We proceeded to the elevators and headed downstairs.
With our bags in tow, we asked to speak to the manager, a youngish gentleman with perfectly combed hair wearing a dark suit, overstretched brass buttons covering a barrel-like torso.
“He was about five six, dark, curly hair, receding a bit, but had a heavy beard, maybe three or four days old. Wore black pants and a white button shirt, like most of your employees.” I swung my head around the expansive lobby and saw many people scurrying about wearing the same uniform.
“Pants were baggy, and he had on dark shoes that looked too big for a man his size,” Andi chimed in.
The manager nodded, his hands clasped in front. "Give me a moment." Ten minutes later he returned, flanked by two underlings, it appeared.
“First of all, we'd like to extend our deepest apology for the apparent accidental entry into your hotel room. For that inconvenience, we'd like to offer you a voucher for a free dinner at the Laurel Court Restaurant and offer to pay for the rest of your stay here at the Fairmount.”
“We'll take a rain check on the extended stay,” I said, then snatched the meal voucher card from his hand.
“Have you verified it was an accident? Have you spoken to your employee?” Andi was like a vulture.
The manager adjusted his wire-rim glasses. “From what we can tell, we don't recall anyone with that appearance working at the hotel. Did you happen to catch his name? We all wear name tags.”
He pointed to his.
“Well, Lawrence, maybe he had one, maybe he didn't. We were frankly a bit too shocked to see this man entering our room to notice.”
“But you did notice he wore black shoes that were too big for a man of his stature?” Lawrence questioned.
Andi took a half step forward. “What are you implying?”
“Look, Miss...”
“Osborne.”
“Yes, Ms. Osborne, we're not accusing you of anything. We're as puzzled and concerned about this incident as you are. This, I can honestly say, never happens at the Fairmount. Nonetheless, you have my sincerest apologies.”
“And the man? What is anyone doing about finding this guy, questioning him?”
I almost smiled, given my front-row seat to the interrogation.
“We will continue to ask each of our shift managers. If no one on the staff can identify him as one of our employees, then there's really nothing we can do. I guess we could bring in the police, but I'm not sure that's the wisest use of taxpayer money.”
Andi flipped on a dime and headed for the door. I stuck around and negotiated a three-night rain check, then picked up my black duffel bag and caught up to Andi, who was standing outside at the intersection of Mason and California, her hair whipping behind her from a stiff breeze.
“This is your city, so where to?” she asked with a typical rebellious attitude.
“Hmmm. We want to be safe, but I don't want to leave this area. We're in the middle of this, whether we like it or not.”
I caught myself. “Sorry, I said we. You're only here because you know me. You can leave, head back to Texas.”
She playfully punched my shoulder. “You don't see me hailing a cab, do you? I believe you...and I believe in you. And I know you want—need—to get to the bottom of this. For you, for Camila.”
I smiled then turned my head.
“Do you know Pop once told me that when I was born they almost named me Mark?”
“Odd timing, but...okay.”
“Apparently, my mom thought Mark Hamill, of Star Wars fame, was just the kind of person she wanted me to be. Fearless.“
“You have done a few good things in your life, Michael. Just not sure you've saved the galaxy from the evil emperor.”
I shifted my eyes to the left, drawing her attention to the expansive sign for the skyscraper hotel: InterContinental Mark Hopkins.
“Subtle, you are.” She grabbed her bag and started walking across the street.
“Thanks, Yoda.”
Not much later, we had ordered room service for dinner, then I hit the bed, while she stayed up and apparently took in a horror movie.
With this morning's embarrassment mostly stored in a place that I—and especially Andi—would hopefully soon forget, I tossed the plug adaptor from my hand, flipped it over a few times. This guy bringing a plug adaptor to a customer's room...seemed like it could be a typical guest request, given the plethora of gadgets that accompanied most people these days.
But he most likely didn't view Andi and me as customers. I paced the room, my toes pawing the padded rug like a cat with no claws, and gently scratched my temple, wondering how this invasion could be viewed as a random occurrence.
“What are you thinking?” Andi asked from around the corner of our room, applying what little makeup she wore.
“I don't know.” I bit my lip and inspected the white object more.
“Don't tell me you think there's something to that plug?” she said, walking back into the room.
“If we make the leap that this guy was in our room for a reason, and if he's connected to the thugs who roughed me up, we have to ask why, don't we?” I started.
“I've been asking that since I watched you shuffle down the hallway, chasing after him,” Andi said, snorting out a laugh. “But a glorified plug? Not much we can do with that, Mr. Bond. Unless you think 'Q' put some contraption inside. Maybe there's a hidden code that will slide out of the socket and lead us to the exact location of a bomb that's set to go off in T minus thirty-eight minutes.“
I may not work for MI6, but Andi was certainly sassy enough to qualify as one of the Bond women.
Chapter Fourteen
One Week Ago
“Check them out, get a feel for their services, their level of commitment, and come back and debrief us.”
Given my recent poor attendance and my lackluster enthusiasm when I did show my mug in the Playa offices over the last three weeks, I can honestly say my manager's brief one-on-one discussion shocked me.
He'd briskly walked by my cube, his head buried in a tablet displaying a bunch of graphics with red and yellow arrows, and simply said, “Michael, my office, two minutes.”
In the twenty steps it took for me to weave around four cubes and land in Josh's office, which looked more like a ten-year-old playground, I assessed the possible reasons for this unplanned discussion. It could go several ways, but I leaned more toward him chiding me for all my recent fallacies, asking me to sign a piece of paper with checkmarks all over it, then providing a final incentive to get my attention—either I check back in mentally or I lose my job to some twenty-three-year-old braniac.
“Did I tell you how fast I can put together a Rubik's Cube right out of the box? You know, these things are making a comeback.” Four stacks of colorful cubes outlined his desk, which was on rollers. Nerf hoops suctioned to four walls and an oval, blue shag carpet with the NASCAR logo in the middle highlighted his dorm room...rather, office.
“Uh, no, you haven't mentioned that.” I couldn't help myself, but I actually drifted away again, recalling the tight fit of the metal cuffs that I'd been forced to wear twice in the last few weeks. Not my proudest moments, and the arrests only created more crap on my plate. Legal shit.
He proceeded to flip plastic while I awaited my fate. A second later, his phone buzzed and vibrated across his metal desk. I think he must have sent off two emails, four text messages, set up a meeting, and ordered lunch online in about thirty seconds. He was like a cell phone ninja. Then again, he was only twenty-six, and I knew the younger generation had skills my age group couldn't fathom possessing—and maybe not even want to possess.
He sat back and told me I was to lead the effort in assessing a potential partner, another company with expertise we didn't have: project management.
“Are you sure the culture at Playa would be open to have someone manage every task they perform and hold them accountable?” I asked transparently.
“Of course, why not?” He looked at m
e like I'd grown five ears.
I could think of about twenty reasons, but it was obvious his mind was made up. I grabbed my jacket and headed down the street for the meeting at a local Starbucks, across from the huge Transamerica Pyramid building. I'd heard some in San Francisco call it "our own version of the Eiffel Tower." Not quite, but I did arch my neck to check out the pointed tip before I opened the Starbucks door and was met with a wave of smells, predominantly roasted coffee beans.
“Michael, Michael, we're over here.” Three ladies waved from a table nestled against the wall. One laptop was open.
“How'd you know my name?” I asked while shaking hands and hearing names I'd never recall.
“Josh just called and gave us a heads-up.”
I nodded, then realized I was surrounded by three engaging, attractive, and most likely sharp women. But I couldn't have been more disinterested. Beyond all the legal things bouncing around in my mind, I couldn't keep myself from thinking about my interaction with Camila, her quiet, strong demeanor, and equally strong grip. Her absolutely natural beauty, and the disturbing interaction with Harley Man.
Two hours whizzed by, and by the end of our discussion, I still couldn't recall their names. I'd adequately fooled them. Given their three smiles, and because they were female, attractive, and younger than I, they probably thought my silence equated to submission. Quite the opposite. I was in another world. Michael's world.
“We'll talk soon?” The tallest, a twenty-something Director of Some Such, raised a sculpted eyebrow as she held my hand an extra few seconds.
“Soon,” I said with a reassuring nod.
I wasn't sure what the hell I'd tell Josh. I pondered a couple of options, then decided I needed fresh air, and turned onto Clay, heading west, opposite of our home office.
I unbuttoned my coat just to let my extremities feel the wind penetrate my outer shell. I could almost feel my veins bulging from the blood racing from limb to limb, and I briefly closed my eyes at a crosswalk. Feet shuffled nearby, and I opened my eyes only to see an obnoxious grin plastered on the back of a bench anchored to the sidewalk. Lots of red, white, and blue, a forced smile, a man holding a little American flag, his jowls hanging over his buttoned shirt collar. A cascade of thoughts unfolded in my mind: "Better Call Saul," from the infamous show Breaking Bad, which quickly segued into the bad decision I'd made on my recent lawyer hunt. Ralph Hall. Hall rhymed with Saul, which should have been a sign for me. On top of that, Ralph was the dude from Happy Days. Ralph "Malph." And yes, my lawyer was all mouth and no action.
After sweet-talking me into writing a two-thousand-dollar retainer check related to my first arrest the night of the murder, he promised to appear in court on my behalf, saying he'd have no problem in getting all charges dropped. Simple, easy, and behind me.
As the saying went: you hear only what you want to hear. For that offense, in my one and only face-to-face meeting with my lawyer, I guess I'm guilty as sin. The bastard, Ralph "Malph" Hall, never showed up at my designated court appearance time, never checked in with the court at all, as far as I could tell, and never told me a damn word about it.
My first and only communication on the topic came when I was brought into the fourth precinct following my second arrest. As they booked me with a charge of attempted assault for throwing a beer bottle in the vicinity of a two-thousand-pound noise machine—don't get me started on Harley Man—they informed me I had an outstanding warrant for failure to appear in court for my first arrest. My words? “What the fuck?”
Disgust morphed into shame, which led to sheer anger. If I'd seen that shithead, Ralph Hall, roaming the halls of the police station, I might have gone after the guy. It was probably wise to lock me up for a few hours, giving me some time to cool off. And I even enjoyed my conversation with three teenage Asian gangbangers in the holding cell. Thoughts of hunting down Ralph and demanding my money back eventually subsided, and I thought back to the reason I'd fallen into this cycle of bad luck—my connection, or maybe even an obsession, over Camila.
Pop had once told me to stay clear of people who attracted trouble like flies on a horse's ass. Eventually, he said, that trouble would stick with you.
Consider me stuck.
A couple of cabbies screamed expletives, and I noticed I'd just passed the post office, then I decided to hang a left onto Powell, then a right on Sacramento. A bar was calling my name. I just hadn't decided which one would get my business as dusk settled in. Pink and purple stripes arched across two glass buildings, and I reminded myself of the uniqueness of every day in this bustling city.
I swung left onto Mason and saw the InterContinental Mark Hopkins straight ahead. Taking in the sunset from the Top of the Mark bar couldn't be replicated. I could chill out and think through all of the data-points I'd experienced or witnessed. My logical mind would surely take over and help me figure everything out. I lengthened my stride as I began to taste the Maker's Mark and Coke a good fifty yards before I reached the front door.
“Hey, shithead, that's my ride. You didn't wait your turn!”
I glanced left and saw two cabbies inches from each other, one lard ass poking the other in the chest. I'm not sure the receiver understood the large man's English, and I'm also not sure the large man realized he was poking the chest of a man at least twenty years his junior, who was seemingly in kick-ass shape. I stopped and took two steps in their direction, which was right in front of the Fairmount. A boyish hotel bellman was also headed that way.
The hotel employee beat me there, which was fine with me. I saw the large man throw a punch, which was met with a quick block by the smaller man, who quickly shoved a knee to the gonads of lard ass. The bellman caught him falling over. I winced, feeling his pain.
Just beyond the cabbie standoff, I spotted a man and woman hugging near the exit at the Fairmount. She had wavy, brown hair, wore a gray, houndstooth jacket with the collar turned up. She was almost as tall as the man, who had mostly gray temples. The hug lasted for at least thirty seconds. It was easy to see their bond of love.
Just as I turned my head, the man broke the embrace, threw a kiss in her direction, and slid into a cab. The girl waved.
Wait, I know that girl.
“Andi?”
The cab drove off, and I walked toward the front door, confirming my earlier vision. She appeared as shocked as I'm sure I looked.
“Michael?” She took a step toward me, and I noticed her fashionable boots, her confident, smooth gait.
I stopped three feet in front of her, my heart racing for some unknown reason. It almost felt like I'd been hunted down by my past. Yet, part of me felt comforted, like I wasn't all alone in this world.
“You live in San Francisco?” she asked as she held out her hand.
I think she wanted me to shake it. “I, uh, guess I thought Brandon would spread the word to anyone who cared.”
Just as I grabbed her hand, she took a half step toward me and in the most awkward way possible, she hugged me, and then I hugged her back—both at completely separate times.
An old friend, a cousin—whatever she represented from my past—was here, engaging me in conversation. Kind of.
“Apparently I blazed the trail, but you took the same route,” I said.
She scrunched her eyes. “Trail?”
“Me traveling out west, landing in San Francisco, and now you, eighteen months later, doing the same thing.”
She nodded and smiled, flashing pearly whites from ear to ear, her familiar single canine tooth wedged in at an awkward angle. "Yeah, it's kind of surreal." She paused and didn't look away from me, then caught herself.
“I was just hanging out with my dad, actually. We met half way. I flew out to San Francisco, and he flew in from Japan. He's working on some type of international money-laundering scheme. It's hard to keep up with all of his investigative journalism gigs.”
“That'll be you some day,” I said without hesitation.
I think it caught her off g
uard. Her brow flinched, and her chapped lips turned upward, a slow-developing but authentic smile. She nodded and didn't say a word for a few seconds.
In those seconds, I realized I wasn't standing next to a student and newspaper intern. She had put her own life on the line by going undercover, interacting with a dangerous lot of screwed-up teens who believed and acted like society's rules simply didn't apply to them. The assignment had taken Andi to the brink of injecting a deadly drug. She had to fend off a wacked-out athlete, who could have killed her and thrown her in the ocean without provocation.
We might still be looking for her body—if Andi hadn't responded to the assault like a seasoned FBI agent. Recalling I'd been the one who approved that assignment sent a brief shiver up my spine. But here she was, standing before me, a young woman who had professional, adult goals. Her presence, the way she was dressed...I could sense her maturity had skyrocketed, and maybe it finally matched her instinct and intellect. I couldn't call her a kid any longer.
“Damn.”
“What?” She turned her head.
“I just wish I could have met the famous Sam Osborne.”
“He's just Dad. A little grayer than when I remember him pecking away on his old typewriter late at night in our kitchen.”
“Yeah, he was probably writing a story to uncover the greatest conspiracy in politics,” I said without thinking.
“That was Woodward and Bernstein.” Andi pointed at me. “From what he told me later, when I got older, the Washington Post brought him in just after Watergate broke, and within a few months, he'd uncovered a story that would have made Watergate look like a game of Monopoly. He had senators on the record, chiefs of staff, all because a single source inside the White House had leaked information about a trail of bribes."
“Ever find out the source?” I think my tongue was hanging out.
“When I graduated from University of North Texas last year, out of nowhere, Dad pulled me aside and said I was finally old enough to hear the whole story. I ignored everyone for fifteen minutes; my pulse raced as he filled in the details.”
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