by Gwyn Cready
Fiona, who was standing behind the counter, smiled and said hello.
“Is he in there?” Joss shook out her umbrella and pointed to the other side of the curtain.
“Hugh, do you mean?”
Who else? “Yes.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Hugh’s been delayed. He asked if you’d wait. He shouldn’t be longer than half an hour.”
Joss considered. That was going to make the fitting tight. Nonetheless, she didn’t want to miss it, or him.
She took a seat in the fitting room, pulled out her cell and began to answer some of the late-afternoon e-mail.
Hugh stole a glance at the woman with the metal studs in her brow and ambled across the lobby of the USX Tower. Two days of reconnaissance had made one thing eminently clear: few people in this busy, crowded world paid attention to anything. He was wearing a dark pair of trousers and a dark shirt, but he suspected he could have walked through the place in his full captain’s kit and no one would have batted an eye. His chosen time reflected a compromise between the anonymous rush of five o’clock, when hundreds of workers streamed out of the moving boxes into the streets and he could slip upstream without drawing attention, and the reassuring emptiness of seven o’clock, when he could make his way through the offices upstairs with little notice.
He brought the piece of wood to his ear and began to talk and nod. He’d had Nathaniel fashion a little deck-of-cards rectangle like Joss’s that afternoon. It had none of the magic of the decks of cards that seemed to be in use by half the visible population at any given time. Nonetheless, it would allow him to linger unnoticed for long periods of time by the tollgate that had been set up in front of the entrance to each collection of moving boxes.
The event he awaited had happened twice that morning and three times that afternoon, so he knew if he was patient, he would likely be rewarded.
He was in luck. In less than a quarter hour, a woman with an armload of books and satchels, wearing a pair of those impractical shoes, took an unattended step and tumbled to the slick floor, scattering her belongings in every direction.
The guard ran to her side. Hugh hurdled smoothly over the gate, slipped into the group heading into the moving box and, following the process that seemed to be laid out for riders, said, “Forty-six, please.”
He wondered if Joss was disappointed he was late.
Joss hit Send, looked at the time and sighed: 6:25. Their time together would be sadly compressed.
Fiona stuck her head in. “I apologize. Hugh just let me know he’d like to meet you at the tavern at the William Penn Hotel for a glass of wine, if you’re willing.”
It would have to be a damned quick one. She needed to be back on Grant on her way to the History Center by seven fifteen. She gathered her umbrella and bag. “Should we reschedule the fitting?”
“You needn’t worry. The dress is actually finished. Hugh has it with him. If there are any modifications necessary, which I doubt, you can bring it back tomorrow. How’s that?” She gave Joss a good-service smile. “I think you’ll like it. It’s beautiful.”
Joss was halfway to the William Penn Hotel when her phone rang.
“Joss?” It was LaWren.
“What’s up?”
“I think I found your card.”
“Really? Where?”
“Do you happen to know a really cute guy, about six two, with a scar through his eyebrow?”
Omigod! Hugh had found the card, though why he was dropping it off at her office instead of giving it to her at the fitting, Joss couldn’t guess. “Yes, I do,” she said happily.
“Okay, well, he’s breaking into your office right now. Is that a problem?”
Joss felt her blood chill for an instant before a bottle rocket shot to the top of her head, exploded in a dizzying fireball of heat and rained down in flaming embers of shame.
“What exactly to you mean?”
“I mean the monitor flipped to your office hallway. The guy entered his card and opened the door. Since I knew you’d lost your card I checked the system to see whose card that was. Every once in a while two cards are given the same code, but it’s pretty rare. Anyhow, I checked to see who it was, so we could have that fixed—and, of course, so you could kick his ass for going into your office—but the system said it was you. It’s your card.”
Joss felt ill, physically ill. She’d been tricked, and she’d fallen for it—hard. Her brain was running in six directions, a hundred miles an hour. He hadn’t wanted a fitting, a last chance to see her before she’d married. He’d wanted a known time for her to be out of her office.
Oh, God, oh, God. And still her feet were taking her toward the hotel bar, hoping but not believing that he’d be sitting there, holding the dress, and this would all be a big mistake.
“Joss?”
“Yeah, I’m here.” She could barely think over the horrified buzzing in her brain. He must have taken the key from her purse the previous evening. “What’s he doing? Can you see?”
“Sure, I can see everything. The security company was in last week and upgraded everything. There’s a camera right in your office. Didn’t you see it? It’s in the ceiling? Looks like a smoke detector?”
She frowned. “No.” Why wouldn’t Rogan have mentioned doing that?
“He’s looking through your files.”
She thought of what she had in her office. Contracts, new product plans, some personnel stuff. Was he a thief? Or a corporate spy? She was trying to think straight, but all she could hear was: “I want to make this dress for you. Come back tomorrow. Right before we close,” and all she could see was the look on his face as he pinned the silk up that long, gaping chasm.
Bastard.
“He’s looking at the picture on your desk.”
“What?” It was a shot of her and Rogan at a party. Di had snapped it without their knowledge. Joss was laughing at something he’d said, and he was rubbing her hand with his thumb as his eyes twinkled in delight.
“Oh, he’s opening your file cabinet!” LaWren cried. “Do you want me to call nine-one-one?”
Oh, God, more people knowing she’s been suckered? “No. Let’s see what he does.” She began to jog back toward the office.
“He’s looking at a map.”
“Which one?”
“I can’t . . . Hold on. It’s big.”
“Is it the one of Uruguay?” So much for the nondisclosure.
“Jeez, I don’t know. Why don’t you look?”
Then Joss remembered: the security cameras fed a protected company website. Occasionally, just for fun, she’d pull up the page and amuse herself with the amazing things people do when they forget you’re watching.
“Hang on.” She stopped and pulled her phone away from her ear. Then she typed the URL into the tiny screen, followed by her ID and password. In a moment, she watched a reasonable facsimile of her office pop into view.
The transmission was jerky and incredibly small, but there was no way the man was anybody but Hugh. She could feel the cold rain hitting her ankles.
“Joss?”
She heard the tiny squawk coming from her phone and hit the Speaker button. “Yeah, I’m here.”
“Do you see the map?”
“Yep.” It wasn’t the map from Uruguay. It was an antique map. The one she had mounted on her wall. It was of France, from around 1700. She’d bought it at an auction because she’d loved its intricate compass rose. “Wait,” she said suddenly, “I’ve lost the picture. I’m looking at the lobby instead.”
“Sorry,” LaWren said. “I’ll lock it for you. There. Do you see it again?”
“Yes. Got it.” What was he looking at? He seemed to be examining the edge of the map, as if looking for an artist’s signature. Then he stepped away and moved out of camera range. “Where’s he going?”
“Let me check.” Joss heard LaWren punch a button. “Got ’im. He’s in the contact room.”
The contact room was a long stretch of glassed-in hallw
ay with a few chairs and some magazines. It was where visitors were sometimes placed to await their host. Joss saw the image appear on her screen.
In the brighter light of the contact room, Joss could see Hugh was dressed in black from head to toe, and she realized it was the same outfit he’d been wearing the evening before. She wondered if he’d been planning to break in then. She wondered if that’s why he had walked with her. She thought of his murdered brother and felt her face grow hot with embarrassment. She had cried—cried!—and now she barely believed he had a brother, let alone one who had been murdered.
“So, who is he?”
“Pardon?” Joss said, shaking off the humiliating thoughts.
“You said you knew him. Who is he?”
“He’s . . .” What would she say? What would she tell Rogan when he asked about her new wedding dress? Her mind went in quick, tight circles around an impossible track. There was nothing else she could say. “He’s a tailor. . . . My tailor.”
“Oh, Joss, did he find the key in something of yours he was working on?”
“Yes.” Essentially. She felt a hot anger begin to stir in her gut. It was one thing to embarrass her—something he’d done thoroughly and completely. If there were an Olympic medal for betrayal, he’d win the gold. But it was another to embarrass her in front of her people. And while she hadn’t mentioned the dress, how long would it be until the gossips could add that detail? Poor Joss. Tricked by her wedding dress maker into giving up her security key. I hear he told her she’d look like a Greek goddess. And now she doesn’t even get the dress.
She felt her hand balling into a fist around the handle of her umbrella.
Hugh was contemplating the breadth of the office floor through the thick glass wall, evidently planning his next step. He pressed his hands together and began making his way toward the offices at the opposite side of the building.
“Can you block the doors?” Joss said suddenly.
“What?”
“Block them. Can you block them with a code or something?” There were two security doors, one at each end.
“I can’t block them, but you need a key card to get them open.”
“He’s got a key card. Mine, remember?”
“Not if I deactivate it.”
The sound of a keyboard clacking came over the speaker.
“Done,” LaWren said triumphantly.
Hugh held the card in front of the reader. Joss couldn’t see it, but she knew what appeared. A little red light with a tiny, dismissive click.
Ha!
He stepped back, confused, then looked around.
It sucks, huh, to think one thing is happening then discover it’s something entirely different?
“What about the PA?” Joss asked. The public address system was used only for important announcements—“The holiday party begins in fifteen minutes”—or true emergencies: “The north bank of elevators have lost their power.”
“I got it.”
Joss heard the static pop of the speaker being turned on.
“What about targeting it?”
“Just to the contact room?”
“Yep.”
“That I believe we can do. Your father put that in after he got tired of hearing about cars in the Brand Industries parking spaces with their lights on.”
Hugh was trying the other door now. Sadly for him, that didn’t work either.
“All right. Tell him he’s about to be arrested. Tell him the police have been called.”
The feed Joss was looking at didn’t include any audio, but she didn’t need it. Hugh jumped about a foot at the sound of LaWren’s voice, then pounded the wall in disappointment. Perfect.
“Now, do you want me to call the police?” LaWren asked.
“Can he hear you?”
“No. I got my finger on the button.”
“Good. I don’t want him to know it’s me. No, I don’t want you to call the police. They’d just arrest him. I’ve got a better idea. Ask him if he has any weapons on him.”
LaWren complied. Joss could see Hugh shake his head on the screen. “Tell him you don’t believe him. Tell him to turn around, then lift up his pant legs.”
Hugh’s head spun back and forth. He was trying to determine where the camera was. When he lifted his gaze to the ceiling, he was looking straight at Joss. She almost jerked the phone away.
With a visible sigh, Hugh turned, his hands held loosely in the air. When he’d made a full circle, he raised each pant leg to mid-calf. Other than a pair of dark socks and shoes, there was nothing of interest.
“He’s clean,” LaWren said.
“It’s hard to tell sometimes. Tell him to take off his shirt.”
Joss felt the slight pause. “His shirt?” LaWren said.
“Yes.”
She gave the command.
Hugh unbuttoned his cuffs, jerked the shirttails loose and pulled his shirt over his head.
His chest was broad and taut, with a light dusting of copper hair that ran from his sternum past his belly. He looked like someone who spent all day doing work far harder than lifting a bolt of silk to the cutting table. And though the resolution on Joss’s screen was something akin to gazing at the Mona Lisa from outside the ladies’ room two galleries away, she could see a particularly ugly scar running across the thickest part of his arm.
“Man,” LaWren said. “Sure beats the thieves we got on the South Side.”
“Tell him to turn,” Joss said.
“Turn, please,” LaWren said.
When he did, they both gasped. The scar on his arm was nothing compared to the web of silvery lines on his back.
“My God,” Joss said.
“He’s a tailor?”
“No, obviously not. He’s at least a thief. I don’t know what else.” The picture was quite stunning, Joss had to admit, especially with nothing left but a pair of close-fitting trousers, though that seemed to only make her angrier. “Can you see? Is anyone else still working?”
“George on forty-seven. Chris on forty-seven. And Mary on forty-six—Wait, no, she’s got her coat on. She’s heading for the elevator.”
“That’s good.”
“Well, I’m not too worried. I’m mean, he’s stuck where he is, and it’s pretty clear he doesn’t have any weapons on him. That is,” LaWren said, lowering her voice, “unless you count—”
“I don’t.”
Joss considered her options. At this point, he’d gotten nothing of value. He knew he was caught. The key would never work again. But there was still the matter of a deeply bruised ego.
“LaWren, I’m not done here.”
“Oh boy. I was afraid you were going to say that.”
“I want his pants.”
“You know he’s gonna balk.”
“You’re attributing a pretty high level of fastidiousness to a guy who just went through my drawers.”
Joss could feel the unspoken witticism in the silence that followed, and another bolt of heat shot to her face. “You know what I meant.” Christ, he’s embarrassing me without even trying now. Well, two can play at that. “Pants.”
LaWren sighed and opened the mike. “Would you mind removing your pants, sir?”
“Sir?” Joss squawked. “Now he’s a sir?”
“I thought I’d give him a little break. He’s going to be standing there in nothing but his shorts in a min—Whoa.”
Joss jerked the phone closer. Hugh had kicked off his shoes and was unbuckling his belt. There was something hypnotizing about the way he handled the leather, briskly and without ceremony, before unzipping his fly. His boxers were blue with yellow stripes, like a banker’s shirt, only that waist and those thighs were nothing like Joss had ever seen at her neighborhood branch. He dropped the trousers to the side, threw his shoulders back and gave the camera a withering look. The rest of him was decidedly unwithered.
“Wow.”
Joss had to agree, though she’d have cut her tongue out with tailor shear
s before admitting it.
He said something. Joss couldn’t hear. “What did he say? What did he say?”
“He asked who’s detaining him. He’s got one of those sexy British accents. ‘May I have the pleasure of knowing who is detaining me?’” She imitated him in a deep voice. “You know, all PBS.”
“Oh yeah. He’s a real Regency hero. Tell him to piss off.”
“Can I make it like a question, so I can hear him answer?”
“No.”
LaWren complied, then made a worried noise. “He looks mad.”
He did, and Joss was glad there was a glass wall, forty-six storeys and an iPhone between them.
She’d almost decided he’d had enough, then her eyes fell on the gold sandals she was wearing—in November!—the sandals she’d run to three stores over lunch to find. “I want the rest.”
“Joss!”
“Look, he was supposed to be my Mr. Mistake.”
“Boy, you got your wish, sister.”
“No, I mean before my wedding. Not to sleep with. To flirt with. To have a thing with. My last thing.”
“If that’s your last thing, I think you should rethink the rules of engagement.”
“Would it make any difference to you to know that he conned me into trying on a dress by telling me I looked like a Greek goddess, watched me strip naked, made an appointment for tonight so that he could see me ‘one last time’ before I got married, then stole my key card and left me waiting in his shop while he came here?”
LaWren clicked the mike. “Drop your shorts, asshole. There’s a map missing, and we’re not stopping until it’s found.”
Hugh’s face turned six shades of purple.
“Off with ’em, pal. This isn’t my only gig tonight.”
He threaded his thumbs along the waistband and dropped the fabric to the floor.
LaWren exhaled first. “Are you seeing what I’m seeing?”
“Yikes.” It was riveting.
“No map there.”
“Nope.”
“Not unless it’s rolled up pretty tight.”
“Yep.”
“What are those things on each side of his stomach? They look like little cliffs.”
“Hell if I know. Never seen ’em before.”
