by Jove Belle
“Sex,” Trinity deadpanned. Prior to moving to Costa Rica, Yvonne had shared Trinity’s bed more often than not. Then she’d met Adam, fallen hard and fast, and three weeks later she followed him to Central America. She’d been there for two years and was still just as crazy about him as she’d been when she moved. Love sometimes worked like that.
“Oh yeah. That.” Yvonne got this far away, blissed out expression on her face.
Trinity made a gagging noise, but she was smiling on the inside. “Stop it. I don’t want to throw up on my lunch.”
Yvonne laughed. “Sorry.” Her expression sobered. “How’s your mom?”
“She recognized me earlier. Carol took her to the park for lunch.”
“Have you figured out what you’re going to do?”
“Nope. Trying not to think about it.”
“You have to eventually.”
Trinity took a bite of her salad and crunched as loud as she could on the crisp lettuce.
“Stop it. You know I’m right. I wish I could help.”
“You’re right. Of course. But right now, in this moment, everything is fine, and that’s enough.”
Yvonne sighed, and Trinity’s work line rang again.
“I have to go, Vonnie. Work.” Trinity loved her job, but the timing sucked this time. “Love you. Miss you.”
“Come visit.”
Trinity sighed. “You know I can’t. And I really do have to go.”
“I miss you.” Yvonne made a kissy face and then disconnected the call.
She always made the same plea for Trinity to visit, and Trinity always made the same excuse. With things as they were with Ornella, Trinity was grounded indefinitely.
The day passed in more or less the same manner as always. She answered calls, helped people, and left them with a smile in their voice instead of a frown. Between calls, she logged into an encrypted message board to see if her friends had posted anything new. There were two new threads.
The first read: Housewarming 1208 S Hampton Ave Shreveport 7.22 BYOB
Several people had responded, and she added her RSVP to the rest. I’m in for a fifth of Vodka. The good stuff.
The second message was similar, except this time it was an invitation for a baby shower. She agreed to supply an economy-sized package of diapers.
Then she set about researching who she’d just agreed to help. Obviously, she wasn’t going to an event in Louisiana. A housewarming was code for a family on the verge of losing their home, and the bottle of vodka was her pledge of nine grand to the cause. But before she could fulfill her promise, she had to determine exactly who lived at 1208 S Hampton Avenue in Shreveport and, just as importantly, figure out which bank held their mortgage.
She’d stumbled across this group years ago when, arrogant and careless, she’d encroached on an Anonymous project. Rather than shutting her down, they’d put her through the paces and then turned her onto this collective of hacktivists who were dedicated to righting the balance of wealth in the US. This way, working together to save people from financial ruin, they were able to keep their banking transactions below the ten grand mark that automatically triggered an IRS notification. Collectively, they paid off some significant debts.
“Oh, hello there.” Trinity’s mom stood in the open doorway to her office. “I didn’t realize I had company. How nice. Can I get you something to drink?”
“That would be nice. How about a nice glass of lemonade?”
“That sounds lovely. I’ll be right back. My name is Ornella, by the way.”
“I’m Trinity.”
“Trinity? I always thought I’d name my daughter that, if I ever have one. It’s nice to meet you.” Ornella smiled in that soft, puzzled way that said she knew something was off but she couldn’t quite put her finger on it. She tapped the door frame and then walked away, toward the kitchen. With any luck, she’d be back in a few with a couple of tall glasses of lemonade with chunks of ice.
Trinity turned back to her computer and was able to transfer the money from an off-shore account to the family in Louisiana before Ornella returned, this time with Carol. Trinity would finish with the baby shower later.
“Looks like I have two visitors today. How fortunate am I?” Ornella set a tray on the small coffee table and took a seat on the sofa that sat along the same wall as Trinity’s desk. Carol sat in the armchair opposite. “I also found a lovely key lime pie in the refrigerator. I thought we might enjoy a piece with our drinks.”
Trinity smiled, took the drink Ornella offered her, and spent the rest of the afternoon letting her mom get to know her all over again.
CHAPTER 3
The office provided to Laila at Archer was actually a hastily converted, but richly appointed, conference room adjacent to Uncle Samar’s office. The space was typically used for meetings with his department heads and could only be accessed via a door to the side of his desk.
It was a small room but, like everything about her uncle, opulent. A dark mahogany table served as her desk, and, rather than the industrial carpet that would withstand nuclear holocaust found in the public areas of Archer, the floor was covered with a sumptuous wool carpet that felt remarkably like walking on air. Or small furry animals.
It wasn’t enough to make up for the lack of exterior windows. Still, if she ignored the size—and the smell of recycled air—it was okay. Laila had definitely worked in worse, and this was a temporary arrangement, anyway.
She preferred her office downtown that looked as if it were pulled straight from the pages of a fifties-era crime novel. The door even had frosted glass with the business name etched in it: Hollister Investigations. The lettering had been an expensive indulgence, but it added the perfect touch. On the day it was installed, she’d posed next to it while Sia snapped picture after picture.
“Do you need anything else, Laila?” Uncle Samar asked. He stood beside her, just inside the open door, watching as IT Dude set up. Despite being a busy executive at Archer, he didn’t make her feel rushed. Yet another reason to love him.
Her phone signaled that she had a new message, and she glanced at it. “Sia.” She showed her uncle.
Scheduling appointment for dresses. Thursday at 6pm ok?
What a silly question. Why would Laila care when Sia went dress shopping?
Sure. Why wouldn’t it be?
“Is everything okay?” Like a good father, Uncle Samar was always interested in the goings on with his daughter.
“She’s talking about shopping.” Laila shook her head. She and Uncle Samar shared a dislike for shopping and were collectively mystified by Sia’s love of it. Laila’s phone chirped. Sia again.
Your work schedule can be sketchy. Just making sure you’re available.
Before she answered Sia, she turned back to her uncle. There was no reason to keep him waiting. “I think I’m good.” She surveyed the table. The IT department had set her up with a sleek iMac, and she was excited to try it out. She’d been contemplating a switch to Mac for Hollister Investigations, and this would give her a good opportunity to see if it would be worth the investment. IT Dude was still there, checking her connection and setting up access per her uncle’s instructions. He kept shooting her surreptitious glances as he worked. She smiled, and his cheeks flushed red.
There was a built-in, three-section whiteboard with storage space behind it. That was good. She’d use it to help visualize the processes here at Archer as she searched for the weak points. “Is it possible to get a printer installed in this room?” Some things were easier to compare when she had a physical copy in her hands.
“The printers are networked to the main printing queue. Everything comes out at the big laser printer in the middle of the floor.” IT Dude picked that moment to overcome his shyness.
Her phone beeped with another message. She ignored it for the moment.
She directed her response to Uncle Samar. “It would be better, more discreet, if I could print in this room. I’d rather not give th
e rest of the floor access to every report I want to look at.”
Uncle Samar nodded. “That can be arranged.” He looked at IT Dude as he said it.
“Yes sir,” IT Dude muttered, clearly not happy with the additional work order.
“Anything else?” Uncle Samar asked again.
She looked around. She had a landline, a small coffee station, and a remote that controlled something in the room that she had yet to identify. She’d figure that out later. “All I need now is a login and a brief tour to teach me how to navigate the system.”
IT Dude groaned. Laila clamped down the urge to kick him. Her phone beeped. Again.
“You can call computer services and have someone walk you through it over the phone,” Uncle Samar said. “The number is programmed into the phone. Before that, though, you should probably answer my daughter. She can be relentless.” After giving her a brief smile, he left her alone to stare at IT Dude as he made hooking up a single-unit iMac look like much more trouble than one piece of hardware and two cables possibly could be.
She checked her phone. Three more messages from Sia.
Laila? Are you available?
Followed by: Bitch, please! Don’t ignore me.
And finally: Laila, this is part of being a maid of honor. Remember that? And how you’re going to kick its ass? Man up!
Realization of what Sia wanted from her finally kicked in. This wasn’t normal dress shopping. She responded. Tell me where.
All the while, Laila watched IT Dude and waited. Her palms itched. It was always like this, the cagey, barely contained urge to dive in once a problem had been introduced. She’d waited all weekend—well, since the barbecue Saturday afternoon—to start her formal investigation into the discrepancies her uncle told her about, and the longer IT Dude prolonged his work, the worse the feeling got.
“I have to bring a printer from the IT department. On the other side of campus.” IT Dude stared at her, his face blank.
“Okay.” Laila swept the door open. She needed him out of the room sooner rather than later. Even without a printer, she could start poking around. “Get to it.”
She returned his blank-faced stare. Friendly wasn’t her strong point, and she was here to root out a problem, not make friends. IT Dude grumbled under his breath as he pushed his gray utility cart out of the room. A heavy, three-drawer toolbox sat on the bottom shelf, and one of the wheels spun wildly, making a squeaking noise reminiscent of Sunday mornings in a grocery store.
Laila released the door, and the hydraulic hinge at the top pulled it shut. She paced the distance from the door to the whiteboard and back again. She did her best work on her feet. First things first, she needed to check in with her office. She used her cell phone to call her assistant, Max, and as the phone rang, Laila made a mental checklist of items to review with her.
“Hollister Investigations. This is Max.” Max was a skilled investigator and an excellent assistant. She was not, however, good at covering the phones. That’s why Laila employed a receptionist.
“Where’s Justin?” Laila didn’t care where Justin, her receptionist, was so much as where he wasn’t, which was at his desk answering the phones.
“I don’t know. Something about a sick mom. Hospital. You know I suck at listening unless food is involved.” Max sounded bored. Part of what made her so good at her job was her innate ability to convince others to underestimate her. Max was neither bored, nor a bad listener.
“Why didn’t you let it go to voicemail?” That was, perhaps, not the best strategy in terms of responsive customer service, but it was better than turning Max loose on a potential new client.
“I knew it was you.”
“No you didn’t.”
“Of course I did. You’ve been there long enough to get set up and now you want a report. You always check in about this time when you start a new on-site investigation.”
“Huh.” Laila thought she was less predictable, but when she mentally reviewed their last several cases, it had gone very much as Max described. “Still, you should let the service get it.”
“Next time.”
“Tell me what you have on Archer.”
“I’ve already sent the full dossier to your email. The highlights include a banking division that’s under investigation for illegal foreclosure practices, a private army based out of Sudan, and a dedicated kidnap and ransom budget with a top end of two million per incident.” As Max gave the rundown, Laila’s phone beeped with another message.
“Get me a list of any employees who have a mortgage through Archer.” This wasn’t a small ask, given the security protocols in place on most banking websites. She would request a similar list from her uncle and see how they compared.
“Working on it.”
The FCC investigation into Archer’s banking practices was interesting, but not alarming. The private army, however, that was…promising. Still, she was unlikely to find a link there. Conglomerated corporations such as Archer dipped into anything that turned a profit. A private army could be anything from contractors in the Middle East to an armed security company based in Hong Kong. Regardless, she would take a look at the details before she dismissed it.
“I want a full report on the security service.” Private militia groups were generally funded under the budget umbrella of security.
“It’s in your inbox.” Max excelled at anticipating the needs of an investigation. She’d been scouted by several other larger investigation firms, as well as the security departments of a few corporations such as Archer. Each time, she chose to stay with Laila, earning her a sizable raise on her anniversary. Loyalty like hers was rare and deserved recognition.
“Tell me about the kidnap and ransom.”
A K-and-R account was standard for a corporation the size of Archer. Most international conglomerates maintained a similar fund and also kept a professional crisis and hostage negotiator on retainer. In certain parts of the world, kidnapping an executive for the payoff ransom was a common entrepreneurial endeavor. One good ransom could often feed several families for a year or more.
“In the past twelve months, they refused to pay ransoms on six employees. One was released in the center of a town square in Bolivia, blindfolded and hogtied, 200 kilometers from the abduction site.”
“And the other five.”
“Also found in local town squares. Dead.”
“Give me the workup on the families. Go back a minimum of five years for similar cases. Include information on the survivors as well.” There was no earthly way she could review a detailed profile of all of Archer’s employees. There were simply too many of them. They needed to narrow the field first. Five dead executives was as good a place to start as any.
“You got it, boss.”
“What else do you have?”
“I’ve compiled data on all of the top executives. You’ll find all but your uncle’s in your email now.”
Statistically, the higher an employee was on the organizational flowchart, the more likely he was to embezzle from the company. In order to be objective, she needed to see all of the information, including the file on her uncle Samar. Max knew that, so her withholding the file didn’t bode well. “Why did you hold that back?”
Max paused, then said, “There’s some…delicate information. I wasn’t sure you’d want to see it.” Max was as bad at tact as Laila.
Her phone beeped again. Laila needed to talk to Sia about this. The constant texting was distracting.
“Is it relevant to the case?”
“Mmm, hard to say.”
That was enough for Laila. Unless her uncle was hiring twelve-year-old prostitutes or hosting illegal dog fights, she wasn’t likely to care about his dirty laundry. Besides, he’d brought her in to investigate. Surely he’d anticipated that she’d need to look into him as well. “Send it.”
“Okay,” Max said, and the clicking of her fingers against her computer keyboard confirmed that she did it right then.
�
��Is that all?” Laila asked, and her phone beeped again.
“Almost. There’s also a file on all the legal actions taken against Archer from the past five years, from several class actions all the way down to on-the-job-injury reports. Also, Archer has been targeted by several hacktivist groups. The data trail is sketchy, but there’s enough to give you a general outline.”
“Okay, good work. I’ll be in touch.” As awkward as the words felt in her mouth, Laila ended all of her calls with her employees with the words “good work.” According to Sia, that showed that she cared, fostered goodwill, and bred loyalty. Max, who was too much like Laila, likely thought it was a giant wankfest, but Justin probably liked it.
Max, in her typical urbane fashion, disconnected without saying goodbye.
Before looking at the email files from Max, Laila checked her phone. Sia’s text messages included the name and address of the dress shop, a link to a website for maids of honor, and a very succinct You got this.
Laila added the appointment to her online calendar, bookmarked the website, and responded with a smiley emoji. Sia said it was rude to not respond even if she had nothing to say. It wasn’t fair to leave the other person hanging.
With that out of the way, Laila turned to her work. She spent the next several hours reviewing the information that Max sent. Until she got into Archer’s systems, it was the only thing she could do. And, really, it was more about getting an overall picture of Archer as a whole entity. She’d always viewed the company through the rose-colored filter of Uncle Samar. The stories he’d shared made the company sound almost mythical in its perfection. She’d never find what she was looking for if he was her only source of information.
She started with the incidents that seemed to be the least likely source of the losses. Even though she didn’t expect to find anything related to the kidnappings or the private army, it still helped with her overall understanding of the company. Without intending to, she saved the file on her uncle for last.
IT Dude returned with a printer just as she opened the file on the paramilitary employed by Archer in Sudan. She backed out of her work completely and stood far enough away to give him room to move, yet close enough to make sure he didn’t mess about with her research. As he was leaving, a knock sounded from the door. Uncle Samar stepped in as IT Dude wrapped up his work.
