Chapter 25
DANE
T he alley behind Langford's building reeks of privilege—even the garbage smells expensive. No fast food containers or cheap beer cans here. Just neatly tied bags of organic waste and recycling sorted by material. Typical Upper West Side bullshit.
A distant rumble grows louder—the garbage truck approaching. I stand casually outside the alley, staring at my phone as if I'm lost.
"This would be a lot easier if Milo had cracked the security system," I mutter, but same as Brian's phone, it stumped him.
The garbage truck turns into the alley, hydraulics whining. One way or another, I'm finding out what's behind that door today.
I hang back, watching the driver exit the truck. He's in one of those boutique waste management uniforms: dark blue jumpsuit with some tasteful logo I can't make out. Not your standard city garbage collectors. This building probably pays extra to have their trash handled with white gloves.
The driver moves with practiced efficiency, pulling a keycard from his pocket. The little green light flashes on the service entrance panel, and he props the door open with a door-mounted doorstop. These security setups always have the same weakness… the human element.
I adjust my baseball cap lower and make sure my sunglasses are firmly in place. The cameras will catch a man, but not necessarily Dane Wolfe. I approach from the driver's blind spot, footsteps silent against the pavement.
"Morning," I say.
The driver jumps, nearly dropping his clipboard. "Jesus! Where'd you come from?"
"Sorry about that." I'm not sorry. "Building manager sent me to check something in the utility room. Forgot my damn card again." I flash a smile that doesn't reach my eyes, careful to keep my face angled away from the camera above the door.
Jerry—that's what the embroidery on his uniform says—narrows his eyes, looking me up and down. His jaw tightens.
"Yeah, nice try. Get lost." He steps between me and the open door. "You think this is my first day? Building manager my ass."
I keep my expression neutral, but inside I'm calculating. I could take Jerry down in under three seconds. Pressure point behind the ear, one quick move to incapacitate without permanent damage. But unnecessary violence leaves trails. Bad for business.
"Look, man, I'm just trying to do my job here." I lean in slightly, lowering my voice to the register that makes most people instinctively want to cooperate.
Jerry snorts. "And I'm doing mine, which includes keeping randos like you out of a building where apartments cost more than most people make in a lifetime.
" His eyes scan me more carefully now, taking in my leather jacket, the quality of my boots.
His brow furrows slightly. "You don't look like the usual riffraff, but rules are rules.
Whatever you're selling, whatever angle you're working, save it. "
There's something almost admirable about someone actually doing their job properly in this city. Almost. Today it's just fucking inconvenient.
I reach into my back pocket, fishing out my wallet. Time for Plan B—the universal language of New York City.
"Jerry," I slide two crisp hundreds between my fingers, holding them just visible enough for him but hidden from the cameras. "I'm gonna level with you. I'm not here for the building manager."
Jerry's eyes lock onto the bills, his professional resolve wavering slightly.
"Left something at a lady friend's apartment." I let that hang in the air for a moment. "Problem is, her husband doesn't know about me, and what I left behind is... incriminating." I lower my voice. "Wedding band. Can't exactly call and ask her to mail it back."
Jerry's face transforms from suspicion to understanding. The oldest story in the world. Adultery. Everyone gets it, even if they don't approve.
"Shit, man." A hint of sympathy flashes across his face before he shakes his head. "That's rough, but I can't let you in. Security protocols. They'd have my ass. This job pays too well."
I add another hundred to the stack. "Three minutes. In and out. You never saw me."
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."
I check my holster to secure it and wedge myself into the opening, bracing against the walls. The shaft smells of old wood and decades of disuse. Darkness above and below.
I shimmy up the dumbwaiter shaft, muscles burning with each pull. The darkness is complete except for slivers of light bleeding through ancient seams in the wood. Third floor. I count the floors by the horizontal breaks in the shaft—remnants of where doors once opened into each level.
Sweat trickles down my spine as I reach the third floor. I press my ear against the sealed opening, listening. Silence. I trace the edges with my fingers, finding the outline of what was once a serving door. Decades of paint have sealed it shut, but nothing a tactical knife can't handle.