by Rachel Ford
It was Director Caspersen. “Alfred?”
“Morning,” he replied.
“Morning. You got a minute?”
“Sure. What’s up?”
“Can you come to my office? I need to talk to you.”
The taxman frowned. That sounded ominous. But he typed back, “On my way.”
He did as he said, and a few minutes later was standing in the director’s office. “Take a seat,” she said.
He did, and fidgeted. Caspersen was fidgeting too, he saw. That worried him. So he mustered as confident a tone as he could, and asked, “What can I do for you, Director?”
“Well,” she said, “I’ve got…well, this is kind of a sensitive one. The fact is…well, I’ve got a complaint about you.”
“About me? From who?”
“You know I can’t tell you that, Alfred. It’s confidential. But…I’m told that you and Nancy Abbot are engaging in ‘highly gratuitous and deeply unprofessional public displays of affection’.”
The taxman blinked, stunned. “What?”
Caspersen glanced at her screen, and read, “The, uh, complainant mentions ‘multiple instances of gratuitous public displays of affection, including but not limited to a make out session in the hall in front of my office.’”
Alfred felt his cheeks coloring. “Justin,” he said.
“I didn’t say that,” Caspersen evaded. “And it doesn’t matter who complained. They’re not the focus of this.”
“No, ma’am, I understand that. But the accusation isn’t true.” He spread his hands. “We’ve been dating for almost six months. Have we ever been anything but professional?”
She hesitated. “You could pay better attention in meetings. But otherwise, no, I haven’t witnessed anything like what’s described.”
“Because we haven’t done it.”
“Well, the email says otherwise.” Alfred was about to protest again, but Caspersen raised her hands. “All I’m saying is, be careful. I’m not taking any action or anything like that on this. I’m perfectly happy to let it go. But just make sure there’s no room for complaints moving forward.”
He nodded, rage burning in his chest. “I understand.”
“Good.”
“I am concerned, though.”
“Concerned?”
“Yes, Director. Ever since Nance and I have been dating, Justin’s been on our case. On her case. I know he’s bitter about his divorce and his ex, but-”
“Alfred, you know our workplace encourages an open, non-retaliatory environment. If someone complains, even if we don’t agree, we can’t-”
“I know, Director Caspersen,” he interrupted. “It’s just…it keeps escalating. Last week, he was saying she’d cheat on me because ‘women are women.’”
Caspersen’s eye twitched. “He said that?”
Alfred nodded. “We’ve been trying to ignore it, because we know he’s got issues. But just this morning he was implying that Nancy wasn’t feminine enough, wasn’t a ‘real woman.’”
Caspersen cringed. “These are troubling comments, Alfred.”
“Yes.”
“But they’re not related to this conversation. This conversation is about your behavior. As far as the comments you’re describing, you and Nancy should both file formal complaints with HR.”
The taxman sighed and shook his head. “Understood. I’ll be careful, moving forward. But as far as Justin goes…he’s got issues, Director. I don’t want to add to them.”
And, quite confident that he’d done exactly the opposite of his stated intentions, Alfred took his leave of his boss.
He felt Justin’s eyes on him as he passed, but though the snake smirked, he didn’t have the temerity to call out to him. No sooner than had he got to his desk, did he text Nancy, informing her of everything that transpired.
“That son-of-a-biscuit must have gone whining to Caspersen after our conversation,” he said.
“After that speech about ‘real women,’ he turns us in for a kiss?” Nancy replied. “We need to go talk to HR. This is BS.”
“I don’t know,” Alfred said, “I think I planted a seed in Caspersen’s mind.”
“A seed?”
“I mentioned his comments about ‘women being women.’ You should have seen her eye twitch.”
“LOL! You sneak.”
“Yup.”
“I love it.”
Their lunch break was spent in much the same way, divided between commiseration and plotting. They tossed around ideas about how to get even, and went back and forth on whether they should take immediate action or play the long game.
His morning had been wasted, but, when he returned from lunch, Alfred vowed he’d genuinely put his mind to finding the murderer this time. And then, as soon as he returned to the employee directory, Nancy texted him.
“Shit. I just got pinged by Caspersen. She wants to see me too.”
For the next twenty-five minutes, Alfred waited anxiously for word from Nancy. When, at last, it came, he almost dropped his phone he was so eager to read what had transpired. “She asked me about Justin’s comments.”
“What did you tell her?”
“The truth.”
“What did she say?”
“That she’d take care of it.”
“What does that mean?”
“I don’t know.”
They didn’t have to wait long to find out the general gist of Caspersen’s plan of action. The ping of a new message sounded in Justin’s office a minute before Alfred heard footsteps heading down the hall toward the director’s office.
“I think she just called him in for a chat.”
Nancy sent a thumb’s up emoji. “Good.”
Half an hour passed, then forty-five minutes. “Holy sugar cookies. He’s still not back.”
“Wow. He’s either lying through his butt, or he’s really getting chewed out.”
“Or both.”
It was almost an hour after he’d answered his summons that the other man returned. Alfred wasn’t long left to guess how his chat with the boss had gone. The slam of Justin’s door, loud and emphatic in the stillness, was quite telling in its own right.
Between texting back and forth with Nance as they discussed their speculation about Justin’s conversation with Caspersen, Alfred spent the rest of the afternoon working on his projects. The last thing he needed, he decided, was for Caspersen to hear that he was falling behind on his work. Not now that he was engaged in an office cold war.
He was so enwrapped that he barely noticed when Justin cut out at two-thirty. He hadn’t even noticed that it was quitting time when Nance showed up. “You ready?”
“Oh.” He glanced at the clock. “Guess so.”
Justin was the subject of their conversation as they headed to Josh’s house, and Nancy told him in person what she’d laid out in text. Then, when they reached the marine’s place, she headed for her own car. “See you soon.”
No sooner than had he got on the road when a call came in. It was Josh, and he engaged hands-free call mode. “Stevenson? What’s up?”
“What’s up?” Josh sounded incredulous. “How’s the case going? Did you find the killer?”
“Oh.” The taxman felt his cheeks flush. He’d been so wrapped up with revenge that he’d hardly thought about the case. “I’m, uh, still in the strategy phase.”
“You mean, you haven’t done anything?”
“Kind of.”
“What are you waiting for, Favero? Nance’s in danger here.”
“I know, I know. It’s just…I don’t know what to do. If I look at the file, I get her killed. If she looks at the file, she gets killed.”
“Well, you’ve got to get whatever info’s in there without looking at the file.”
Alfred sighed. “If only it was that easy.”
“I’m not saying it’s easy, taxman. But what else can you do?”
“Nothing.”
“Exactly.”
�
�I’ll do it tomorrow.”
“Good.”
Chapter Ten
The costume fitting went well, at least from Nance’s perspective. Alfred thought he looked remarkably silly in the blue shirt with its wavy gold trim and dark pants with their flared bell legs. But she said he looked perfect. “Hey,” she suggested, “we should try your full makeup and ears.”
“We should?”
“Well, yeah. I’ve done it on myself, but never anyone else. Plus, you’ve got a completely different facial structure. I should practice at least once.”
Grumbling internally, aloud he acquiesced. She was, he found with not much surprise, very good. His face was transformed from the familiar expressions he knew into a pretty good facsimile of the Star Trek character. “I won’t touch the eyebrows today,” she told him, much to his relief. “I’m happy with our proof of concept.”
Then, she took out her phone and took a few pictures. “You’re not putting those online?” he wondered.
“Well…yeah. You look great.”
“Oh Nance,” he sighed. “I’m never going to live this down.”
They agreed to see the alien program that Josh had found after dinner. While Alfred cleaned off his makeup, Nance worked on the meal. The taxman wasn’t sure if it was just because he was starving – they’d spent a remarkably long time on his face – or if it was really as good as it smelled, but his mouth positively watered as he came into the kitchen. “Mmm. That smells amazing.”
“It’s stir fry.” She grinned. “Nothing too gourmet, I’m afraid. Just frozen vegetables and frozen chicken strips.”
“No soy sauce, I hope?”
Her grin broadened. “Of course not. We wouldn’t want to upset your tummy, now would we?”
He grinned too. “I’m surprised you remembered that, actually.”
“Why?”
“I don’t even remember us talking about it.”
“We did. A few months ago, when we were getting takeout. You said soy sauce always made you feel sick.”
“Oh.” He grabbed plates, considering her words as he did so. He considered the way she always remembered his exact coffee order, and the million and one other little details she attended to that he so often took for granted. “You know, I’m a hell of lucky guy, Nance.”
She smiled at him. “Maybe. But you know something, Mr. Favero? I’m not doing so bad myself.”
The next morning, Alfred turned his full attention, as he’d promised the marine, to the case. Or, nearly full. He did vaguely notice that Justin wasn’t in his office. He did pause his work long enough to glance at the other man’s schedule as nine o’clock rolled around and he was still absent – it read “out with a migraine” – and he allowed himself to text Nancy a, “Guess whose out with a migraine today?”
“Who?”
“Mr. Real-Women.”
“LMAO! That must have been one hell of a chat him and Caspersen had.”
Still, he stayed on track most of the time, and after awhile of fruitless contemplation, he reached a decision. If he couldn’t open the audit Nance had been working, he presumably wouldn’t be able to pull the same data without running into exactly the same problem: sudden death. But what, he wondered, about a mass data pull? What if he pulled the ECF data along with the records from, say, fifty or a hundred similar charities? He could make it look like he was doing a trend analysis, looking for data outliers.
It wasn’t without risks, of course. If there was something in the ECF data that would stand out in that kind of comparison, he might very well attract the attention of the killer all over again. But no one from the future had showed up to warn him off yet, which – so far – had happened when he was thinking of doing something stupid. So, with sweating palms, he punched in his query, and pressed the “fetch” button.
He watched the screen, and the progress wheel that just sat there spinning. He almost jumped in his seat when a messenger window flashed up. It was from a Randy Barret, apparently – according to his chat description – on the data team. The name was vaguely familiar, but Alfred couldn’t place it.
The message read, “Morning. Did you just initiate a data pull on table 354?”
The taxman felt his hands shake, and he threw a glance around the office quickly, checking for visitors from another timeline. Then he typed, “Yes.”
“Okay. That’s a lot of data.”
“I need it. I’m doing a trend analysis.”
“It’s going to take hours. Any chance you could run it overnight?”
“I need the data today.”
“Understood. Just figured I’d check. When the report isn’t urgent, we like to push them overnight so they don’t impact traffic.”
When the other man stopped typing, Alfred stared at the exchange, his brow furrowing in thought. Randy Barret. He tried to remember where he’d heard the name before. Barret. It was definitely familiar, but he still couldn’t remember why.
Then, his eyes fell on the note he’d scribbled the day before, the list of all the usernames that had modified the audit file. Sure enough, there was a “barretr” among them. Randy Barret, he thought. Son-of-a-biscuit.
So Randy had modified the audit file; and he’d noticed instantly when Alfred ran a query against ECF’s data. Now that was quite the coincidence, he thought.
He brought up the employee directory, and searched for Barret. A page with a picture of a man smiling awkwardly popped up. On its own, that wouldn’t make the taxman take note. He fully understood the deer-in-the-headlights look that came with mandatory company photos, or any photos, really. His own official picture was probably not much different. But in combination with the data developer’s immediate interest in his search, Alfred found himself considering that discomfort in a new light.
He was looking for a mole, after all. He considered the thin, forced smile and uneasy brown eyes in that picture. Was this, he wondered, the face of an assassin? Was it the face of a man who could betray his duty, his very nation? Was it the face of a dirty cop?
Who are you really, Randy Barret? he asked in his mind. And what’s your game?
Chapter Eleven
The data pull took almost the full promised six hours. Alfred devoted himself to his other projects – his assigned work – and made good progress. He also noted a peculiar calendar update. The department’s Wednesday meeting was extended from one hour to four, and moved up to eight-thirty. Ugh. What fresh heck is this?
Finally, just around three o’ clock, the report finished. Alfred scrolled to the ECF portion, but despite his full attention, nothing stood out.
His eyes were practically bleeding by time Nancy showed up at his door. “Ready?”
“God yes.”
They stopped at Nance’s house on the way home. “I want to get everything I’m going to need, so we can finish packing and head out tomorrow night.”
“You know, Nance,” he said, and he tried to sound casual as she loaded an overnight bag, “I was thinking, we could put another dresser in my – our – room. That way, you wouldn’t have to keep running back for things.”
She paused from her packing to study him for a moment. Then she said, “Are you asking me to move in with you, Alfred?”
He swallowed the fear that came with hearing his thoughts articulated directly. “I know we’ve only been together six months,” he said quickly. “But…yeah. I mean, it doesn’t have to be a big deal. Just, whatever you’re comfortable with.”
She smiled. “Alright. Well, in that case, I’m going to need to get out a bigger suitcase.”
“Really?” he asked, as relieved as he was surprised. “I mean, great. That’s great, Nance!”
She did get out a second, larger suitcase, and they spent awhile longer packing. Alfred was carrying the larger bag out to the car when his phone dinged. It was a text from Josh, and he threw a discreet glance around to make sure Nance wasn’t near.
She wasn’t, and so he read, “Any progress?”
&nb
sp; “I have a lead.”
“What kind of lead?”
“A suspect. Maybe.”
“Maybe?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“What about the data? Were you able to get a look at it?”
“Yes.”
“And…?”
“Nothing stands out. Not yet. I’m going to work on it tomorrow.”
“Okay. Well, the good news is, it doesn’t look like you’ve got the assassin’s attention yet. No one’s shown up to warn us off.”
“Yup.”
“Keep it up, taxman.”
Alfred slipped the phone back into his pocket, trying not to grimace. The marine didn’t seem to understand how long these things took. But he was also probably watching, so scowling was not the right move. Not when he was working in the shadows as an unpaid bodyguard while he and Nance made plans to move in together.
Still, the conversation did remind him of one other detail, and when he returned to the house, he asked, “Hey Nance? Where’s the time travel device?”
She seemed surprised by the question. “In the living room.”
“In the living room?”
“Yeah.” She pointed to the shiny silver gadget, nestled into a display case among a handful of video game and television show replicas. “I couldn’t think of where else to put it. You know what they say about hiding things on the mantle.”
It did blend, he had to admit, with all the crazy things she collected. “We should take it with us,” he said nonchalantly.
“Take it with us? Why?”
He shrugged. “We’re going to be gone for half a week. We shouldn’t just leave something this powerful sitting around. You never know who might break in.”
“Even if someone did, they’d have to have the key too,” she reminded him.
“Yeah, but I’m going to be gone too,” he countered. “They could get both pieces.”
“They’d have to know we had them. Only Angie Garrity and a handful of Futureprise people know that.”
“Still,” he persisted. “I’d feel better knowing something powerful enough to destroy the timeline as we know it, wasn’t sitting around unprotected.”
