The least he could do was park the car out of sight. He pulled up on the side of the building that ran up against a fence, barely leaving them room to get out, then followed her to the front of the metal building. He figured it was twenty feet high and at least five thousand square feet judging by the perimeter. Without a word, she unlocked the door, but then he took over.
“Let me go in first.” He stepped in front of her and though he didn’t pull out his gun, he kept his hand at the ready.
“There shouldn’t be anyone here. It’s Saturday.” Mae followed him inside.
The strong scent of cedar struck him as soon as he opened the door. They walked down a short hall to a large open space. Mae flipped on the light switches. Office and lounge to the left, conference room to the right and rack after rack of clothing in row upon row. There was a brightly lit open space outside the office with several work tables and sewing machines, but the rest of the lighting was dim. Not too dim to see that the perimeter was lined with a second story of open metal flooring all the way around. Through the metalwork he could see that the second level was filled with more clothing.
She took him into an office where interior windows overlooked her empire of clothing. He couldn’t hold back another second.
“Where the hell did you get all these clothes and what the hell is all this shit for?”
“I’m a film and television costume designer and wardrober. I find or design costumes for actors and actresses of all shapes and sizes for their roles, specializing in period pieces and fantasy films. I was in charge of all the costuming forThrones of Chance—maybe you’ve heard of it?”
“Sure. Never watched it. Don’t have time for that kind of shit.”
“Everything is shit to you, isn’t it?”
“Everything except you.” He hadn’t meant it the way it sounded, based on the quick widening of her eyes and the after-glint. He’d meant that he took his responsibility for his clients’ safety seriously. No use explaining that to her now.
All he needed was a close-to-middle-aged hero-worshipping sex kitten. The worst possible combination he could think of in a woman.Damn.
“What are we doing here?”
“I wanted to get something from my safe.”
“I thought it was all about your wardrobe?”
“It is.” She waved her hand toward the window that looked out on the endless racks of what appeared to be random clothing. He had less than zero interest, but that seemed to be all this lady lived for.
As she dialed the combination on a substantial wall safe, she spoke.
“I buy vintage clothing from estates to keep my wardrobe stocked. A month or so ago I happened to purchase a circa-1940s wardrobe from Antonio Vito’s widow.”
“TheAntonio Vito? Killer Tony?”
She nodded as she pulled some papers from the safe. “The very one. The clothes were in great shape because old Killer Tony spent most of the last thirty years of his life in jail. Hardly had a chance to wear them. Mrs. Vito was downsizing and decided to sell everything.”
“Her dead husband’s clothing?” Joe shook his head.
“People do it all the time. Mind you, it’s not off-the-rack garments we’re talking about.”
“How about if we talk about it in the car. We need to get going.”
She nodded without argument and stuffed the papers into her bag. He’d bet she could fit a whole file cabinet of papers in there.
Joe started to retrace his steps out of the building when he heard the sound of a vehicle. Close. It was heavy, a truck or SUV, and he listened to it get closer right outside, then stop.
He spoke in a low voice as he took her hand, “Is there another way out of here?”
“At the back.” She sounded breathless, choked. He didn’t wait for the men to enter. Killing the lights with one hand, with his other he firmed his grip on Mary Ann and led her to the left side of the building along the wall and then toward the back.
The unmistakable sound of a door crashing open caused her to suck in a breath. He squeezed her hand tighter and pulled her with him as he broke into a dead run behind the racks of clothing along the wall. He listened to the men banging their way down the hall and counted three of them by the footfalls and the voices.
As they reached the back wall of the building he listened. He could still hear the loud men.
“Where’s the door?” He spoke in a low voice with as much calm as he possessed, hoping to hell that she wouldn’t panic. Hoping to hell she wouldn’t collapse in a useless heap forcing him to carry her out of there. But she did neither of those things, surprising him with a matching calm reply.
“The only other door is up those stairs.” She pointed to a shadowy railing in front of them. The stairs were out in the open, exposed.