by T. M. Catron
At 3:00 am I woke. The kitchen light was still on. Its white light shone out into the living room and onto the door. I grabbed my jacket and left the apartment.
The air, while not fresh, helped clear my head. I realized what was nagging me—fifty oxygen tanks. The order seemed so out of place within that office high in the Parisian sky, it must have been code for something. Until I heard more, I couldn’t decipher it.
My walk took me past the Eiffel Tower, past the Arc d’Triumph. Later, I paused to look up at the gargoyles presiding over the Cathedral of Notre Dame, stone faces scowling at Paris. Were they meant to ward off evil or remind humans of the evil within themselves? Someday they would burn with everything else, their significance swept away with the rest of humanity.
At dawn, I grabbed a cup of coffee and a pastry. Not my usual hunger-fueled binge, but my appetite had changed since arriving in Paris. I stuffed the pastry into my mouth and downed the coffee before I’d crossed the street. The coffee burned my throat.
I entered the Tower at 7:00, a little later than I’d planned. But I wanted to catch the redhead on her way in, the woman who’d ordered fifty oxygen tanks. I logged into the network with my phone. Human Resource records indicated her name was Marcia, and she usually arrived at the building between 7:20 and 7:30. I grabbed another coffee at the stand inside the lobby and walked back outside.
The statue of Atlas was poorly done. Hideous, bulging muscles were placed incorrectly, his biceps facing out instead of up. And one of the hands didn’t quite touch the building, making it look like he was trying to hover the building over his head rather than carry it.
Marcia arrived early at 7:15. She scanned her badge at the security checkpoint and smiled at the guard on duty. He let her pass through the designated aisle for employees of the 149th floor. I hurried to fall into step beside her as she made her way to the elevators.
She startled when I appeared at her elbow.
“Sorry,” I said.
“You’re the new head of security,” she said without preamble.
“Morse.” I extended my hand.
She took it briefly but kept walking. “Marcia. Busy day,” she explained. She had a square jaw and pale skin. A long, Roman nose. Marcia didn’t say anything until she pushed the elevator button. Then she turned. “I’m one of Mrs. Emerson-Wright’s personal assistants. But you already know that.”
I nodded. “What are you in charge of?”
Marcia gave me a tight-lipped smile. “Anything she needs me to oversee. I mostly handle requests for anything other than party-planning or socializing. That’s Tank’s job. Have you met Tank?”
“No.”
“He’s rarely in the office,” Marcia explained as if that’s why I hadn’t met Tank.
“So, Tank’s the one I need to talk to for an office party.”
Marcia narrowed her eyes in suspicion as the elevator opened. We stepped on. I waved away a couple other would-be passengers who’d been standing behind us.
Marcia pushed the button and stared at me. “So, you’ve heard.”
“Yes. Ever go to one?”
“No. Not my style. As weird as it sounds, this is just a job for me. I don’t socialize with the crew in my off hours.”
“Why is that weird?”
“Because everyone here treats Emerson-Wright like a god. And their careers here are a one-way ticket to heaven.”
“And you don’t feel that way.”
Marcia shrugged. “Like I said, a job.” She blanched and looked up at me, a frown flitting across her face. “But I do my job.”
“I would never suggest otherwise, Marcia.”
She nodded, and we didn’t speak again until changing elevators on the 100th floor. The elevator next to us opened at the same time, and a press of people moved out of it.
A young man stepped off, his ill-fitting, cheap suit and bow-tie looking out of place inside the office building. He was lanky, with caramel-colored skin and dark hair.
Charan.
Marcia went on ahead. I caught Charan’s eye as the throng moved past. He ducked away and tried to put the group between us, then headed for the second elevator after Marcia. I stepped up beside him.
“Hello,” I said.
He nodded, looking neither surprised nor upset to see me. “Monsieur Morse.”
“You can’t use that elevator. It’s for private use only.”
Marcia stepped onto it with a couple others. She attempted to hold it for me, but I waved her on.
“I know, Monsieur, I have permission to use it.” Charan glanced at my suit and badge. His eyes widened in shock. “You work here?”
I nodded and lowered my voice. “Why are you here?”
“I have business.”
I blinked a few times, trying to understand what innocent little Charan could possibly be doing inside Emerson-Wright’s den of wolves. “With whom?” I asked.
Charan fumbled around inside his jacket and pulled out a piece of paper. “Micheline.”
My assistant?
“Why?”
“I… I’m not supposed to tell. But she is going to arrange for me to meet someone who can help me.”
I entered the passcode for the elevator. “Don’t say anything else until we’re alone,” I said.
The elevator returned, and we stepped on. I pushed the button for 148. Charan re-checked the paper in his pocket, confirming that we were going to the wrong floor. I shook my head at him not to ask questions. I pulled out my phone and opened the program to freeze the camera on my hall. I was head of security after all—I could do what I wanted.
I hurried him to my apartment and ushered him inside without ceremony. The place smelled of bleach and astringent—the cleaning service had done an admirable job in purging Finn’s filth.
“Have a seat, Charan. Want anything?”
He shook his head. “Is this your place?”
“Yes.”
“So, you work here.” He seemed stuck on something, processing it all very slowly.
“As of three days ago, yes. Please, sit.”
He perched on the edge of the couch like a frightened bird ready for flight.
I sat in the chair across from him, relaxing into it, hoping to convey that he had nothing to fear from me. “What are you doing here?”
“I can’t say, Monsieur Morse.”
“If you are here to see Micheline, then you are here to see me. She’s my assistant. But I’d advise you to say what you need to say now, where no one else can hear us.”
Real terror crossed Charan’s young face. He gripped the edge of the couch until his knuckles turned white, and looked at the door. “I cannot say,” he repeated.
I leaned back. “Okay. I can probably guess, though. Your father owed some debts, correct?”
Charan frowned. “My sister says too much.”
“Do they know about her?”
“Yes, I believe so.”
“Don’t mention her again in this building. How did your father come across Emerson-Wright?”
Charan shook his head and leaned forward, clasping his hands in front of him, arms resting on his knees.
“Charan. I can help you.”
“No, you can’t. And I don’t need help.”
The kid must have thought he was enduring some kind of test. Might have even thought I’d been tailing him all along. If so, he wasn’t going to open up to me here. “Alright then, I’ll take you upstairs. And hey, this conversation never happened, right?”
He nodded.
“I need more than that.”
“We never spoke, monsieur.” His voice shook.
Out in the hall, I wanted to ask about Toral. Was she in Paris? My mind raced with thoughts of seeing her. I bit down on my tongue to stop my curiosity from overcoming my good sense. Instead, I took my own advice and didn’t mention her again as we got back in the elevator.
When we arrived upstairs, I pointed out Micheline, who was already working at her desk and then walked over to Mar
cia’s space. She was already on the phone, speaking quietly. She didn’t look up as I passed, but lowered her voice and switched to Russian. I moved toward the guard standing farther down the room but tuned my hearing to her conversation.
“I don’t care what kind of trouble you’ve been having,” Marcia said in English now. “Fix it. It was supposed to be done a month ago.”
She hung up and typed something into her computer. From my vantage point, I could see satellite images open on one of her screens. The one on top displayed mountainous, snowy terrain. She closed her windows and made another call.
“Anything to report?” I asked the guard.
“No, monsieur. Same as always. Everybody does their jobs, no one complains.”
“Let me know if they do.”
He nodded. I worked my way through the sea of desks, back to my office. I wanted to review the security footage—one of the cameras was bound to show me Marcia’s screen. For a business in which privacy was a concern, no one had any privacy on floor 149. EW valued honesty above all else. Employees who could isolate themselves inside offices and cubicles could also share secrets with the outside world more efficiently. Inside, everyone more or less knew each other’s business—they all had a part in it, in fact. This was the company’s most trusted group. Their inner core. Except for me, no one needed any kind of privacy. Absolute openness and trust—at least on this floor.
Charan stood fidgeting next to Micheline’s desk.
“Mr. Morse,” she said. “This is Charan Patel. He would like a word with you in your office.”
“Should I know you?” I asked him.
“No, monsieur. We’ve never met.”
I looked at Micheline. “I’m very busy.”
She gave me a strange look but didn’t comment on the fact she’d seen me walk in with him. “I can help you with this matter, sir,” she said. “I’ll explain everything.”
Micheline knew what was going on. I couldn’t decide if I was impressed that she was doing her job so well or angry that she was keeping business from me.
In my office, Charan and Micheline sat in the two chairs facing my desk. I opened my laptop and browsed into the security program, looking for the camera that would show me Marcia’s screen.
“Mr. Morse,” Marcia began, “a few months ago Mr. Patel approached our office about a debt his father owed to Emerson-Wright.”
I glanced up at her. “What sort of debt?”
“Money owed.”
“Why did we loan money to your father?” I asked Charan.
At my question, he cleared his throat and scooted forward in his seat. “You didn’t, monsieur. My father had a problem with a local gang in Mumbai. They insisted he pay them to protect his business. But he couldn’t afford their prices, so he contacted a rival organization.”
I tapped a finger on my desk, signaling my impatience.
“The bad blood between these two gangs goes very deep. My father began sending the new organization information about where to find their enemies. In turn, they protected my father from extortion.”
“And what does this have to do with us?”
Micheline interrupted. “A small turf war erupted, and it spread into one of our offices in Mumbai—a few employees got knifed on the way home from work. Finn sent someone down to investigate, and he found Mr. Patel and his son.”
“My father was very sorry to have become involved in so many deaths.”
“And Finn said you had to pay for the employees’ lives,” I said. “For the loss of work.”
Charan faltered a moment and then said, “Yes, monsieur. But my father passed away two months ago.”
“And you want us to forgive his debt.”
Micheline frowned.
“Please, monsieur, I have had to sell his business and everything he worked for just to pay the loans he accumulated because of the protection. I came all this way in hopes that you would realize this and forgive me.”
“Our office is not in the habit of forgiving debts. You are able-bodied. Why can’t you work for them?”
“I am not afraid of hard work. But I have had to move. To hide from the gangs who now seek revenge on me. I am homeless.”
“Just you?” I asked, looking at Micheline.
She shook her head. “He has a sister.”
Charan’s eyes widened in fear again. “She knows nothing of this.”
“And it should stay that way,” I said dismissively. He tried to lock eyes with me to determine if I meant it. But I looked at Micheline.
“I’m assuming we can find some work for Mr. Patel? For him to work off his debt?”
“I’ll arrange something. You want him here or in Mumbai?”
Charan looked at me nervously.
“Here, where we can keep tabs on him. It won’t do us any good to have him killed by a thug when he gets home.”
Why hadn’t the kid disappeared in India? Did he really think that EW’s grip was that far-reaching? Or that he couldn’t get away from a local gang? Or was he that intent on paying off his father’s debts? Charan was too honest.
“Mr. Patel.” I fixed him with a hard gaze. “We don’t tolerate deception of any kind in our employees. See that you always do the right thing.”
The right thing for you, I wanted to say. And don’t put Toral in danger.
He blinked. “Yes, monsieur.”
I hoped he got the message.
18
Search
Toral was in Paris. I’d had a low-level employee follow Charan back to his hotel in a rotten suburb of the city. The goon reported that Charan and his sister were sharing a small room there.
When I found out, part of me—the human side, maybe—had wanted to rush down and get her out of a potentially hazardous neighborhood. She could live in my apartment. I had room. For Charan too, of course. But I waited. How would it look if the head of security for Emerson-Wright left his office in the middle of the day to go bring a girl home?
Actually, Toral was pretty enough I might not raise too many questions. Considering the lifestyle Finn had lived one floor down, it might make me look more believable.
But I didn’t want Toral or Charan in the building any more than was necessary. They would be too exposed to what went on here. And for some reason, it bothered me that they saw what kind of people I worked for, who I’d become.
Not become—always been. Charan just knows the truth now, Morse. A small, uncomfortable pang shot through my chest. To refocus, I grabbed my left bicep and squeezed my burn. Renewed pain shot up my arm, into my shoulder, and down into my hand.
It worked. For a few hours.
I slipped easily into my new role as head of security. The job itself was boring, routine, and simple. I expected something important to happen, waited for EW to summon me. But he rarely did, and then only for me to report anything of significance.
I spent the day monitoring Marcia’s computer, in between taking care of other matters Micheline brought me. Marcia never opened the satellite images again. I’d have to hack my way in if I wanted to know. EW sent me a few emails, none of much interest.
When nothing happened by 7:00 pm, I packed up and left my office. Micheline nodded to me on my way out. She always worked late on Tuesdays.
“Micheline.”
“Yes, Mr. Morse?”
“Ever go to one of Finn’s parties?”
She shifted uncomfortably in her seat, rolling her chair back an inch. “A few. Why?”
I jerked my chin toward the ceiling. “The boss knows about them?”
“I assume so, he was at some of them.”
“Really.”
“He and Finn were tight for a long time.”
“And do you know what happened to Finn?”
Micheline regarded me coolly. “Everyone does.”
I took the train out of the city and walked in the deepening twilight from the station to Toral’s hotel. Peeling paint and rusted railings greeted me at the entrance. Some of
the doors were different colors. All faced outside. I climbed the stairs to the second level and knocked on her door.
No answer.
I knocked again.
“Mr. Morse?”
I turned. Toral stood there, a few doors down, with an empty cloth bag on her shoulder. She wore a light blue dress of Western fashion. It had small, yellow flowers on it and waved in the slight breeze.
“Toral,” I breathed. I’d been so focused on checking out her room, I hadn’t even heard her approach. What was the matter with me?
“What are you doing here?” She walked to the door with a key in hand.
What was I doing here?
“I came to check on you.”
“How did you know where to find me?”
“Ran into Charan in the city.”
“He never mentioned it. He is still meddling.”
I shook my head. “I asked him not to say anything. He doesn’t know I’m here.”
“Do you want to come in?”
“Yes.”
She unlocked the door and pushed it open. Inside was one twin bed, a table, one chair, a dresser, and a tiny bathroom. All the furniture was damaged or broken. A pallet of blankets was spread out along one wall.
“Charan has been sleeping on the floor,” she said as she closed the door. “I told him I didn’t mind sleeping there since he’s the one looking for work.”
“Looking for work? You aren’t going back to India?”
“No, he wants to stay here.” She shrugged. “There’s nothing much left for us in India.”
“Where’s Hiraani?”
“She went back. She missed it too much.”
I wondered how Hiraani would avoid the thugs that Charan had insisted were after them. But I didn’t know how much Toral knew of that, so I kept quiet.
“Please don’t tell anyone we are here,” she said.
“Why not?”
“We are not legal. How do you say it—we are illegal aliens. Our travel visa has expired.”
I almost laughed when she said alien. It shouldn’t have been that funny. But I was so relieved she was okay, suddenly everything seemed better.
She opened the bag she’d brought in. I’d thought it was empty, but it contained a bag of rice.
