He drew the woman in the bright green, fringed shawl after him into his private office. “When did you start cleaning the thirteenth floor, Mrs. Ritter?”
“Why, the day the new tenants moved in.”
“But before that…” He waited, watching her face anxiously.
She smiled, and several wrinkles changed their course. “Before that, Lord love you, there was no tenants. Not on the thirteenth.”
“So…” he prompted.
“So there was nothing to clean.”
Blake shrugged and gave up. The scrubwoman started to walk away. He put his hand on her shoulder and detained her. “What,” he asked, staring at her enviously, “is it like—the thirteenth floor?”
“Like the twelfth. And the tenth. Like any other floor.”
“And everyone,” he muttered to himself, “gets to go there. Everyone but me.”
He realized with annoyance that he’d spoken too loudly. And that the old woman was staring at him with her head cocked in sympathy. “Maybe that’s because,” she suggested softly, “you have no reason to be on the thirteenth floor.”