He probably could—it was a large building and it would take a prolonged search to determine that he was not inside it.
She smiled peculiarly, clearing her throat. "Thirty-seven Brighton Drive."
Mechanically he repeated the number. "What is it?"
"That's where you can find out."
"Find out what?"
"What they did to you here. I can't tell you now," she whispered nervously. "Oh, do hurry!"
If he had to move fast, this seemed a good time. The elevator dropped him to the street level and, looking cautiously around, he walked out. In a few minutes, he was blocks away. It was mid-morning, and he swung along, hands thrust into his jacket. There was a wad of paper inside and he fished it out and examined it—money, neatly folded with a note around it.
The note was from Erica, saying that the money was meant for him. The sum was not great, but she must have given him everything she had in the house. Mistily, he counted it out.
III