"She didn't come out at either end," Frank said.
"Then she is still inside the lift, or she got off on a floor between." Harlan turned to Pell, who had returned from the side corridor. "Take two men, start at the bottom of the freight shaft, and work your way up. Open every service door. Do not, under any circumstances, draw a weapon unless you have to. She is a frightened woman; she is not a suspect."
Pell nodded and was gone.
Harlan turned back toward the front of the lobby. Through the tall glass doors, he could see the sedan still idling at the curb. The driver was no longer in the same position: he had turned his head and was looking directly at the entrance of the building, his hand resting on the wheel, his other hand somewhere out of sight below the dashboard. From this distance, Harlan could not see his face clearly, but he could see the angle of attention. And the angle of attention was that of a man who had begun to understand that something on his side of the morning was no longer going according to plan.
"Frank," Harlan said quietly, "Lieutenant Vance—where is she?"
"Six minutes out, sir. She has two units coming in silent. She said to ask you to stay inside the lobby and to keep the boy away from the windows."
"Tell her I'm going to keep the driver where he is. I do not want him deciding to leave before she arrives."
Frank looked up. "Sir?"
"Get me Garrett on the radio."
Garrett's voice came through a moment later, steady as it had been for nineteen years: "Mr. Whitfield."
"Garrett, the car at the curb—the driver. I want you to walk out to him at your normal pace. Tell him I have been delayed by a phone call. Apologize for the inconvenience. Offer him a bottle of water. Do not let him see that anything is wrong."
"Understood, sir."