“Does it back up automatically from your hard drive?”
“No.”
“Then copy it onto another SSD, then I’ll watch you trash it completely.”
“Yessir. File security. I get it, I get it.”
Josh watches Phish search through a few drawers under the counter, looks at the clock on the computer. “How long is this gonna take? I have a meeting with my staff in thirty minutes.”
“Hard to tell. But I’m looking, and I’m out of external hard drives. It’ll take six regular two-terabyte flash drives to copy all the information I just unzipped. $150 each.”
“What?” Josh’s face crumbles. “I can buy these on Amazon for like thirty bucks.”
“I said we’re cheaper than the Mac store, not Amazon.” Phish smiles. “But I can give them to you for $100 each since you’re buying so many.”
Josh pulls his wallet out of his back pocket, glancing at the oval SSD still in Phish’s USB port. “This better be worth it.”
“I give solutions, and I don’t ask questions. I have no idea what I just did for you.”
“Hopefully you just helped me bring down—”
“I don’t want to know.”
C h a p t e r 2 8
“I KNOW, I know, I’m late and I’m sorry.” Josh walks into the fourth-floor conference room of the new Élan building, the six flash drives and SSD clanking around in his pocket. He closes the glass door.
“Is that Greta Garbo?” someone says from the back.
Josh looks back at the door he’d just shut. An image of a sultry woman is etched into the glass. “It’s Marilyn Monroe. All the doors on each floor have different themes. Since the South Tower will house our entertainment entities, these doors on this particular floor feature the stars of Old Hollywood.”
As Josh places a large printout of the building on a pedestal, his pants continue to jingle.
“Are those your keys, or are you just happy to see us?” someone asks, he doesn’t know who.
Josh looks down at the bulge in his pocket. “First item on the agenda, did anyone bring the employee handbook?”
As he takes a look at the stack of updates on the podium, Josh hears a few people around the conference room table laugh. The ones seated toward the window are bathed in prismatic light bouncing off the triangular atriums that connect the three-building structure. The conference room itself is enormous, fitting the thirty or so guests with ease and room to spare. Twenty brushed-nickel chairs with supple leather surround the table, some swiveled toward the front to pay attention to Josh.
One of his audience members looks up at the light fixture.
The three-sided chandelier above them is made of three triangular pieces of glass at different levels that shoot out toward the window, and the east and north sides of the room. The indirect glow from the fixture reminds Josh of why he picked this conference room. He’s the one who recommended the glass artist.
“Isn’t this great? This is one of my favorite pieces in the whole building,” Josh says, holding his hand up to block the light for a second. Everyone looks at the light fixture, but no one responds.
“Mine, too.” Tracy saves him, gets him back on track.
Josh winks at her. “First of all, thank you for being here, and again, I apologize for being so late. Thanks for these updates, everyone. I know we have representatives from many different departments here, and I don’t mean to waste your time.”
“Then let’s get on with it,” someone says from the back.
Josh points to the diagram beside him. “This building you entered, many of you for the first time, is what we are calling the South Tower, home to Makeshift Media and our other broadcast acquisitions, as well as residential condos on the upper floors. The North Tower houses the entirety of Élan’s headquarters and will be the next tower to fully open. The Center Tower offers a conference-worthy hotel as well as luxury condos, and is connected to the North and South Towers through sky bridges and the shopping mall. Each tower is set off from the lobby by three enormous glass atriums, the entirety of the structure forming a full city block. Did anyone get a chance to tour the progress?”
Many nod, some clap.
“Why aren’t all three towers open yet?” asks a tall, handsome man standing in the back. “We got here early and wanted to see our offices in the North Tower.”
“We are months behind schedule, but offices in the North Tower should be open within two weeks.”
“Same with the parking structures?” someone asks.
“Screw parking. Welcome to Manhattan. What about the elevators?” asks a frumpy woman in front. “Four flights is nothing, but if we’re moving here in a few months, they need to be working, or at least accessible to us.”
“The elevators. I’m glad you mentioned those.” Josh points to the outside of the building. “West is very proud of them. They are made mostly of glass, as you could probably see when you entered, and run along the outside of the building. This gives our guests and employees beautiful views of the Hudson River and beyond as they rise to the eightieth-floor restaurant. The views from up there are amazing. The elevators should be available when construction gives the green light.”
“Glass elevators? That would make me nauseous,” someone says.
“Not if you face toward the doors,” Josh answers. “Anyone else?”
“Are we okay?” asks Tracy. “As a company, I mean? I’m concerned about our financial picture.”
“West and I have talked about our financial situation extensively. Stock in Élan International has had a bit of a downward slump, but the plunge has plateaued and is back on the rise, thanks in part to our PR folks; where are they?” Josh looks around.
A woman waves, puts her hand down quickly.
“Thanks, Pamela,” Josh says. “West has assured me the building will be fully complete by the grand-opening party, shopping mall open, all offices full functional and completely furnished. The only thing that won’t be open just yet are some of the lower condos in the South Tower. As for the parking structures, well, there aren’t many. New developments in New York don’t really allow for them anymore, so unless you’re an executive, you’ll probably need to commute like a New Yorker if you don’t already. Right now, the parking structures we do have give better access to the interior contractors, and the elevators are reserved for the same. For now. That will all change the closer we get to opening.”
“Well, the whole structure is magnificent,” Tracy says. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“Thanks, Tracy; I agree,” Josh says. “I ask if most of you have toured the place because our CEO James West wants high-profile clients to have guided tours. Do we have someone from Talent here?”
“Chris Dixon, North American Talent. We have an updated list for you there on your podium. Rest assured we have highlighted the A-list, and vetted tour guides will be provided during reception.”
“Great. Onto the theme of the event. I appreciate you guys bearing with me with the change in focus. People, this just isn’t about the right celebrities to advance our image, we did that with the party last August. This event is about celebrating progress, not only for Élan International, but for the extraordinary people who stand up and stand out in this country, from philanthropists to activists.” Josh flips through the list. “These people are the true leaders of the world, and I want them taken care of. What about the former vice president Roger Maddox, and his Green Planet Initiative? Do we have to deal with Secret Service?”
“Jamal Cooper, Security. Green Planet is coming separately from Maddox, who is attending with his wife. It seems former vice presidents do not have Secret Service after six months of leaving office, unless they are major presidential candidates. Since Maddox left office three years ago and has dropped out of the presidential race, all Secret Service has been suspended. He will have two bodyguards, and they will coordinate with our team.”
“Thanks, Jamal. That’s a relief, right?”
>
“Oh, hell yes,” Jamal says with a laugh. “Had to google that shit before I verified with Maddox’s people. Security will be tight, rest assured. They are finishing up the install of the building’s state-of-the-art security system this week. It’s an incredible piece of software, I’ve never seen anything like it. We’ve updated our plans this morning, they should be in your inbox.”
“Perfect. Okay, PR and Marketing. Let’s have an update.”
“Pamela Gunter, PR. Invitations to over six thousand went out a couple of months ago, and we already have a thirty-two percent positive response rate, which is pretty good, especially in light of our fluctuating stock and tarnished reputation. Photographers are secured, social media plan is underway. We’ve highlighted some additional budgetary needs here.” She slides a thick stack of stapled papers toward Josh. “It looks like a lot, but it’s very detailed. Marketing couldn’t be here today, but they said the artwork for the new logo has been approved by Mr. West, so all the reprints for the directional signage are in the works.”
“Good. Mr. West hates that the invitations went out with the old logo.”
“The new logo looks a little too much like Cooper Harlow’s, don’t you think?” Pamela says. “We’re gonna be sued.”
“Mr. West doesn’t care,” Josh says. “He wanted to—how did he put it—‘spit in their faces’?”
Pamela shakes her head. “How about the giant logo on the main building? I couldn’t help but notice it as I was walking up. The sun was catching that scratchy accent point on the E, highlighting it, almost. It’s hideous.”
“He’s replacing it,” Josh replies. “I think the bill on the revised sign with the new logo is about three million. They’re installing it before the grand opening.”
“Jesus,” Pamela says.
Many mumblings follow.
Josh interjects. “But I understand there’s a press release on the new branding?”
“Yes, it’s part of the media plan building up to the event.”
“Great. I’ll look at this new budget. Thank you, Pamela.” Josh turns to the tiny elderly woman to his left. “Miss Harriet, you sweet woman, I love that you made it up those stairs.”
“I’ve run the Boston, you know.”
The whole room fills with laughter.
“We know, we know.” Josh smiles, pats her on the shoulder. “How are we on donors?”
“Harriet Theisen, Donor Relations. We are doing splendidly. I’ve been in the philanthropy realm for over forty years with many different companies, and with your change in focus, Mr. Josh, we’ve raised more than I’ve ever seen this far from an event. Over thirty-two million dollars toward your goal already, and they’re still boot-scootin’ in.”
She thrusts her hands over her head and begins clapping. Everyone joins in.
“Thank you, Miss Harriet. Mr. West will be happy to hear that. The Élan Foundation is extremely close to his heart, and by partnering with the different celebrity charities, he hopes this will help elevate Élan’s reputation at the moment. Speaking of reputation, Tracy, how are we on the special issue of Press?”
“Tracy Heissman, Press Editorial. We’ve been coordinating with Talent and PR to bring to life these incredible stories of our VIPs. Stunning photography, a slew of freelance interviewers and writers flying all over the world to capture these people in their workplaces, their homes, their protests, their orphanages. We’ve maxed out our budget, but I know we have something pretty special.”
“Another part of our PR strategy; I think it’ll be huge,” Pamela adds.
“Thank you both, that sounds ama—”
A young man Josh has never seen before knocks on the door, opens it and walks directly to Josh. He’s wearing a baseball cap, jeans and a tee, an outfit very off-putting to the current crowd of business-clad executives.
“Can I help you?” Josh asks.
The young man hands him an envelope, then leaves, shutting the door softly behind him. Josh opens the blank envelope, pulls out a note.
Meet West below. Now. Use the key.
Reagan.
Josh feels a lump developing in his throat. He clears it, addresses the crowd. “Wow. I don’t know what to say. You each have done an amazing job. Hire the best, then let them—”
“Do their thing!” everyone says in unison.
“To the West Way,” Josh says.
“To the West Way!” they reply.
“Anyone we didn’t get to, please email me your updates,” Josh says a bit loudly to compensate for everyone standing up and collecting their things. “And my team? Please stick around. We’ve got a lot to cover, and we need to do the tour-and-talk. I should be back in about an hour tops, say three o’clock?”
Josh’s team of managers and coordinators start talking amongst themselves.
“Tracy?” Josh stands in the doorway. “May I see you a second?”
JOSH TAKES TRACY to one of the nearby offices—tiger oak desk, black Eames office chair, magnificent view of the Hudson River over the top of the South Tower atrium. He hands her the note.
“What the actual hell?” Tracy flips it over, flips it back. “Who the fuck is Reagan?”
“The latest assistant to come through West’s revolving door?” Josh says.
Tracy looks at the note again. “So that thing, that oval thing with all the lights, must be a key, right?”
He takes it out of his pocket, flips it a couple of times. “I have no idea. It looks like the key Hillary showed me, but this one’s different.”
“You think West knows you have it?”
“He knows.” His eyes widen. He paces a bit. “He knows I met with Hillary Gordon. God!”
“Calm down. It’s gonna be fine.”
“What am I supposed to do?” He paces some more.
“You go down there with confidence.”
“This is how Jenna must’ve felt when he summoned her to his office.”
“What? Jenna’s in jail, you idiot.”
“I’m talking about a couple of months ago, before she was arrested. She’d just found the SSD on her doorstep, opened it for the first time, saw the video files. West called her in the very next day. We thought he knew we had the SSD.”
“Did he?”
“Turns out West wanted to talk with her about the account, the money laundering. Threatened her with her nondisclosure agreement, tried to keep her from testifying during Micah’s trial.”
“And did he kill her?” she asks with a raised eyebrow.
“No. But he hired Ghost to kill Lennox, hired Billy to kill Walter Gordon.”
“Exactly.” Tracy hands the note back to him. “He’s not going to hurt you. West is a wuss. You have nothing to worry about.”
“Ha!” he says. “Tell that to Jenna.”
C h a p t e r 2 9
JENNA WATCHES THE bars on her cell open and greets the large female waiting to escort her to a meeting room. She always hates this part, leaving the manufactured comfort of her cell, walking into the great unknown. She bites her fingernails, wondering what sort of obscenities will be hurled her way, what sort of lockup lurkers will be staring a hole through her chest.
One obscenity and two lurkers later, she is face to face with her lawyer, Shawn Connelly.
“Thank you, Shawn.” She takes a seat as the large security guard closes the door. She familiarizes herself with the room—table, two chairs, white walls, two-way mirror, camera in the corner. “I know this isn’t easy for you to be here.”
“You can thank my wife.” Shawn drums a pen on the table. “Seems she and Micah have been hanging out a lot. Micah’s been filling her head with all sorts of things about Élan. I’m getting on board with the ‘company framed you’ thing.”
“You’ve seen Micah?”
“Yes. Has he not come to see you yet?”
“No.” Jenna’s eyes blink in a short, rapid succession. “And I haven’t seen Josh for almost a week.”
“I think Josh is a bu
sy man with the grand opening coming up. But Micah?” Shawn grabs his notebook from his briefcase. “I’ll make a note to talk with him.”
“Don’t worry about it. I don’t want to, to—be a bother. He probably thinks I killed Lennox. He holds grudges.”
“Nonsense. He loves you, Jenna. If he’s talking with Haylee about Élan’s involvement in Lennox’s murder, he blames James West, not you. Remember the trial? He’s the one who reamed the shit outta me for going after you so hard that day.”
“That was before all the evidence emerged from my closet.”
“True.”
“Thank you for representing me.”
“Not a problem.” Shawn writes the time and date in his notebook. He doesn’t look up. “But Jenna, if I find out anything else that links you to the murder of my best friend, I will refer you to someone else.”
“Understood,” Jenna says. “If you killed Josh, I would never want to have anything to do with you.”
Shawn laughs, continues writing. “Well, if he tells another one of his mind-numbing stories, you and I might not ever see each other again.”
C h a p t e r 3 0
JOSH GETS OFF the elevator at Sublevel Two. Alone.
He’s meandered these hallways many times, shuttling excess event inventory to his personal event warehouse around the next corner. But he’s never paid attention to a stupid wall, this wall now in front of him, the same wall he’d seen on the blueprints from Walter and Hillary Gordon’s library, housing a mysterious and intriguing secret floor.
He approaches the thermostat.
“This is real.” He turns the knob down to sixty degrees. “Gotta be.”
He hears no sound of air conditioning, feels no breeze coming through the vent above him.
Hmm, he thinks. Hillary might be right.
He wiggles it, tries to twist it, screw it off. He pushes down on the top but it won’t budge. He pulls it up from the bottom.
There ya go.
The face of the thermostat opens to reveal a small black pad, oval in shape, with red and yellow bulbs embedded into the plastic around it.
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