but at this hour would anyone make a fuss?
The silence dragged out. Had the cleaner spotted the open door to Narcotics, or had Abby’s tone merely humiliated him into thinking this through?
“You could always clean it a second time,” she offered sarcastically, regaining her composure. “You people never do a very good job the first time anyway.”
“Ain’t you a peach,” the man replied. “No wonder your sorry ass is working late,” the man replied angrily. “Who the hell would want to be with you?”
“Fuck off!”
“Bitch.”
“What’s your name?”
The cart began to rattle again, and this time more quickly. The cleaner was beating a hasty retreat. She had pushed this into the realm of a personal argument, and as a police officer—as a client—she carried the stronger hand.
Dart waited through the agonizing minutes for the elevator to arrive. He then edged his squeaking cart out into the hall and closed the door. When he glanced at Abby, she was shaking her head at him in disappointment. Dart fingered the brim of his hat in thanks and raced to the elevator, stopping only to snag the WET FLOOR sign and stash it on his cart. He had to return the cart to the first-floor storage room as quickly as possible. He didn’t want the cleaning company raising any questions and if he could pull this off, then when the cleaner reported the conflict, Abby would be gone, the floor would be dry, the sign gone, and there would no evidence that any cleaning had taken place. The result would be an impression that the cleaner was trying to shirk some of his duties.
Dart rode the elevator nervously, his finger resting on the CLOSE DOOR button, ready to push.
As the elevator doors slid open, he smelled cigarette smoke and heard a man and a woman in conversation. At this hour, he assumed them to be cleaners. He needed to return the cart and then get out, both without being seen.
The hallway was clear. The voices appeared to be coming from down toward the Property Room, where a door led to the parking lot. Grabbing a smoke , he realized.
“Johansen! Get over here!” a voice called out from Dart’s left as he was stepping into the hall.
“Coming,” the male smoker hollered back.
Johansen, the smoker, would have to pass the elevator to reach that other voice.
The detective stepped back into the car and punched the CLOSE DOOR button. Nothing! He punched it a second time and the doors finally responded, though to Dart they seemed to close more slowly than any pair of elevator doors he had ever encountered. The footsteps of the two smokers approached quickly, and it sounded to him that they would reach the elevator before the doors shut fully.
He tugged the cart parallel to the elevator car’s side wall and squeezed himself with his back against the panel.
But the elevator interior was done in mirror, he realized too late, and as the two smokers passed by, the woman glanced into the car and saw Dart’s reflection in the mirror.
Had he managed to appear calm, he might have pulled it off, but as it was, with his face screwed up into a knot and his eyes locked in terror, he gave himself, and his false identity, away. This woman worked with only three other people, and Joe Dartelli was not one of them.
The elevator doors thumped shut, and the car groaned as it lifted.
Dart had not pushed the second-floor button; someone had called the elevator.
Had the desk sergeant been alerted? Were they already looking for an imposter?
Dart tore off the mustache and shed the green work apron, preferring to be discovered as detective Joe Dartelli than a cop inexplicably impersonating a cleaner. As the elevator crawled upward, he prepared himself immediately to voice a complaint about the cleaning cart being left in the elevator.
The elevator bounced to a stop and the doors slid open.
Abby Lang stood facing him. Dart stepped out into the hall feeling vulnerable.
For a brief second, Dart felt caught off guard—his complaint
The silence dragged out. Had the cleaner spotted the open door to Narcotics, or had Abby’s tone merely humiliated him into thinking this through?
“You could always clean it a second time,” she offered sarcastically, regaining her composure. “You people never do a very good job the first time anyway.”
“Ain’t you a peach,” the man replied. “No wonder your sorry ass is working late,” the man replied angrily. “Who the hell would want to be with you?”
“Fuck off!”
“Bitch.”
“What’s your name?”
The cart began to rattle again, and this time more quickly. The cleaner was beating a hasty retreat. She had pushed this into the realm of a personal argument, and as a police officer—as a client—she carried the stronger hand.
Dart waited through the agonizing minutes for the elevator to arrive. He then edged his squeaking cart out into the hall and closed the door. When he glanced at Abby, she was shaking her head at him in disappointment. Dart fingered the brim of his hat in thanks and raced to the elevator, stopping only to snag the WET FLOOR sign and stash it on his cart. He had to return the cart to the first-floor storage room as quickly as possible. He didn’t want the cleaning company raising any questions and if he could pull this off, then when the cleaner reported the conflict, Abby would be gone, the floor would be dry, the sign gone, and there would no evidence that any cleaning had taken place. The result would be an impression that the cleaner was trying to shirk some of his duties.
Dart rode the elevator nervously, his finger resting on the CLOSE DOOR button, ready to push.
As the elevator doors slid open, he smelled cigarette smoke and heard a man and a woman in conversation. At this hour, he assumed them to be cleaners. He needed to return the cart and then get out, both without being seen.
The hallway was clear. The voices appeared to be coming from down toward the Property Room, where a door led to the parking lot. Grabbing a smoke , he realized.
“Johansen! Get over here!” a voice called out from Dart’s left as he was stepping into the hall.
“Coming,” the male smoker hollered back.
Johansen, the smoker, would have to pass the elevator to reach that other voice.
The detective stepped back into the car and punched the CLOSE DOOR button. Nothing! He punched it a second time and the doors finally responded, though to Dart they seemed to close more slowly than any pair of elevator doors he had ever encountered. The footsteps of the two smokers approached quickly, and it sounded to him that they would reach the elevator before the doors shut fully.
He tugged the cart parallel to the elevator car’s side wall and squeezed himself with his back against the panel.
But the elevator interior was done in mirror, he realized too late, and as the two smokers passed by, the woman glanced into the car and saw Dart’s reflection in the mirror.
Had he managed to appear calm, he might have pulled it off, but as it was, with his face screwed up into a knot and his eyes locked in terror, he gave himself, and his false identity, away. This woman worked with only three other people, and Joe Dartelli was not one of them.
The elevator doors thumped shut, and the car groaned as it lifted.
Dart had not pushed the second-floor button; someone had called the elevator.
Had the desk sergeant been alerted? Were they already looking for an imposter?
Dart tore off the mustache and shed the green work apron, preferring to be discovered as detective Joe Dartelli than a cop inexplicably impersonating a cleaner. As the elevator crawled upward, he prepared himself immediately to voice a complaint about the cleaning cart being left in the elevator.
The elevator bounced to a stop and the doors slid open.
Abby Lang stood facing him. Dart stepped out into the hall feeling vulnerable.
For a brief second, Dart felt caught off guard—his complaint
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