I spent parts of the next two days checking things out at Katrina’s office building to see if my half-formed plan was feasible, and buying a few things I thought I’d need. I’d never wanted a set of lock-picks before, but I learned they could by purchased online with twenty-four-hour shipping and a couple of locks to practice on. I picked up some simple white cards from the stationery store, then spent half an hour at the flower shop on the corner and made a quick stop at Out of the Closet to rummage through their shabbier offerings. Like almost every used clothing place in the city, they had an assortment of items for the drag queen diva about town, including outrageous wigs, size-14 stiletto heels, and super-sized feather boas, but I didn’t need much, and everything fit into the small paper sack I carried back to Aromas.
Getting into Katrina’s flat wasn’t difficult, thanks to the practice locks and another sleepless night. The cousin was a potential problem, but I expected him to be asleep at the other end of the apartment at four a.m. What I didn’t expect was the coffee maker to be burbling away on the counter of the open-plan kitchen. I had the door open several inches before I realized I should have allowed for an insomniac journalist. I risked a quick peek around the door, saw no one, and leaned in to grab what I needed. I didn’t even step inside. I closed the door as quietly as I could, and ran with my ill-gotten gains.
I’d already made my apologies to Nat for skipping a morning at The Coffee and asked Haruto to open Aromas on Tuesday morning. Davie, my teenaged helper, was coming in after school, so if I needed it, I had all day. I hoped I wouldn’t need it.
A twenty-minute cab ride and a short walk got me to Katrina’s office, which was in a building on the blurred dividing line between Chinatown and North Beach on Columbus, a couple of (very steep) blocks from the heart of the Financial District. At seven a.m. it was raining lightly, and I was standing across the street under a shallow awning. We were in the middle of a significant drought. It rained so seldom that a heavy rainstorm could bring people out of their homes to marvel. A thunderstorm with lightning might just as well have been a Fourth of July fireworks display. Everyone dressed in layers, so we could deal with fog or a rapid dip or upswing in temperatures, but rain usually caught us by surprise. Groups of people tended to cluster under shelter and, even at this early hour, several people were under the awning with me, staring resentfully up at the sky.
As the rain stopped and my rain-averse cohorts moved on, a woman in the maroon jacket of the building’s security guards came out of a side door into the alley. She handed a mug to a ragged man crouching under a tarpaulin stretched between a wooden pallet and a shopping cart. She talked with him for a moment or two, then went back inside.
The Beaux Arts building with its planters of disciplined boxwood wasn’t new, but it was well maintained, providing a glossy and expensive habitat for medium-level legal and accounting firms. I’d watched the routine at the security desk the day before, mostly from outside, but also while casually sipping a smoothie in the small lobby café. The security guards were friendly and personable, attentive to the building’s high-powered tenants. I’d checked on the location of fire stairs and emergency doors, which was always good information to have.
Gone were the days when a person—a photographer, say—could wander into a building, check the directory, and take the elevator to any floor she wished. Security had gradually become so stringent in the aftermath of the 101 California Street mass shooting that in some newer buildings the elevators only responded to chipped cards carried by the tenants. I once spent an embarrassingly long time in an elevator like that, inspecting the sleek, button-free interior, wondering how to close the doors.
Katrina’s building was a little too old for that level of high-tech, but guards still inspected a visitor’s ID, took a photo, had you sign a log, and then called upstairs to make sure you were expected. The only exception to the routine was early morning. Lawyers got to work early—very early—long before the support staff clocked in, and I was betting that a call from the security desk would go unanswered.
I had a moment’s qualm because if I was successful, someone might lose their job. On the other hand, if I was successful and lucky, no one would know I’d been there.