but paid no attention.
    Two-thirds of the way down, I had a clear view of the elevators and the coatroom from which May had emerged when I first arrived. The area was empty. May must have been elsewhere for the moment, attending some aspect of preparing the restaurant. She might wonder at not having seen me leave, but I felt I could count on her to assume she had simply failed to notice my departure. Hopefully she would forgive Mr. Watanabe his rudeness in not saying thank you and a proper good-bye.
    I turned around and went back up the stairs. This time I really did use the bathroom—I didn’t know how long I’d be without access. Then I opened the closet door again and stepped inside. I pulled the door shut behind me and waited for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. There was just a little light coming from the elevator shaft behind me. The lack of illumination in here wasn’t the problem though—what I really needed to see was the bathroom, and, with the heavy mahogany door closed, that was impossible.
    I set down the attaché and popped the hinges. The case opened with a muted double click. I pulled out the Surefire E1E mini-light I was carrying and twisted it on, then slipped into the deerskin gloves. I looked around to see what I might have to work with.
    Propped against the wall to my right was a mop in a bucket. On the floor, a plunger and a few rudimentary tools, including a screwdriver. I opened the door, then slid the screwdriver between the door and the jamb on the hinged side at eye level. I pulled the door inward. The steel shaft of the screwdriver created tremendous pressure on the hinged surfaces around it, and something had to give. But it wouldn’t be those heavy brass hinges—instead, the wood itself provided the path of least resistance, and the edge of the door and jamb deformed around the screwdriver as I pulled relentlessly toward me. I went back and forth several times until I