by T. M. Catron
Let Sanders sweat. He might think I was crazy, but that wasn’t a problem.
The new elevator didn’t have a button to push, but a keypad instead. Sanders entered a passcode and then stepped back for me to enter. He leaned in and punched a button for the second to the top floor—149.
At floor 149 we stepped out into an open space the size of the entire floor. The elevator was in the center, inside the same structure that held a break room and restrooms. All the outside walls were of glass, the city of Paris stretching out like a postcard from every angle. The design wasn’t unusual—light hardwood floors, industrial fixtures, plush leather seating. A new building trying to imitate an old warehouse. Glass walls separated three conference rooms from a sea of shared desks. Fifty employees in business dress worked at computer stations or met with others I assumed were clients.
An array of cameras peppered the painted black ceiling, dark bulbs recessed between hanging light fixtures. Catching every movement on the floor. The conference rooms all had keypads. As I watched, the glass of one darkened completely, hiding the three people inside it. Armed security detail milled around the expansive room or stood off to the side, watching. They remained relaxed, calm.
The closest turned our way as Sanders led me to the left. The man nodded in acknowledgment, then turned his eyes back to the room. At first glance, any visitor would not imagine that the floors, ceiling, and columns housed a state-of-the-art network that could lock down the entire floor and building with one command. Thanks to Janslow, I already knew this. Emerson-Wright was paranoia disguised as comfort.
I tuned in to a few conversations as I passed.
“We can guarantee delivery.”
“An investment that large requires more than just a note, I’m afraid.”
“Cinquante chars. Dans l'affirmative, l'oxygène.”
Fifty oxygen tanks? What kind and why? I listened closer, interested, but the redheaded woman who sat at a desk apart from the others was done talking. She hung up and turned to her computer. The screen faced away from me.
A woman smiled and stood when we reached her desk. It sat in front of the windows, facing the room at large, outside a glass office. I waved Sanders away.
“My name is Micheline,” she said. “I will be your personal assistant, Mr. Morse.” Her French accent didn’t hide the fact that her voice carried an edge to it.
“Are you armed, Micheline?”
“Yes, sir. Everyone on this floor is required to carry weapons. We each have top-level clearance from Mr. Emerson-Wright himself.”
I nodded.
Micheline walked out from behind her desk and to the keypad outside the office. “This is your office. It’s ready for you to set the code. You don’t have to give it to me, but Finn found it useful for me to have it when he wasn’t in the city.”
I looked Micheline up and down. Long legs, thin body, delicate features. Her blouse was buttoned enough to be respectable. A pencil skirt hugged her hips but touched her knee. Professional.
“You and Finn have a thing going?” I asked.
Micheline regarded me a moment, a complex mixture of emotions playing across her face. Fear, loathing, relief. Then, she shut down like drawing a shade over a window, and nodded curtly.
“How many people knew?”
She frowned irritably. “No one. Maybe everyone. It wasn’t a secret.”
I punched in a new code for my office. The glass door slid open on a track. “Do you plan on shooting me as soon as we’re alone somewhere?”
Micheline scowled. “My relationship with Finn wasn’t about feelings. No, I wouldn’t shoot you. And you and I have no reason to be alone, Mr. Morse.”
I smiled.
“Are you going to fire me?”
“No, I believe you.”
Her expression softened a bit.
“Good.” She pointed to my desk. “Your laptop is there. It goes where you go. Any questions, I’m here until six tonight.”
I spent the rest of the afternoon logging into various systems, checking security protocols, and waiting for EW to arrive. I scheduled a security meeting for 8:00 am the next day. Micheline brought me dinner, then packed up to leave. I ate quickly, thinking to head down to check out my new apartment. As part of the job, I was required to live in the building. EW lived here too, on the top floor penthouse. My place was the floor below my office.
I received an automated text—EW’s plane had landed at Paris-CDG. He was headed to dinner then home. I’d set up the notification system as soon as I’d logged in, basing it on his tablet he always carried, the cell phones from his bodyguards, and his plane. Now I would always know his location whether I was on duty or not. Checking out the apartment would have to wait.
EW arrived at eleven. I met him upstairs at his penthouse. It was furnished as expected—modern, expansive, expensive. White walls and columns. Dark furnishings. Light floors, like below. An armed guard remained in the elevator, another at the door outside it.
EW removed his tuxedo jacket and handed it to his butler. “Find everything okay, Morse?”
“Yes, sir. Everything’s running smoothly. I’d like to go over some things with you at your convenience.”
He waved me away. “Tomorrow, perhaps. In the meantime, I need eyes on someone.”
“Who?”
EW nodded at his butler, who took the coat and went into the other room.
“My wife,” he said.
I raised an eyebrow. “Do you want me to follow her?”
“Not you in particular. She’d recognize you.” He stared at me a moment as if willing me to confess something to him. But regarding Armelle, I’d already admitted everything. “She’s usually here when I arrive,” he said. “She’s up to something, I can tell. But I don’t know what.”
I nodded. “I’ll find out, sir.”
EW sank down onto his couch and loosened his tie.
“Anything else I need to know?” I asked.
He looked up at me as if still wondering why I was there. “Why would there be anything else you need to know?”
16
Armelle
On my way out of the building, I stopped in my office to check on Armelle. She had a new bodyguard—Anton—and his cell phone signal indicated she was at a hotel on the Left Bank. I sighed. I wasn’t keen on keeping track of Armelle’s lovers. That’s what Anton was for.
I took a taxi to the hotel and waited outside across the street. At midnight, EW’s Rolls pulled up to the curb. At 1:00, Armelle and Anton emerged from the lobby and got into the car. Anton had broad shoulders, a strong jaw, and a short beard. He crawled in back with Armelle. I walked up to the car and flashed my security card to the driver. He rolled down the window.
“I’m Morse,” I said. “And I’m driving.”
Without argument, the driver got out and went around to the passenger side. I got in. Anton called something unintelligible from the backseat, but his questions dissolved into giggles. Armelle laughed. The smell of marijuana wafted up into the front of the car.
“Where to?” I asked as I pulled out into the dark street.
“Home,” said Armelle in a breathless voice. They still hadn’t noticed that their driver had changed. Sounds of kissing and more giggles. Mumbling in French. So much for not fraternizing with her husband’s associates. Anton must have been her type.
Irritated that I had to babysit a bodyguard who was supposed to do it for me, I stopped the car in the middle of the street and got out, leaving it running. When I yanked open the passenger door, Anton looked up at me, confused. His pupils were dilated, his expression sleepy. Definitely high. I looked at Armelle, who was trying to undo his top button, but her hand was fumbling it. She looked up.
“Morse!” she said. “What’s the matter?” She asked the question like a child.
I grabbed Anton by the collar and heaved him out of the car. “You expect to get paid for this?”
“Morse! What are you doing?” Armelle hissed
angrily.
Anton stumbled around, trying to find his feet. But he clearly didn’t know who had grabbed him or why he should be concerned about it. I shoved him to the pavement. He landed on his tailbone. Another car honked as it swerved around us.
“Get ready to take us back,” I called to the driver. He dutifully crawled into the driver’s seat and shut the door. I kicked Anton hard in the ribs. He grunted. “You’re lucky I’m the one who climbed into the car. What if it had been an attacker? How are you going to protect this woman if you’re stoned in her bed?”
Anton laughed.
I kicked him again, turning his giggle into another grunt. I found his sidearm and hid it under my own coat. “You’re fired.”
I kicked him once more for good measure. Anton groaned on the ground, holding his ribs.
I got into the car and sat next to Armelle this time. She seemed to have sobered up while I beat up her newest boyfriend. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“I did. And you need to be more careful. Take us home,” I called to the driver. I pushed the button and put up the shield between the back and the driver’s seat.
She scowled. “You cannot tell me what to do with my life.”
“I don’t care what you do with your life, as long as you aren’t so stupid that you lose it.”
Armelle huffed and began to tug down her skirt which had ridden up almost to her hips. There was no trace of embarrassment on her face, only anger. I didn’t care whether I’d embarrassed her or not. If something happened to Armelle on my watch, I could kiss my job and mission goodbye.
Armelle straightened in her seat and looked out the window. “Did Gregory send you?”
“No.”
“Yes, he did.” She turned to me. “It’s not the first time he’s had me followed just for kicks. He’s paranoid I’m trading his secrets. But he never cares about the men.”
“Did you ever think those men are there just for your secrets?”
She smiled. “Many of them are. That’s why it’s fun. I don’t give anything away.”
I shook my head. “One day that will end badly.”
“It is none of your concern!”
“I’m concerned with anything that could compromise EW’s security. And you getting kidnapped or killed would do just that. So yes, I will concern myself with you.”
“Oh no. You are mistaken. We have an arrangement.”
“What’s that?”
“I get to go anywhere I please, with whomever I like. But if I get into trouble, Gregory will not lift a finger to help me. You will not be allowed to find me. No one will.” She shrugged. “And so, I will die.”
“And what does he get out of this arrangement?”
“Tsk, tsk. I’m not telling you anything else.”
The car stopped at the private entrance to the tower. I helped Armelle out. She leaned heavily on my left arm, onto my wound. I held back a curse.
“You got Roy fired too,” she said accusingly. “I liked him.”
“So did I—his incompetence helped me get this job.” I walked us to the door.
“You have no feelings!”
“Can’t help that.”
Armelle stopped at the door and looked up at me. “Who are you?”
“Morse, your head of security, remember? You’ve had a little too much fun tonight.”
Armelle shook her head, again like a child, but her gaze penetrated deeply. “No. Who are you?”
Perhaps I’d underestimated her. Did she suspect something about me? But that was ridiculous. Of course not.
“And I just answered you. Come on,” I said as I entered my passcode to the building. “Let’s get you upstairs.”
She leaned on me harder as we walked to the elevator. Well, I walked, she let me half drag her. The burning pain on my arm grew so bad I had to grit my teeth. Finally, I picked her up and carried her like a child. Her eyes closed, her breathing deepened.
When the elevator door opened, EW’s bodyguard was already inside. I set her down, propping her up against the wall of the elevator, then looked at the man attempting to hold her up. “Andrews, right?”
“Oui.”
I nodded at Armelle. “This the first time she’s come in like this?”
Andrews pulled back with a look of surprise.
I grabbed Armelle before she fell face first onto the floor. “Well?”
“No, monsieur,” he answered.
“How long have you been working for Emerson-Wright?”
“Five years, monsieur.” He pushed the button for floor 150. I reached over and pushed it for 148.
“And how long have you been on their private security detail?”
“Two.”
I already knew these things—I’d read all the personnel files. But I wanted to be able to gauge if he was lying.
“And has Mrs. Emerson-Wright ever made a pass at you?”
“No.”
“Have you ever made a pass at her?”
He shook his head.
“Answer me verbally.”
“No, monsieur.”
“Has she ever asked you to do drugs with her?”
He smirked. “No.”
“What’s funny?”
“She’s never asked me.”
“Explain.”
Andrews glanced at Armelle. Her eyes were closed, her breathing regular.
When he saw that she was asleep, he said, “Parties when Mr. Emerson-Wright leaves. Office staff, building staff, low-level employees.”
“Did Finn know about these parties?”
“Of course. He organized some of them.”
“Does the boss know?”
“About the parties? No. I don’t know.”
“So, you heard but never told him.”
Andrews shrugged. “Finn knew about them. I thought that was a green light.”
His pupils remained the same size. His blood pressure didn’t change—he was telling the truth. I nodded. “You don’t seem too surprised that Finn is dead.”
Too bad, too. I had a few questions for him.
Andrews shrugged again and glanced at the elevator camera. “None of us were surprised.”
The elevator dinged at my floor. Before stepping off, I made sure Andrews had a grip on Armelle.
“Andrews.”
“Monsieur?”
“Is it true about their arrangement?” I nodded to Armelle.
“Which one, monsieur?”
“That if she were threatened, the boss wouldn’t do anything to help her.”
Andrews nodded.
“Did he ever consider that if someone grabbed her, they could torture her for information?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then why does she have a security detail at all?”
“She likes it, monsieur. I thought that was clear.”
17
Charan
My new apartment was Finn’s old one. The next evening, after another day of acclimating myself to my new job, I went down to look at it. The floor was littered with takeout boxes, clothing—men and women’s—and empty wine bottles. It smelled of stale cigarette smoke, incense, and booze. An ounce of heroin was hidden in his sock drawer. A joint was stuck to the toilet seat. I could only imagine what it was doing there. A small .25 semi-automatic was concealed in a drawer in the nightstand. I threw out everything—clothes, bedding, drugs, trash, gun—stuffing it all down into the trash chute. Then I called up EW’s cleaning service and scheduled them to scrub the place clean first thing in the morning.
Finn had been sloppy, at home and on the job. And yet EW had employed him for seven years. I was starting to get a picture of Emerson-Wright, but it was not coming together as I’d expected. On the one hand, he was smart—dang smart—a force to be reckoned with in business. On the other, he allowed extravagant lapses in judgment among his staff. Affairs, drugs, parties—most of them perpetuated by his wife and his head of security. On the outside, EW had cultivated a culture of
fear, order, and security. On the inside, his entire organization seemed to be crumbling.
I was beginning to wonder how useful he would be to my cause. But his contacts were real, his network solid. He must have been doing something right.
The refrigerator was empty except for a couple of beers and a bottle of mustard. I tossed all of that, too. The freezer held a surprise—venison steaks. I hadn’t had any in years. I rummaged through the cupboards for some oil or butter or anything to cook them with, but found nothing. So, I tossed them in the fridge to thaw for a day.
I ignored the hunger in my belly and flopped down on the leather couch, staring up at the ceiling. Something sticky on the armrest grabbed my hair. But I didn’t have the will to care about it. I dozed, the quiet of the apartment was profound and tranquil. I hadn’t experienced such complete silence since leaving the hybrid Factory, my birthplace.
Something nagged at me, refusing to let me fall into a deep sleep. But I couldn’t figure out what. Almost as if someone had whispered a secret to me and then run away. I never forgot things—must have been the exhaustion.
I wondered what Toral was doing. Had she returned to India? And where did they live now that her father was dead? Was she wearing that blue sari? In my mind, it flowed out behind her like it was floating in the water.
I wrestled my thoughts into submission, closing off my mind for sleep. But when it finally came, I dreamed of Toral. She wore her blue sari, blue as the Côte d’Azur. She waded out into the water and turned to look at me. But I couldn’t follow. She cried, not the cry of a child in a tantrum, but the cry of a woman who was grieving. She pointed to something behind me. When I turned to look, Marseilles was on fire.
When I woke, the dream was still there. I closed my eyes again and recalled the image of Toral standing in the water. Why hadn’t I gone into the water after her?
Because you were the reason she was crying.
I turned over, careful not to lie on my burned arm, and slept.
