Transparency

by Charles Royce

  “West is too much of a wuss to kill Josh himself. And West wouldn’t have him harmed because he needs him to carry out some plan for CAAD tonight. We’ve got a lead on an airport pickup sometime this morning at Teterboro. We even have a search warrant for the plane. If Josh isn’t there, we’ll move his MIA to the next level.”

  “Why Teterboro?”

  “My guess is they landed somewhere else, then chartered a flight. Whoever these people are, they like to cover their tracks.”

  C h a p t e r 4 9

  “SORRY FOR THE restraints,” West pats Josh on the knee. “I’ll take them off once we get there.”

  With his arms tied behind his back, Josh pulls his leg away, scooches to the right. “Fuck off.”

  “We’re going in the VIP tarmac entrance up here,” West says to his limo driver through the speaker in the blackened glass. “Just roll down the window and give the names and flight number. You have our concierge ID’s.”

  “Concierge ID’s?” Josh asks.

  “We’re pre-screened,” West replies. “You’re not the only event planner, Josh.”

  The limo pulls through the induction loop to the gate. As the driver talks with the security guard, two uniformed officers peek through the vehicle while the under-vehicle surveillance system scans for bombs.

  With his eye beginning to swell from the beating he’d endured from the hooded man, Josh tries his best to get one of the officers’ attention, even jerking his body a bit to show he’s been restrained.

  “Calm down, would you?” West shows him a gun in his jacket. The tip of the silencer catches a glint of morning sun. “The windows are tinted. And I’m not going to hurt you. I just need this simple favor. They need you to discuss some things with us, then tonight we’ll walk the party together. After the party, I’ll let you go. It’ll all be over by then.”

  “What’ll be over? Who are these people?”

  The limo pulls next to a large white hangar with a sign that reads PanAir in raised letters. The driver turns off the car. West pulls out his phone.

  They wait.

  A plane taxis toward them, stops about thirty yards away.

  “My hands?” Josh breaks the silence.

  “That’s not them,” West says. “They’re close, but they’re still in the air. I can’t see them through the clouds.”

  “Still, could you?” Josh moves his hands toward West again. “These are digging into my wrists too much. Please.”

  West doesn’t look up from his phone. Then, with a jerking motion, West looks up, then out the window, to his left, to his right.

  “What’s wrong?” Josh asks.

  “There may be a problem.” West opens the door, hops out. He circles the car, leans against the back-passenger door.

  Josh watches a Learjet flying toward the tarmac directly across from the hangars. The plane almost lands then pulls back up at the last possible second, disappearing quickly into the clouds. Josh turns to West who is just outside his window. He can read an incoming text on West’s phone:

  FB. Do it, or we’ll do it for you.

  “No,” he hears West say. “No, no, no, no, no.”

  The limousine door next to Josh opens.

  “Move over,” West says to Josh. He taps on the glass and yells at the driver. “Go!”

  Josh slides across the seat, looks outside. Four men in black jackets are walking toward them, then fork in different directions.

  Two men walk to the plane that has already landed, two toward the limo. The man in front turns around to the others, motions with his hands, points. Bright-yellow letters are printed boldly on the back of his dark jacket: F-B-I.

  As the limo hurls away, West slams his fists on the front seat.

  He looks directly at Josh, speaks through his teeth.

  “What have you done?”

  C h a p t e r 5 0

  “WHAT ARE THEY doing? Where are they going?” Agent Pillsbury places her binoculars in the center console, turns to the driver. “This is not good. Follow that car!”

  As the FBI van chases after James West’s limousine, she talks into her headset. “We had the wrong plane, fellas. They were in a plane that hadn’t landed yet, not the one already on the tarmac. Anybody get the tail numbers on that plane in the sky? They’re not heading back to wherever they came from without refueling first.”

  A response comes through her earpiece. “Copy that. We didn’t get the numbers. Repeat. We did not get the numbers.”

  “Get me the info for all planes coming in and out of Teterboro.” She rips her headset off. “F-f-fiddlesticks!”

  C h a p t e r 5 1

  “DANGIT!” TRACY’S HEEL is caught in a sidewalk seam in front of the TriCity Towers, Élan International’s brand-new headquarters. She tries to pull her shoe out. “Don’t just stand there, Shawn, help me!”

  “Sorry.” He bends down, tries to shake it loose. “I was distracted by this place. It’s incredible seeing the building finished, especially at night.”

  “You get used to it quick,” she says.

  “Is everything open?” Shawn pulls at her heel, noting the rubber tip has lodged in the crevasse.

  “Yes, all three towers. The shopping mall, the hotel. Everything came together.”

  “Damn, this heel is really in there.” Shawn tugs at her shoe a little more.

  “Hurry. I’ve got to get up there. With Josh still MIA, somebody has to be the point person.”

  “I can’t get it loose.”

  “Screw it.” Tracy breaks off the heel, takes off her shoes, holds them in front of her, wrists dangling. She stands up. “How do I look?”

  Shawn looks at her outfit—a tight black blouse, a string of white pearls bouncing off her dark chest, a pair of black slacks flared at the bottom, bare toes peeking out. “Um, beautiful?”

  “I’m gonna run up to my office and grab some tennis shoes.”

  “Must be nice.” Shawn walks behind her.

  “What must be nice?”

  “Being a model. Some tween on Instagram is going to see you and start wearing bell bottoms with tennis shoes for her piano recital.” Shawn looks up to see photographers barreling toward them. “Or no shoes at all.”

  “Miss Heissman!”

  “Tracy!”

  A gaggle of paparazzi stop midway down the stairs and begin to photograph them.

  Tracy whispers to Shawn. “It’s early, they need to act like they’re doing something.”

  “Do I need to know who I’m wearing?” Shawn asks.

  “Yes, you do,” Tracy says. “And don’t say Walmart.”

  Shawn looks down at his suit.

  The photographers begin asking questions, but not the ones Tracy is expecting.

  “Any comment on the timing of your article?”

  “What is your take on Ghost’s part in the Pub Murders?”

  “Have you visited the gravesite?”

  Tracy stands still, confused, still holding her shoes. “Hold on, what are you guys talking about?”

  One of the photographers steps forward. “Your article in Press. The one about Ghost.”

  “About him and Lily McGuire, the cop?” she asks.

  “No,” the photographer says, his voice growing more frustrated the longer she doesn’t understand. “The article is about Ghost, only Ghost. Sorry. Bastien. The article that comes out tomorrow in the magazine. With the forward from the editor. The digital version comes out the night before. Everyone’s already talking about it.”

  Another steps up with his iPad. He types in a search bar. “This one.”

  Tracy grabs the pad, reads the headline and byline:

  “Why He Mattered: The Ghosts of Bastien Morrell” by Tracy Heissman.

  Her eyes start to well as she reads the forward from her editor.

  Our parent company, Élan International, tried to kill this story, but what Tracy Heissman has so eloquently brought to life is too important to be quashed. Hopefully by giving voice to Tracy, we
can all begin to find our own. The writers and editors of Press will not be silenced.

  Pamela from PR approaches her. She is dressed in a tight-fitting electric-red dress with a plunging neckline.

  “Well, hello, Pamela,” Tracy says. She gives the iPad back to the photographer and mouths a thank you.

  Pamela ignores her comment, hands her a headset. “We need you at the VIP area. Here, put this on.”

  “Okay.”

  “VIPs are starting to arrive.” Pamela starts walking. “Josh is nowhere to be found, and we need to start the tours of the building. We could use your help.”

  “I need to corral the press.” Tracy head nods to the red-carpet area, where paparazzi are starting to gather in the far corner.

  “I’ll get someone else on press, I don’t trust the newbies with the VIPs.”

  “Wait, are you the point person?”

  “No, just filling in.” Pamela speaks as if she recognizes Tracy’s sarcasm. “Nobody was here; I had to step up.”

  Tracy glances at Shawn. “We’ve been busy all day looking for Josh.”

  “Well, he’s still not here.” Pamela helps Tracy put her headset on. She whispers in her ear. “I need to be on Vice President Maddox.”

  “Maddox?” Tracy speaks in a regular tone. “No, West was very specific that Josh would take Maddox.”

  “Well, where is he?” Pamela urges, matching Tracy’s volume. “Look. I haven’t been able to get ahold of either of them. And the former vice president is here already, waiting. The tour should only take about an hour.”

  “An hour?”

  “He really wants to see the place. He’s a huge fan of the architect. I’ve got you on Leroy Spitz, if you don’t mind.”

  “Leroy Spitz. The black basketball player. I see.” Tracy stops, rubs her feet. “I’ve gotta run up to my office and grab some shoes. I’ll meet you at VIP in ten minutes or so.”

  “Okay, perfect. Thank you, Tracy.” Pamela nods and saunters toward the VIP area, her red dress accentuating her curves.

  Tracy shakes her head and turns to Shawn, who’s been remarkably quiet. “Well, Shawn, I guess this is where we part. Sorry I couldn’t be your date for longer.”

  “You’re leaving me.”

  “I’m afraid so. It’s been a—well, it’s been a day. I’m sorry Haylee couldn’t be here to enjoy the party with you. Please give her my love.”

  “I will.” Shawn shakes her hand. “I shall leave you now and snoop around for food. Good luck tonight.”

  “I know you can’t say much, but please keep me posted on Josh.” Tracy walks toward the elevators for the Center Tower. “Please. I need to know he’s all right. We all do!”

  “Will do! I’ve got your number!” Shawn says as she walks away. His voice is skipping through the enormous lobby. He sees her point to her head.

  “Grab a headset!” she yells. “Talk to Jamal at security!”

  Tracy swipes her keycard for the elevator.

  C h a p t e r 5 2

  SHAWN SLIDES HIS hands across the security table, begins nervously patting on the counter. “The name is Shawn Connelly. I believe Tracy Heissman has given me—”

  “Yes, Mr. Connelly, Tracy let me know you’d be stopping by. I have a headset for you right here.” The man also hands him a badge. “And as a special bonus, a VIP badge. This gives you access to the entire building. My name’s Jamal; if you need anything, please let me know. We miss Josh around here, so thanks for working with Trace, trying to find him.”

  “Thanks, Jamal. Is there a food court or anything?”

  “Yessir. But you’ll have to enter from the subway pedestrian crossing. We’ve closed all access to the mall.”

  “Even with my shiny VIP badge?” Shawn flashes it back at him.

  “Oh, that’s right. Sorry, just used to handing these to employees and celebrities. A lot going on tonight. Just show your badge at the elevator bank.” Jamal points at servers walking by. “In the meantime, there are some delicious hors d’oeuvres passing around. Try the shrimp.”

  “Thank you, kind sir.” Shawn tips a fake hat.

  “Tracy filled me in a bit. We’re keeping our eyes peeled for Josh.” Jamal points to his headset. “Just reach out if you see anything, notice anything, need any help. Events is channel two, press is three, PR and talent is four, donors is five, music is six, and the security channel is twenty-two.”

  “Okay.” Shawn’s eyes flicker.

  “There’s a sticker on the box that clips to your belt, if you need a reminder.”

  “Great, thank you. Wow. Full access.” Shawn clips the box to his belt. “Very trusting.”

  “We are nothing if not transparent.”

  Shawn shakes off the comment. Transparent? There’s that word again.

  He looks around the atrium, head held high.

  Through the crisscrossed ceiling above him, he can see the huge Élan sign majestically beaming into the dusky night sky eighty floors above him. The seven-thousand-square-foot marble-floored open space below is separated into four different areas: the bar in the front where a small crowd is now mingling, the VIP reception area roped off and curtained behind the bar, the lavishly appointed tables in the back which are now starting to fill in a bit, and finally the silent-auction area in the center that looks as if it might transform into a dance floor.

  A small orchestra-slash-big band is about halfway down on the right, filling the sixty-foot–high space with an upbeat mix of classical and swing. A small stage is set next to the band, with a sign touting an upcoming celebrity karaoke contest featuring the likes of George Clooney, Jonathan Groff, and Lupita Nyong’o. Huge arrangements of orchids and lilies adorn every corner, every table, every other sense of empty space, filling the air with the fragrance of spring.

  Haylee would love this. He punches her name on his phone. As he waits for her to answer, he continues to soak in the event.

  Three of the giant glass walls of the atrium are covered with forty-foot-high blow-ups of each of the honorees, and two giant video screens on either side are playing clips of the celebrities at work. Sandra Billings in Cambodia, Oprah in South Africa, Bill and Melinda in Nairobi … the dynamic work of these philanthropists is displayed in technicolor on a constant, soundless loop that somehow marries with the swing music in the most beautiful of ways. He thinks of his wife, giving so selflessly to her work, pouring her soul into—

  “Miss me?” Haylee asks.

  “Like you wouldn’t believe.” Shawn smiles at his favorite NBA player Leroy Spitz as he walks by, towering above the other early guests making their way into the space. “I’m starving, though, thinking about heading to the food court.”

  “They should have food floating around, no?”

  “I don’t see any.” He looks around. “Honey, you should be with me, taking pictures of me and all these—”

  “Is it beautiful?”

  “Yes!” Shawn pivots. “The lobby of the Center Tower is at least four stories tall. They have these huge banners of all the people they are raising money for.”

  “It’s Josh’s doing again, right? Micah would be jealous.” Haylee’s voice changes. “You’re not still thinking about our conversation earlier, are you?”

  “Shh.”

  “Did you just shush me?”

  Shawn covers the mouthpiece on the headset. “They could be listening.”

  “What, now you think the FBI has bugged our phone?”

  “They could have. I don’t trust anybody anymore.”

  “Hey, FBI, my husband told me about a classified case involving Micah Breuer. That’s B-R-E—”

  “Honey, stop. Please. I shouldn’t have told you. I’m a lawyer, you’re a therapist. Both of us are supposed to be protectors of privileged infor—”

  “Honey, please. You simply asked me about Micah’s relationship with West. I was the one who asked more questions.”

  “Still.” Shawn moves through the gathering crowd. “Are you feeling be
tter?”

  “I’m okay,” she answers. “Just didn’t wanna deal tonight. I hope you don’t mind. I’m not in a place to tour the building, you know? I know how excited you’ve been about the architecture.”

  “It’s fine.” His voice is downtrodden.

  “It doesn’t sound fine.”

  “I don’t know, honey, I don’t get a good feeling about this. Josh is AWOL. People are walking around like robots. It doesn’t have the right energy.”

  “Oh, no, here we go.”

  “I’m not kidding,” Shawn says.

  “I get it. It’s that godforsaken company. And here you are worried about the FBI bugging your cell phone.”

  “True.”

  “You know, before Micah left, he and I had some great conversations. He was petrified of some of the people at Élan. Sure, he may have gotten involved a little too deep, but he got out. He even left the entire country to get away from all of it, for crying out loud. Couldn’t deal with the lies, the cover-ups, the surveillance. He said he even caught people following him.”

  “You told me. And now the Josh thing. No trace of him.”

  “Then are you still worried about Micah’s involvement? In a company he never trusted?”

  “I guess you’re right.” Shawn grabs a shrimp from the tray of a floating server. “Right?”

  “Baby, the source of everyone’s problems is that company. You never know what they’re capable of.”

  In the periphery, Shawn sees a group of photographers rush toward the VIP area, just as the former vice president emerges with his wife, along with what looks like two bodyguards.

  Pamela stands beside them in her tight red dress, on her phone, smiling.

  C h a p t e r 5 3

  “THANKS, PAMELA. I’M on my way.” West looks in the full-length mirror, turns to the side. “Just make sure he stays in the building.”

  He hangs up.

  Dressed in a black suit, West comes out of his closet into the bedroom. He drapes a red tie over his shoulders.

  The thick wooden door to the bedroom is closed. The walls are covered with large family photos of his children at different ages. An empty bottle of Jack Daniels sits next to the table lamp on the bedside nightstand, obscuring a framed photo of West and his wife.