30 minutes earlier...
"Can you drive a little faster?" The constant drizzle so prevalent in Capital City had turned into a mid-afternoon downpour, thickening Spinoza's windshield with rain as his car plowed through flooded streets, parting water from the macadam and depositing on the sidewalks.
Spinoza squinted through the windshield as the rain beat angrily on the car's roof and thought he heard thunder (Thunder! - a sound not common in precipitation events west of the Rockies) in the distance. "If you don't like my driving, you can always take the bus."
"Can you at least drive like there's some urgency attached to our task?"
"Why are you anxious all of a sudden? Fifteen minutes ago, you seemed unflappable in your confidence."
"Maybe it's the sense of motion, however retarded that may be. Or the realization that an innocent bystander's been kidnapped by murderers."
"If it's the sense of motion, going faster will only heighten your sense of anxiety, so I'm doing you a favor by slowing down."
"I'm worried about Vera."
"Me too, but getting us killed won't improve her situation any. Besides, she's resourceful enough as long as neither one of her kidnappers turns into a giant rat."
"Otto can be unpredictable."
"Yes, but, like you pointed out, not very bright. Without having met him or Emily Brunner, I'd still place my bets on Vera in a battle of wits."
"She can be a bit acerbic, and I'm worried how they'll react if she goes too far."
"Look at the facts. If she comes to any harm, they lose any bargaining chip they have, and they've exposed themselves as murderers and will have no treasure to show for it. Stupid or not; impulsive or not; I'm sure that scenario's occurred to them."
"True." The torrent stopped as suddenly as it started. Or, rather, it reverted from being a cumbersome downpour to its usual steady trickle that caused the men of the city to fret about their suits puckering and the women to complain about the uselessness of spending any hard-earned money at a hair salon.
With the change in road conditions, Spinoza's automobile climbed the city's hills at an accelerating rate and then descended cautiously while its operator pumped the brakes. At the nadir of each urban cliff, both men began to feel nausea overtake them due to the constant stop and start motion.
"Why don't you just coast down the hill like a normal driver?" Tannehill burped in discomfort.
"The shocks on this car aren't exactly in the best shape. One errant bump at high speed, and you and I will be sliding along the ground, steering wheel in hand, while the rest of the chassis rumbles behind us."
As the car approached downtown, the terrain flattened a bit, and their nausea eased, the two men began to refine their plan to rescue Vera, force a confession of murder from the would-be international entrepreneurs and find a way to repatriate the stolen items. Given that they had approximately five minutes before they sped through the central business district and reached Emily Brunner's waterfront apartment, much of that plan involved storming the lobby of the building, menacing any uncooperative doorman, and rushing up the elevator in order to negotiate with Otto and Emily at the point of a gun.
"What it lacks in Shakespearean complexity it makes up for in expediency," Spinoza noted.
"Do you have a firearm?" Tannehill asked, unphased by Spinoza's retort.
"In the glove compartment." Tannehill was more than a little surprised that not only was the answer "Yes," but also "and it's within easy reach of where you're sitting now." Spinoza sensed this surprise and continued, "It's Capital City. And I'm a crime reporter. Who works mostly at night." He emphasized the end of each sentence to accentuate the obviousness of his statement. Satisfied with that logic, Tannehill pulled the pistol from its resting place and briefly inspected it before replacing it.
"Why are you concerned if I have a firearm? We stopped by your office to pick up your own service revolver."
"It's Capital City. We're chasing murderers. You can't be too careful," Tannehill mirrored in Spinoza's previous tone.
Fortune - or the still dwindling number of serviceable cars, even on the plush streets of downtown, that could be attributed to the depression's slowly weakening grip - allowed them to park across from the building. Spinoza reached across Tannehill to open the glove compartment and grab his pistol, performing his own cursory inspection before exiting the vehicle. They dodged a couple of hasty drivers on the waterfront highway who showed their support for the men's mission by saluting them with high-pitched wails from their horns and muffled insults from behind their windows as they sped precariously by.
Once inside the lobby, they encountered the same obstinate doorman who'd hindered Tannehill during his first visit to the building in the week prior.
Tannehill darted past him and the doorman's voice followed him with a resounding "HEY!". Tannehill slid to a stop in front of the elevator bank and turned to face the doorman and Spinoza, who'd lagged a few steps behind. "Keep him here," he said, addressing Spinoza. "I don't want him to call up to Brunner's apartment and tip them off." Spinoza turned to the doorman, who was now facing him in a mixture of confusion and indignation, and shrugged.
Tannehill hastened into the elevator bank and mashed the up arrow repeatedly. After an excrutiating 15 seconds, the ding of the elevator alighting in the lobby became audible. He rushed into the car and promptly forgot what floor Emily Brunner's apartment was located on. He then sprinted to the mailroom across the way, swearing briefly in resignation as the door closed and the elevator began to climb ever higher. Scanning the mailroom, he found her - Brunner, 802 - and ran back to the elevator bank, pressing the up arrow with even more impatience than his first attempt. As he climbed in, he could hear the soft murmur of voices from the lobby and a chuckle as the doors closed around him.
Once, he reached the eighth floor, he stepped in the hallway and stopped, breathless. He gulped down the stale air of the floor's entrance foyer and wiped the sweat from his brow in an effort to compose himself before confronting Vera's assailants. A loud ding boomed behind him and he turned, watching Spinoza step breezily into the foyer behind him.
"I thought I told you to watch the doorman!," Tannehill barked.
"He's not going to do anything," Spinoza answered in a measured tone.
"How are you so sure?"
"I informed him that I'm a member of the press, and, if he helps us out on our little errand, I can get a prominent spot in any resulting story."
"And if he decides that's too thin of a promise to keep him from changing his mind before we reach the door?"
Spinoza rubbed his nose. "I thought of that."
"And?"
"I informed him that I'm a member of the press and, if he doesn't help, I can find enough dirt on him to bury him in any resulting story."
Tannehill smiled and drew in one more deep breath before heading toward Emily Brunner's apartment and exhaling. He motioned for Spinoza to stay a few steps behind and out of sight as he drew his revolver. They reached the front door of apartment 802, and Tannehill knocked nonchalantly, but with purpose, leveling the revolver at waist height.
From his vantage point a few steps down the hallway, Spinoza watched the door open and heard a familiar voice from the interior of the unit, "Oh, thank God! Tannehill. Did you bring any dry vermouth?"
[Author's Note: Well, unless I get extremely ambitious in the next four days, I'm not likely to finish the novel by the end of November - which was a long shot anyway. But there's a good chance the first draft will be done in conjunction with the long, strange year that 2020 has been. This chapter is 1285 words. The grand total is 48039 words.]
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