Page 78 of Can't Stop Watching
He stares at the money, then back at me. For a moment, I think I've got him.
"Look," Jerry says, pushing my hand away, "I need this job more than I need your money. Wife's got cancer. Medical bills." He steps back toward the door. "Got three kids. Can't risk it."
The irony isn't lost on me. I'm being cockblocked by a man's actual fidelity to his family while pretending to be the instrument of someone else's infidelity.
"I respect that," I say, and I do. Integrity is rare enough to recognize when you see it.
I put on a regretful face, shoulders slumping just enough to sell it. "At least I tried," I mutter, shooting one quick glance past Jerry's shoulder to memorize what I can see of the interior layout. Standard service corridor, emergency exit sign at the far end, utility panel on the right wall.
I turn and walk away, my footsteps deliberately heavy on the pavement. Defeated man walking. Oscar-worthy performance.
What Jerry doesn't know is that my sunglasses aren't just for show. The inside edge of the left lens has a tiny reflective strip—a PI's rearview mirror. In my line of work, knowing what's happening behind you is often more important than what's ahead.
Through that sliver of reflection, I watch Jerry's posture. He stands guard for a solid thirty seconds, making sure I'm really leaving. His dedication is almost touching. Almost. The moment he relents, I double back silently, slipping behind the bulk of the garbage truck.
The deep rumble of the idling engine masks any sound I might make. I crouch low, using the truck's massive tires as cover. Security cameras are usually mounted high, angled down—there's almost always a blind spot close to walls and large objects. Almost every security setup has the same weakness: they're designed by people who think like property managers, not thieves.
I count to sixty in my head. Experience has taught me that's how long it takes for someone to stop being vigilant after a potential threat walks away. Human nature. We're hard-wired to conserve energy, to stop paying attention the moment danger seems to pass. It's how our ancestors survived, saving their fight-or-flight responses for when they actually needed them.
It's also how people die.
From my position, I see Jerry's boots through the gap beneath the truck. He shifts his weight, probably checking his watch. Then, as predicted, the boots turn and disappear through the doorway.
I slide around the back of the vehicle, staying low in its shadow. The driver's busy collecting bins inside. The service door is still propped open. Opportunity knocks.
Three quick steps and I'm inside, ducking immediately into a recessed doorway to my right—some kind of cleaning supply closet. The service corridor stretches ahead, fluorescent lights humming overhead.
Funny how easily security fails when tested. All these expensive systems, keycard access points, surveillance cameras, rendered useless by something as simple as a garbage pickup. The wealthy build their fortresses, convinced they're impenetrable, never understanding that determined people, with a bit of luck, always find a way in.
Just like Langford thinks his secrets are safe behind wealth and influence. But everyone leaves garbage behind. Everyone.
And now I'm inside, hunting for his.
I wait for Jerry's footsteps to leave before moving deeper into the service corridor. The smell of cleaning chemicals and trash lingers in the air, the hidden infrastructure that keeps luxury functioning.
At the end of the corridor stands a heavy metal door marked 'STAIRS.' Bingo. I approach silently, testing the handle.
Nothing. Locked tight. Electronic keypad glowing smugly next to it.
"Son of a bitch," I mutter, frustration rising in my throat. Getting into the building was the hard part. The rest should've been easy.
I examine the keypad. High-end. Eight digits. Biometric verification option. Whoever installed this wasn't fucking around and has Milo frustrated. No one has ever bested him.
Was it all for nothing? Breaking in just to hit another wall? Story of my goddamn life. I run my hands along the door frame, searching for weaknesses, finding none.
"Think, Wolfe."
Old buildings like this one have secrets—architectural ghosts from before security systems and electronic locks. Rich people renovate but rarely rebuild completely. There's always a skeleton underneath the new skin.
I scan the corridor, noticing the utility panel on the wall, larger than standard electrical access. Something about it feels off.
I pry it open with my tactical knife. Behind the panel isn't wiring. It's a dumbwaiter shaft, ancient and forgotten. Probably sealed off during some renovation, deemed obsolete when elevators became standard. But they never removed the shaft itself.
"Jackpot."
It's narrow, meant for meal service, not grown men with shoulder holsters. The cables look ancient but intact. No car in sight—probably at the bottom or top of the shaft.
"Tight fit," I whisper, gauging the dimensions against my frame. "But beggars can't be choosers."
