I hate Fridays close to Christmas. Where the hell is everyone?

In my ear, the mechanized female voice repeats, “All operators are busy – please continue to hold.”

I’m tempted to hit the panic button and call Shep, who’s in charge of the bank’s security, but… no… too much of a stickler… without the right signatures, he’ll never let me get away with it. So if I can’t find someone with transfer authority, I need to at least find someone in the back office who can-

I got it.

My brother.

With my receiver in one ear and my cell in the other, I shut my eyes and listen as his phone rings. Once… twice…

“I’m Charlie,” he answers.

“You’re still here!?”

“Nope – I left an hour ago,” he deadpans. “Figment of your imagination.”

I ignore the joke. “Do you still know where Mary in Accounting keeps her username and password?”

“I think so… why?”

“Don’t go anywhere! I’ll be right down.”

My fingers dance like lightning across my phone’s keypad, forwarding my line to my cell phone – just in case the University Club picks up.

Dashing out of my office, I make a sharp right and head straight for the private elevator at the end of the dark mahogany-paneled hallway. I don’t care if it’s just for clients. I enter Lapidus’s six-digit code at the keypad above the call buttons, and the doors slide open. Shep in Security wouldn’t like that one either.

The instant I step inside, I spin around and pound the Door Close button. Last week, I read in some business book that Door Close buttons in elevators are almost always disconnected – they’re just there to make hurried people feel like they’re in control. Wiping a forehead full of sweat back through my dark brown hair, I push the button anyway. Then I push it again. Three floors to go.