A Mighty Fortress (3 page)

I found the lobby entrance on the Ashley side, and held the door open for a young lady dressed for a run in spandex shorts and a lycra sports bra. But she hadn’t been out on a run yet. She was walking a toy dog and carrying a rumpled plastic bag, presumably for little Phydeaux’s droppings.
 

The lobby was sleek and clean. The mounted LED monitors played CNN. I’ve always wondered who makes the decision on whether to play CNN or Fox News in such public places, and what goes into that thought process. I would have taken SkyGate residents to be more of a Fox News crowd, but what did I know?

Regardless, the kid at the information desk was clearly more in the MSNBC mold: wire-rimmed glasses with dark bangs that covered most of his forehead. The hair was cut to a short fade on the sides, and a nascent goatee blemished his pale chin. I figured he was an aspiring hipster who supported every NPR fundraising drive; probably majoring in Art History at UT and dreaming about being interviewed by Terry Gross one day (hell, I wanted to be interviewed by Terry Gross one day). He looked me up and down and asked how he could help me, all the while seemingly scowling on the inside.

I showed him my license to serve process in Hillsborough County. It used to be that only county sheriff deputies could serve papers in civil and criminal actions. But as society grew more litigious, the sheriffs couldn’t keep up with the volume of papers, so the legislature allowed the sheriff of each county to approve and appoint special process servers. That’s where I come in and do what I do six days a week or, on this occasion, seven. “I’m here to serve one of your residents. You know the drill?”

He frowned at the license. “You a biker or something?”

“If it’s any consolation, I drive a station wagon.”

He smirked. “You live in it?”

I took a deep breath. I reviewed the cues Dr. J always told me to use to control my anger and anxiety. I took another breath, counted to ten in four seconds, and asked him his name.

“Stewart.”

“Last name?”

He rolled his eyes. “What’s it matter?”

“It matters, Stewart, because I’m not getting your cooperation. I’m authorized by the sheriff of Hillsborough County to effect service of process within this jurisdiction. It means that as far as you’re concerned, I’m an officer of the law for purposes of serving this document in my hand. You don’t want to interfere with the business of the sheriff, do you?”

He shrugged. “Who’s getting foreclosed now?”

I showed him the subpoena and pointed to Scalzo’s name. “You know him?”

He read it and buried his face in his hands. “Fuck me. Anyone but him.”

I didn’t like the reaction Scalzo’s name continued to garner. “Is he home?”

“I’ll call and check.” Stewart reached for the phone, but I grabbed his arm. I guess I gripped too hard, because he winced and cried, “Ouch!”

“Don’t call him, Stewart.”

“Okay! Just tell me what you want me to do.”

I pulled out my handy statute and handed it to him. “I want you to read this.”

“The whole thing?”

I shook my head. “Just subsection 7.” He looked at it blankly. “Read it aloud, Stewart, so I know you read it.”

“A gated residential community—”

“You’re mumbling, Stewart.”

He raised his voice: “A gated residential community, including a condominium association or a cooperative, shall grant unannounced entry into the community, including its common areas and common elements, to a person who is attempting to serve process on a defendant or witness who resides within or is known to be within the community.”

“Thank you, Stewart. There’s a word in there I would have emphasized if I were reading. It was ‘unannounced.’ You know what that means?”

The question seemed below him.

“It means you don’t call Mr. Scalzo, Stewart. You don’t call him now, and you don’t call him after you put me on that elevator up to the penthouse.”

He chuckled. “No way in hell I’m putting you on that elevator.”

I turned his gaze back to the statute. “Read it again, Stewart. What’s it say I’m to get access to?”

He nodded without reading again. “I know, common areas. That’s this.” He pointed to the lobby around us. “These are the common areas.”

“As is the elevator.”

“But not the area outside his door.”

“Yes it is,” I said. “It’s common to the people who live on that floor.” He gave it some thought but didn’t come up with a quick reply. “Trust me, Stewart. It’s a common area.”

“Why should I trust you? You write the statute?”
 

I felt like I was talking to a future lawyer. “So who owns it, Stewart? Who owns that hallway? Are you allowed to go up there whenever you want?”

Stewart sighed. “I don’t see where the statute says I have to answer your questions.”

“Okay, Stewart, then final question: are you ready to grant me access to that elevator?”

“Be my guest. But it won’t go to his floor. It’s a penthouse.”

“Then I guess you’re gonna have to put your key in the elevator and give me access to that penthouse.”

He read the statute again. “It says I have to give you access to the community, including its common areas and common elements.”

“Is that your final answer, Stewart? Because if it is, I can assure you the attorney who signed this subpoena will have you in front of the chief judge for Hillsborough County first thing tomorrow morning, quicker than you can say ‘I’m a wannabe hipster.’ Now listen, kid, I know you think you got it all figured out with the two years of college under your belt and the class you took on epistemology. I hate to break your ego, but you don’t have a clue what you’re talking about. Judges see things in black and white. They don’t like semantics unless you have a license to practice law and fund their campaigns, which I assume does not apply to you.”

He looked like he wanted to cry. “Can I at least call my manager?”

“No calls, Stewart. Time is of the essence here.” I thought of the howling bowels of Mattie Wilcox.

“I’m quitting this job. As soon as I see you leave in an ambulance, I quit.”

Urban jazz played softly in the elevator. The ride up gave me enough time to reflect on the propriety of the exchange I’d just shared with Mr. Stewart. I didn’t recall anything that would invalidate service, assuming I was about to tag Mr. Scalzo.
 

The elevator door opened to a hallway of polished stone walls and marble flooring and three iron doors. I spotted the number for Scalzo’s unit, the master suite facing the river and UT. I leaned against the door and listened. I was sure I heard music inside. I knocked gently. There was no way that knock would be heard over the music. So I knocked louder, but figured a battering ram couldn’t announce my presence over the music inside.
 

So I grabbed the doorknob. Here went nothing: I turned the knob, and the door opened.
 

The music instantly boomed louder and fuller. Treble and vocals now complemented the bass I’d heard from the hallway. The music was some kind of hip-hop electronica, full of anticipation and building, a perfect soundtrack to how I felt entering the living area.
 

I called out and asked if anyone was home. No one answered. Not that anyone there would have heard me, or I them.

In the living room, a long leather charcoal couch with squared edges faced a sixty-inch LCD TV on a stand. The TV was surrounded by a wall of shelves housing receivers and what looked like computer hard drives. On the shelves, I located the machine that most resembled a receiver: a high-end Dennon box with all the bells and whistles. I hit the power button, and the music died. My ears rang as silence settled across the room.
 

I called out another hello, but still no one answered. No signs of pets or photographs or human life for that matter. In the far corner there was a sleek steel desk housing two hard-drive towers and three monitors. Two video cameras on pods rounded out the room, and made me wonder if Scalzo was an aspiring filmmaker or day trader or both. As my ears recovered from the techno, I thought I heard a woman’s voice. I followed it.

This took me across the room to another living area that was empty. To the left it led to a hallway opening to the kitchen, and on the right there was a sliding glass door that opened to a balcony overlooking the park and river. The voice was clearer now. Definitely female.
 

I caught a glimpse of something flapping on the balcony. I walked closer and got a better angle to look outside.
 

There I saw a petite brunette talking on a cell phone, one hand holding the phone, which was twice the size of her hand, and the other holding her robe closed. It was her robe I had seen, fluttering in the gentle breeze. Her hair was tied in a bun with a porcelain pick. I gave her a few minutes to finish her call, but it seemed she was going to spend the morning outside.

So I slid the door open. The balcony was deep and wide, traversing the entire front of the building.
 

“Hello?” I said. Across the river, the silver minarets peaked into the sky, shining under the sun. I heard a droning, a buzzing in my ears, and snapped out of it when she told whomever she was talking to that she’d call back later. She turned and pushed me inside.

“Hey there,” she said. “You’re early.”

“Funny, I thought I was late.”

She held out her hand and studied me. “I’m Angie. Have we met?”

I shook my head. “I’m Milo. I’m pretty sure we haven’t.”

She leaned forward and kissed me on the cheek. “Good to meet you, Milo.” She moved across the empty room and took the hallway to the kitchen. I followed her. “Sorry if there was a mix-up. I wasn’t expecting you until eleven.”

“No problem,” I said, following behind her. “Is anyone else home?”

“Just us.” She grinned, flipped on the light to a kitchen that now glimmered with a stainless steel gas range and refrigerator that looked like they belonged in a restaurant.
 

She turned around, like she was modeling, and let me get a better look at her. Her skin was tanned, and glistened. Her hair had black roots that grew lighter for the most part, but also had a few random streaks of maroon. Her robe was thin and translucent, barely covering breasts that seemed too large for her dainty frame. The robe also barely covered her thighs, which were toned and thick, those of someone who spent a fair amount of time in the gym every week.

“You always leave the door unlocked?” I asked.

“Only when I’m expecting someone.” Her grin grew wider. Her eyes were emerald green, like the deep waters of the Gulf. Her gaze was like a spotlight that made you feel embarrassed, like being caught naked in a dream. “Like a very important person.”
 

I wondered how long I had before this very important person she was expecting would arrive. Whoever he was, I had a pretty good idea what he was coming for.
 

She laughed and her eyelashes fluttered. “You’re new to this, aren’t you?”

I played coy and admitted that I was. There was something about her voice I couldn’t quite place. It was as though she were trying to sound educated or formal, while hiding a strong southern twang.
 

“You usually want to start by leaving the donation for me, somewhere where I can see it.” She took a few steps closer. “But since I like you, we can take care of business later.”

“Thanks,” I said, swallowing hard.
 

“You want a drink?” She turned on a dime, opened the fridge, and pulled out a jug of grapefruit juice. A bottle of Grey Goose already sat open on the counter. She worked with her back toward me, and I noticed that neither hand cared for the robe any longer. It moved freely as she stepped back to the freezer and dropped a few cubes in her tumbler. Then she gracefully spun back to the counter for a few ounces of vodka, and topped it off with a splash of the grapefruit juice. She turned and looked me in the eyes as she took a long, noisy slurp. She held the tumbler with her right hand; if her left hand did anything, it only pulled the robe wide open.
 

I could now clearly see that she wore nothing underneath. She’d cared for every detail of her body, from the shade of her tan and the tone of her thighs to the thick polish on her nails, which matched the maroon streaks in her hair. Everything about her body looked perfect, except that it was so exposed.
 

She seemed very comfortable being naked in front of a stranger. “You sure I can’t get you something?” she asked as she took a few steps back in my direction.

I told her I was sure. She reached for me, and I pulled my head back. I thought she was trying to kiss me, but she was just going for my beard. “So thick,” she remarked as she ran her fingers through my mane, as though she were trying to massage my face. “Are you blushing under there?”

I took her hands away from my face and gently returned them to her sides and tried to close her robe. She stepped back, pulled her robe open again, and placed her hand on her hip, right next to a colorful tattoo—a heart with the word “Love” written in cursive along the right curve.

“Did that hurt?” I asked, nodding at the body art.

I shouldn’t have said that, because she pulled the robe wide open and gave me a view of everything that I, for the most part, didn’t want to see. “Not too bad.” She took a slow drink, licked a drop of juice from her lip, and grinned. “You want to touch it? I love being kissed in that area.” She stepped in my direction.

I took a deep, furtive breath. I needed to get some information or get the hell out. “This might sound funny, but do you mind if I ask when the man of the house will return?”

“Oh, don’t worry. He’ll be gone for a while.”

“Chad Scalzo?”

“You sure ask a lot of questions. Whatever, it’s your money. Yes, Mr. Scalzo will not be back for a while.” Her accent was coming through. I pegged her as being from Georgia or Alabama.

“You’re not married, are you?” If by some slight chance she were Mrs. Scalzo, I could effect service by leaving the subpoena with her.