Blue (The Carson Trilogy Book 1)

by K NILSSON

  He'd also assembled dossiers on Rathmore and his business associates.

  The sun was low in the sky, and the wind was picking up. Lovers were walking down from the upper streets to watch the sunset, a spectacular event any night of the week. I thought about the man whom I was about to meet. Would I be able to get past his scrutiny and worm myself inside his organization? Worst-case scenario, I’d get a look inside his headquarters, have time to plant a bug. I made a mental note to ask Unger if Rathmore has his office swept for bugs.

  I wore a Hugo Boss charcoal suit with a single button jacket, white button-down shirt, and a navy and red tie in a micro medallion print.

  A classic black BMW 5 series pulled up at Shutters on the Beach. I peered at the driver’s side and saw it was Unger. He would drive me to the job interview.

  He pulled around the circle in front of the restaurant.

  “Nice wheels,” I said as I slid into the front seat.

  “Company car,” Unger said, white teeth flashing in a forced smile.

  They were white, so white he should be a model for a toothpaste commercial. The BMW smelled of aromatherapy. I have the same one, and it puts me in a good mood.

  I took an exaggerated deep breath. “Bergamot and orange?” I asked.

  He nodded, grinning. “Boss like. I have case in trunk.”

  He is human. That accent though…

  “Where are you from, Unger?”

  The atmosphere got chilly, and he gave me a black look. Okay, so he wouldn’t tell me today. But, I’ll find out, you heavy-accented bastard, I said to myself. We didn’t speak the rest of the way.

  Unger took I-10 to the 405, exiting at Culver Blvd. The campus was another five miles. You couldn’t see the buildings from the entrance. The road that led to it was a tree-lined. The campus looked like a park. Good thing James got the satellite view of the property, thanks to his contact in the Army Corp of Engineers. The map was a significant addition to our database on the company, how many buildings, whether there were underground tunnels, and how far the entrances and exits extended.

  Unger drove behind the building and into an underground garage. There were a few spots open in RESERVED PARKING. Unger pulled into one of the reserved spots near an elevator. I got out, buttoning my jacket, watching Unger, who waved a keycard in front of an electric eye on a panel next to the elevator.

  I took off my sunglasses and switched them for a pair of smart glasses. They look like regular glasses, the logo a camouflage for a mini-camera that records what I see for playback later. The sad thing is, the camera has a short battery life.

  Unger squinted at me. I ignored him.

  The elevator dinged its arrival.

  “Follow,” he said as he stepped inside, waited for me to enter, and then, pushed the letter P.

  Penthouse?

  I stepped in behind him. As soon as the elevator doors closed, we shot up like a rocket. The ride was seamless.

  The doors opened to a lobby with sleek floors and a high ceiling; etched in huge letters across sliding glass doors, Sigma Stormsoft.

  Unger stepped in front of another security panel to the side of the doors. This one was more sophisticated than the one in the parking garage. He punched in some digits, pressed his thumb onto the identification screen, and the doors swished open.

  There were no leather sofas or special seating except for metal cubes the size of ottomans; big pieces of art hung on the walls. The design was cold, an unsettling reflection of the CEO.

  I scanned the reception area for security cameras though I doubted they’d be visible. James would find them.

  The receptionist, her head barely visible behind the tall desk, stood up as Unger breezed by her. She had an innocent smile.

  “Mr. Unger,” she said, her voice breathy, silently willing him to look at her.

  He did so for a split second longer than he should. I made a mental note to talk to her later.

  I followed him down a doorless corridor. At the end of the hall, we turned right. I froze in front of a mural depicting the CEO lording over Los Angeles. Unger frowned, sensing I stopped walking.

  "This way," he said extending his hand toward yet another hallway, this one to the left. The place was a labyrinth.

  A thick wood door with a brass plate on it that read Byron Rathmore, CEO. No one could mistake the office belonging to anyone else. The door announced a staid, traditional, and formal style to his office. I expected Rathmore's desk to be massive with two straight-back chairs angled toward it.

  The personal assistant was gone for the day, the desk clear of any papers, and the desktop computer was off.

  Unger knocked on the closed door. “Mr. Rathmore?”

  “Enter.”

  I held my breath as Unger turned the handle and we strode inside. The office looked like a small apartment.

  A credenza displayed crystal decanters, which gave the only spots of color in a palette that was otherwise black, gray, and white, except for the Mark Rothko. It held a prominent position opposite his desk, so he could enjoy it whenever he looked up.

  Early evening light streamed through the floor to ceiling glass windows casting an amber shadow over the tone of the interview. If I didn’t pass the test, I’d run the gauntlet. I glanced around the room, noting the locations of doors and cameras.

  The man behind the desk stood, looking to Unger who’d nodded his head in greeting, in quiet command.

  Rathmore wore navy tailored slacks and vest, his shirt and tie both a pristine white. He reminded me of a well-groomed Albert Einstein, his white hair trimmed and tame. His beard, darker than his hair, was full, long, and manicured. His narrow shoulders, barrel torso, and long skinny legs that disappeared inside his trousers led me to believe he was in his early sixties.

  “This is Max Stone,” said Unger, holding his hand out toward me.

  “Mr. Rathmore?” I asked, looking at him and extending my hand in greeting.

  “I am,” he affirmed extending his arm, not to shake my hand but to motion toward the chair in front of his desk.

  Rathmore’s eyes were cold and soulless. His low voice, though controlled, can express evil menace and commanding power. He paced back and forth behind his desk and steepled his fingers.

  “I’m looking for someone who can evaluate our system's operational needs and check they follow security protocol, someone who can assess risks, threats, and vulnerabilities of our assets. I want tight security in our operations so that no one can steal our technology,” he said, pausing to examine my face.

  “I can do that,” I said with confidence, because I could. If not, James would fill me in.

  “Here’s a question for you,” he smirked, raising one eyebrow.

  I watched him make his body appear as big as possible, like a cobra poised to strike if I answered wrong.

  “Explain the difference between Insufficient Authentication and Insufficient Authorization,” he said.

  Relief flowed through my body. I could answer this question. “Insufficient Authentication means the user doesn’t have the right password or permission to access anything with those measures in place,” I answered.

  Rathmore nodded. “And?”

  “Insufficient Authorization is when a user, who should be able to access protected information, can't because he doesn’t have the proper permissions to do so.” I looked at his face, only to see his eyebrows raised in surprise.

  “Very well, Mr. Stone.”

  Rathmore walked around his desk to the front, leaned on it with his hands behind him and crossed one ankle over the other.

  “Since Misha nor I know anything about you besides your clearance for top-secret security during your career with the government, what kind of person are you? An introvert, an extrovert, or something in between?”

  “I’m not much of an extrovert. I speak when necessary and am polite when meeting new people,” I admitted, being as truthful as possible. It’s harder to give away your cover when answering a que
stion that way.

  Rathmore's lip curled up on one side as if he liked my answer.

  “What do you know about Sigma Stormsoft, me?” he asked, squinting his eyes.

  I sighed, blowing air through my mouth, looking as though I’m planning the right answer. “Sigma Stormsoft is owned by you. As for what I know, besides what you want me to know? I know your first acquisition was the company who hired you as an intern. You knew that company inside out and were in a perfect position to take the helm.”

  I wondered how a person who got a leg up on his future, could do that to a company who fostered his success.

  He smiled. “Good enough, my son. I’ll get back to you.”

  “Thank you for the opportunity, Mr. Rathmore,” I said, offering my hand. This time he shook it.

  By the time I walked out of that interview, the office was empty, the only staff left was security. Unger took me down the elevator. He took out the key card again, then pushed the button that said P1.

  Once out of sight of the elevator camera, I murmured, “How did I do?”

  He grunted. I’ll take it as an okay.

  “Do you want to go for a drink at Shutters?” I asked before we got into the car.

  “Same as before. No,” Unger muttered, focusing on traffic.

  “Okay.”

  Unger’s phone rang, he put it to his ear and said, “Yes.” He listened for a minute and then hung up. Maybe it was his wife asking him to bring home a loaf of bread and some milk, or a date who canceled.

  By the time, he pulled into the circle at Shutters, he'd turned to me, “Boss said you start Monday.”

  I’m sure the shock registered on my face.

  He grinned, obviously enjoying my reaction. “I text details later.”

  I got out, and he drove away. Unger doesn’t waste any words or time. I pulled out my phone and sent James a text.

  Me: Did you eat yet?

  James: No. I’m starving.

  He’s always starving.

  Me: Let’s go out for burgers. Meet me at Dean’s in fifteen minutes.

  James: I’ll be there sooner than that.

  He made it to Dean’s before I did and stood in front of the restaurant holding his skateboard.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Devyn

  Los Angeles

  What professional goes by the name of Dr. Jane? There was no last name, no specialty on the black and white business card, just an email address and a phone number. Therefore, it was impossible to find her on Google.

  We met at a tapas place in a craftsman style house converted into a full restaurant and bar. I left an hour early because we were meeting before the lunch rush and the place was in East LA, Los Feliz.

  She arrived before me and sent a text before I walked in.

  Jane: Look toward the corner table by the window.

  Me: How?

  Jane: How did I know it was you?

  I nodded while looking around and spotted her where she said she was. Then her mouth curved up into a smile. I extended my hand in greeting and she covered it with hers.

  “You must be Devyn. Ben told me a lot about you.”

  He did?

  “Did he now...” I smiled thinly, sat down on the wooden bistro chair, and stowed my purse on the back of it.

  She was... nice. Did she elicit this kind of reaction every time?

  “I’m Dr. Jane MaCallan but you can call me Jane.”

  "What kind of doctor are you, Jane?"

  "I'm a therapist, but, in our encounters, I'll be in consultant mode."

  Ben gave me a quick rundown regarding Dr. Jane the day before. He met her at a private event and was impressed with her experience as a sex therapist. He hired her as an ad hoc consultant.

  “She will help you gain confidence in areas you aren't familiar with so you can succeed with the case,” he’d said.

  Her experience with sociopaths and their victims gave her creditability. Ben had mixed feelings about this assignment as it was, so I went along with his suggestion. He had good intentions.

  "I want to hand you over to someone I trust who can guide you through the parts I'm not familiar with instead of infecting you with my doubts,” he assured.

  Dr. Jane’s forehead was wrinkled as if she was overdue for Botox injections. She had dove-gray eyes with laugh lines, a narrow face, and chin length blond hair. The petite woman looked like a breath of fresh air in her artful choice of clothing, slacks, top, and jacket in varying shades of white and cream colors. Her unstructured boyfriend jacket and trousers draped her slim body.

  She was swirling a teaspoon of sugar in her teacup.

  As if on cue, a server walked up to ask if he could get something for me.

  “I’ll have an almond milk latte and two biscotti, please.”

  "What did Ben tell you about me?" she asked.

  "That you were all-knowing," I said, seeing her reaction.

  Laughter trilled like a spoon that tinked a glass.

  "Go on," she encouraged.

  Did she and Ben have a thing?

  "Ben said your insights would help me do my job."

  "Now here's your first opportunity to try it. Let your subject talk, and you will know more than they want you to know."

  I puzzled over that. "Who talked more, you or me?" I asked.

  "You tell me."

  Dr. Jane was easy to talk to, and I could see why Ben sent me to her. The interactions made me think—use my mind as another type of tool. Ben's familiar words came back from my training days: evaluate, plan, act, don't react. Yeah, he had a mouth full of words, but Dr. Jane would help me figure out how to choose the ones on which to act.

  She peered at me through the rising steam of her teacup. "You're a knee-jerk girl on a mission."

  I blinked.

  "You're spontaneous to the point of acting on impulse, and then, if all works out okay, you might get out of dealing with the fallout afterward,” she said.

  Trying not to look a little startled, I kept my eyes on the biscotti dipped in the latte. "What do you mean?"

  Jane rolled her eyes.

  "You've heard it all before,” she said, shaking her head, a half-smile on her lips.

  The charge just hung there. "Okay... and?"

  "You are working on something for Ben, but you have more skin in the game, something grinds you in this mission."

  I nodded.

  "Let's see if we can improve your chances of succeeding."

  "What do you know about my assignment?"

  "I know that you need help."

  "I don't know what you can do to help me. My primary has a penchant for kink, leather, chains, whips. The whole bondage and discipline stuff. And not the shades of gray kind, but rather, shades of red and black."

  My head bobbed around as I spoke with my hands, holding them palms up, saying that this was your run-of-the-mill BDSM. Meanwhile, I had no clue what the most basic of terms meant. Her eyebrows raised.

  "The submissive can't avoid punishment."

  Her laughter caught me off guard. It was a sound that rolled out of her mouth like peels of orange slices—bright, sweet and tart at the same time.

  "Throw that book away."

  "Why?"

  She took a few seconds, but she squeezed her eyebrows into a frown.

  "Not knowing who your primary is, I can only give you a general response. You need to know who's the boss, what happens if you don't respect the boss, follow orders, and how to play the games."

  Huh?

  "Let's go to my office nearby. We can get to work right away."

  The lightbulb went off in my head. Learning about BDSM is the reason Ben told me to clear my calendar for the day.

  I sent Ben a text.

  Me: We are going to her office. She wants to start right away. Should I tell her about the assignment?

  Ben: She signed non-disclosures. Dr. Jane wants to bring in villains, too. She's a different kind of sheriff.

  Me: What's m
y focus here? I don't want to be an effing slave!

  Ben: Reel it in Devyn. This is a sub-culture you need to understand. You don't get to be anyone's slave. The pretense is everything.

  Me: What???

  Ben: ttyl Devyn. I need to bounce out of here.

  Me: see you tomorrow.

  "Will there be field trips?" I asked Dr. Jane.

  Suddenly, I was interested in the prospects. Dr. Jane was a big help in getting my feet wet in the BDSM culture. She grinned ear to ear.

  "You bet. The first one’s tonight, if you’re up for it."

  Chapter Twenty

  Devyn

  Los Angeles.

  I can be a grade A student when I put my mind to it. The subject must interest me, for instance, BDSM.

  Mayhem was a private kink club for members only, but, occasionally, it was open to people who were beginners in BDSM. This evening was Newbie night. The owners set aside a night for people who have a serious interest in the BDSM lifestyle. The welcome committee set up near the entrance, a prelude to the bacchanal. They shield regular members who need anonymity from the public in another part of the club. The members' and attendees' privacy was paramount, and the staff vigilant to see their anonymity preserved.

  Jane gave me directions, and we planned to meet at ten o’clock. I got there fifteen minutes early. I didn’t want to be late. The location was beyond the airport, disguised in a strip mall. The storefront looked like an adult novelty store.

  Someone escorted me through a metal door to wait in an anteroom for Jane. I signed a waiver and non-disclosure agreements at the entrance. Through the curtain, I glimpsed costumed members—men, and women in pony gear, sans clothes. The members included dominatrixes with crops, grown men in diapers, and people with masks. I heard excited voices, smacking of skin, spanks? And someone moaning in heat. I couldn’t wait to get inside.

  Mayhem seemed to be an edgy nightclub. Instead, it was a classy dungeon.

  Who predicted I'd take to BDSM as I did to skiing? Some BDSM activities, though confusing, were hot.

  For instance, some spankings were a show of ownership or affection. Others, dispensed as a discipline. Two sides of the same coin. Soothing rubs moved to delicious fingering, or, better yet, pussy licking, making me squirm where I stood. Go ahead, blow smoke up my skirt like that and sign me up.