Page 110 of Deathmarch
When her hands slipped and she cut herself, she didn’t care. And she didn’t care when she stabbed a finger, nor when she ripped another nail.
When the tilt-down window finally popped open, she forgot all the pain. She yanked to widen the opening. Too hard. The window panel nearly crashed into the wall. She caught it at the last second.
Breathe.
Cold air rushed in.
Allie didn’t stop to savor the victory. She had to keep moving. The single-pane window had the lock at the top, hinges on the bottom. The glass now protruded above her head, in the way. To gain her freedom, she would have to crawl up and around it.
Damn bad design.What were people supposed to do if they had to get out through there in an emergency?
She tried to pull herself up. Awkward. She hurried off for a paint bucket, which raised her by eight inches. She didn’t dare add another one for fear that her little tower would collapse.
Trouble was, she had to put her weight on her elbows on the glass to move up. It would be just her luck to break the glass now and cut her arms to shreds. Not to mention how much noise broken glass would make crashing to the cement floor below.
She pulled, wiggled, tried to find purchase on the wall with her toes. Pain shot through her ankle. The brace was in the way, but when she took it off and tried again, the pain was significantly worse. Since she couldn’t climb at all like that, she had to refasten it before she tried again.
Then she finally, finally, succeeded. Her head was outside—grinnin’ like a weasel in a henhouse,Calamity Jane would have said—her feet dangling. Freedom was so close, she could taste it.
An abandoned backyard waited ahead. Beyond that, Allie saw other houses.Safety.
She just had to get to the point where more of her body weight was outside the window than inside. It’d be easy after that.
Just a few more inches.
She sang “Defying Gravity” fromWickedin her head and heaved her body forward. And she did lurch in the right direction.
Right before she slipped back.
* * *
Claire Lee had not handled the accounting for Donovan Security while they’d been in business, but she knew who had. Chad Holmes. Apparently, Broslin’s three accountants were all friends and played Friday-night poker together, along with their spouses. They were aware of each other’s clients.
Harper drove to the address Claire gave him, while Claire called ahead so he would be expected.
On his way, Harper called Brody Cash. The call wasn’t picked up.
Frank Carmelo’s phone went straight to voice mail.
Harper dialed Dave Grambus next.
“Detective Harper,” he said as soon as Grambus answered. “This is a police emergency. Don’t argue, please, just answer. Do you know when the in-ground safe was installed at Lamm’s place?”
“I don’t have to tell you anything,” Grambus argued, of course, sticking to character as diligently as if someone paid him fifty bucks every time he was surly. “You can’t just wake up people in the middle of the night like this—”
“I swear to God,” Harper’s grip tightened on the steering wheel, “I’m going to be on your ass for the rest of your life every time you go half a mile over the speed limit.”
“That’s police brutality.”
“Not unless I touch you.”
“It’s police something.”
“Christ, Dave. Someone was kidnapped. I need to find her. For once, just once, do the right thing, all right?”
“What kidnapping? Who? Why the hell didn’t you start with that?” Grambus coughed while he thought. “We had the safe installed in twenty sixteen. The price of gold was dropping—”
“Thanks.” Harper hung up on the man and called the captain next, explained the current situation. “I need a search warrant for Ernie Donovan’s business records. Donovan Security. Year of twenty sixteen. Unidentified suspect.” He sketched out his theory in a few sentences.
