I was finishing my second cup of coffee and contemplating my next approach to Jill Starkey when the phone rang and a man identified himself as Mr. Snelling, a representative of the management company for the building on Sly Lane. “We’re aware of the unfortunate situation with the elevator on Friday night,” he said, “and would like to compensate you for your, ah, inconvenience. We could—” “I’m not a litigious person, Mr. Snelling, although my firm’s attorney will be in touch with you about terminating the lease, effective last Friday. Has anyone inspected the elevator?” “We had a man out there yesterday.” “Was there evidence it had been tampered with?” “Possibly. One of the cables was frayed, but it could’ve been overlooked by the earlier inspectors.” “Do you believe that?” “Yes and no. The new man showed the cable to me, but I haven’t the expertise to evaluate what happened.” I had no reason to doubt him; it was to his advantage to persuade me to return.
