Chapelwood (The Borden Dispatches #2)(34)

“That is correct, though you might have better luck at the police station—if it’s the case files you’re after.”

“Ah, but that’s not what the station had to say about it. According to my contact there, the files were moved here a few weeks ago. Something about security concerns.”

He looked puzzled, but that’s easy enough to do. I didn’t take it at face value.

“If that’s the case, then I must apologize yet again. I really haven’t the faintest idea where they might have run off to. I haven’t come across them so far, but I assume there’s other storage to be found, someplace. Listen, why don’t you give me a number or an address where I can reach you, and I’ll keep my eyes open. Surely they’ll turn up in the next day or two, don’t you think?”

“That’s a marvelously kind offer, and I can’t thank you enough.” It might have been a little gushy, but by that point, I think we both knew how much horseshit was being flung about the room. “Here, take my card—and on the back, I’ll jot down the hotel where I’m staying. You can reach me there, or leave a message anytime, day or night.”

We extricated ourselves with another handshake, just in time for his phone to ring with a jangling clamor that was loud enough to rattle the single office window, which overlooked a rectangular yard. I took my leave, and once again took care to keep from disturbing the man at work on the door.

But as I stepped around him, he discreetly tapped the back of my leg with his scraping tool.

He held a finger to his lips, so I said nothing—I only walked all the way around the door and out of Mr. Barrett’s immediate line of sight. From the single side of the conversation in the office, I deduced that he was chatting with his new police chief; and the workman deduced that it was distraction enough to whisper a message: “Basement,” he breathed. “Stairs at the end of the hall. Storage Room Six.”

Then he returned to the “r” in “Ward,” removing it one solitary flake at a time, and studiously avoiding any pretense of having spoken at all.

I would’ve thanked him, but he gave me the impression he’d rather I didn’t call attention to his covert assistance, so I walked away in the direction his head-cocking had indicated.

I collected a few curious stares as I strolled the length of the corridor, but I’d already figured out the easiest way to deflect them—with a nod and a smile, the social currency of the region. It was a simple work-around to my native unfamiliarity; so long as no one heard me speak, and realized how very foreign I was, everyone treated me with cordial acceptance—and although I was not familiar to any of the men or women who worked there, I behaved as if I belonged, and that was sufficient to keep anyone from stopping me when I reached the door to the stairwell.

A sign beside it confirmed what lay beyond it, and furthermore admonished, “Authorized Employees Only,” but I ignored that, pulled the handle, and let myself inside—to a narrow vertical space made of concrete from floor to ceiling. I realize that these interstitial places are meant to function, not shine, but it still felt like an oppressive, gloomy nook—all gray, all dark except for the caged lightbulbs positioned at the landings. The steps were stained or shadowed in blotchy patches, and the handrail was covered in glossy black paint that had chipped and peeled in the Southern humidity to reveal a veneer of rust underneath.

I had no intention of touching it.

But in the semidarkness, I reached for it anyway, without meaning to—about halfway down, where the light was weakest between the landings. It felt slick under my fingers, and I jerked them away. I looked for someplace to wipe them, but seeing nothing, I took hold again. I could always wash my hands later, couldn’t I? It would be easier than nursing a broken leg.

At the bottom, I gave up and reached for my handkerchief. I rubbed it back and forth across my fingers, turning it faintly red and collecting the flecks of paint as I stared about my new surroundings.

It was brighter there at the bottom, but not much. The floor was still that smooth, drab concrete, but the walls were brick and stone, painted white . . . though I could scarcely see them for the stacks of filing cabinets, boxes, folders, office equipment, and cleaning supplies that formed a maze around me. “Storage Room Six,” the man with the scraping tool had told me. I saw no mention anywhere of different rooms or divisions, or any other sign that this repository of Everything Else had ever received any hint of organizational assistance.

Directly before me, a few feet from the final step, a pair of cabinets stood side by side like oversized, threatening sentries. A pair of angels with flaming swords could have scarcely been more intimidating in that close, darkened terrain—but the space between them was approximately the width of a doorway, and a path ran between them as a matter of necessity.

I approached these bureaucratic obelisks and turned sideways, passing through this weird gate and into a veritable tunnel, for the civic detritus towered over me on either side. On my left I saw nameplates and old windows, closet doors and pieces of chairs. On my right, broken lamps and brooms, a cigarette machine that perhaps still worked, a tower of desk drawers stacked one atop another almost to the ceiling.

It may have been my imagination that the way grew more narrow as I progressed, and the storage items more peculiar. But I turned sideways again and now I squeezed past an upended chaise, a bicycle, and the bottom springs of a mattress. I shied away from bookcases covered in dampness and rot, a coffee table that looked like it’d been shattered with a mallet, an umbrella stand shaped like a dead-eyed parrot—and the skeletal remains of half a dozen umbrellas that jutted from its head.