Chapter 32

 

Fred knew he could no longer maintain his balance; and as he started to fall off the edge of the elevator’s roof, he pushed off its edge as hard as he could. The elevator which Fred had used to travel to the 14^th floor had two large structural metal braces on its side which crossed in the middle. As Fred was dropping he frantically grabbed at one of the braces. His body slammed into the side of the elevator, immediately knocking the wind out of him and simultaneously breaking his nose. Somehow, Fred was able to grab and cling to one of the braces.

Bruised and hurting all over, he climbed up the braces to the top of the elevator. Now he had to repeat the arduous process of climbing up the cable and swinging over to the penthouse elevator. This time he was successful. 

He entered the elevator through its door in the ceiling. For security purposes each floor had a security cage which remained closed until the elevator reached its designed floor and the elevator’s main door had opened. But for some reason the penthouse’s elevator door remained closed. Fred wedged his crowbar into the door to defeat its lock. When it finally opened, he used the same lever to open the outer metal door cage. Almost exhausted, after what seemed like endless effort, Fred was able go get both doors opened. Thank God, I work out at the Y religiously, he thought.

As Fred walked into the multi-million dollar condo, he was immediately impressed for two reasons. One, because the site exuded luxury, more so than Fred had ever before viewed in anyone’s living quarters. Even George Schultz’s elegant home didn’t compare to this, Fred thought. The ceiling had to be at least 20 feet high. The wall facing him was covered with peach, pink and orange Italian tile. Fred was sure that is was the same type of marble that graced the brassy and bold Trump Towers in downtown Manhattan. Atwell tended to emulate, not create. 

Water was cascading from a mammoth fountain to his right. On the wall to his left was what Fred assumed was a Picasso original; he didn’t know of too many artists who painted women with three breasts and he was sure, knowing Atwell’s ego, that it had to be an original. Another strange painting graced the same wall; it was of a male figure with no eyes, looking over the downtown San Diego area. Fred had never heard of the painter—Harry Cramer—but he certainly must have a strange distorted viewpoint of the world, Fred thought.

Another surprise for Fred was how meticulous the unit was kept. Fred had hoped that Atwell didn’t have Maureen on her hands and knees scrubbing the place until the last spot of dust had been removed. 

Fred noticed a set of glass patio doors leading to a large enclosed terrace overlooking downtown San Diego. Then he heard a loud metallic noise. He pulled his revolver out, scanning the room as he did. Pausing for a moment, he realized that the condo’s terrace doors were banging against their metal frame. He could hear the power of the wind ferociously beating at them. Fred knew that wind often generated more velocity, the higher one was; and at this altitude wind was more than likely constant company. Fred wondered why, in an expensive place like this, the designer hadn’t provided a better engineered structure so that wind noise wouldn’t be so irritating. Fred went out to the wrap-around terrace, where a quick glance told him no one was out there.

He proceeded to the study and his blood ran cold as he saw Atwell on the floor looking directly up at him. It was a cold stare, devoid of emotion or sight. A bullet hole was in the middle of Atwell’s head—Donna’s macabre calling card.

Now filled with panic and cold fear for Maureen, Fred ran down the hall. He saw female legs extending out from a bathroom door. Fred walked into the bathroom observing that the dead body had a bath towel thrown over her face. When saw he saw the soft bright red hair that showed around the edges of the towel, Fred let out an agonized scream, “Oh, God, Maureen! No!”