Transparency

by Charles Royce

  Josh is strapped to the bed with zip ties.

  West reaches into the valet tray on his dresser, pushes away the SSD, two black flash drives, an iPhone, and a pill bottle to reveal his cuff links. He turns on the iPhone.

  “Lots of stuff in your pockets, Josh,” West says. He picks up the SSD. “Where’d you get this key?”

  “You mean Micah’s key?”

  “Looks like somebody fashioned it into a drive. Someone stealing company secrets? Handing it off to a measly event planner? Nice try.”

  “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

  West looks at the FBI phone.

  “Funny how no one has been calling or texting you on the day of your biggest event.” West pushes his cufflinks through the holes in his sleeves. “Except an unknown number once or twice. Weird. Don’t you think?”

  “Fuck you.” Josh spits in his direction.

  “In cahoots with the FBI. You know, Josh, I trusted you. I needed you to help me tonight. But now? After what you did?”

  “You still need me there. You know you do.”

  “Ha!” West pulls his jacket over his sleeves. “You were my strongest West Way protégé. You hired the best. I think we have it covered.”

  Josh thrashes his restraints over and over, causing the black iron bed to bump against the walls with sequential clangs.

  “Go ahead. No one can hear you.” West points around the room, then knocks on the walls. “Exterior wall, soundproof.”

  “Help!” Josh screams toward the window, his heart pounding. “Help! Somebody. Help!”

  Just as he’s about to faint, Josh feels one of his leg grips break lose.

  “Keep going,” West says. “Scream all you want.”

  Josh feels himself about to lose consciousness. “My pills. Mr. West, please. I have a condition. I think I’m gonna pass out.”

  “Your Xanax? Nah, there will be no illegal drugs here, my friend.”

  “Illegal?” Josh can barely see. “Fuck you. I need them!”

  Through his haze, he can see West taking a bottle of pills to the bathroom. He hears a flush.

  “No!” Josh screams. He bangs the bed hard against the wall. “Help! Please!”

  “Just in case.” West takes a handkerchief out of his breast pocket, rolls it into a ball. “This is so you won’t be screaming when my driver puts a bullet through your neck.”

  “What?” Josh jerks on the restraints again. “Mr. West, what about your wife and kids?”

  He shoves the handkerchief in Josh’s mouth. “They left me last week.”

  Just as West grabs a rolls of duct tape, Josh flops across the bed, using his free leg to kick West as hard as he can muster.

  West falls against the wall, dislodging a photo of his children. It falls to the floor.

  Josh sits back up, spits out his gag.

  A complete and utter calm comes over his face.

  He is assured, his breath steady.

  “I hired the best because I am the best,” he says. “You? You hire people because you can’t stomach the work yourself. You’re such a little man. Small. I pity you. You kill me yourself, you bastard.”

  West stands up, shoves the handkerchief back in his pocket. “You know, you should pity me. I’m slowly destroying everything I’ve spent my entire life building.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  West points out to Manhattan.

  The three towers of the new Élan building rest perfectly within the center bedroom window.

  “At least you’ll have the best view in the city,” he says.

  Josh looks out the window, then pulls on his restraints. “No! Mr. West. Whatever it is you’re planning, please don’t.”

  “It doesn’t matter anymore.” West walks toward the exit, kicking the photo of his son and daughter. He grabs the SSD but leaves everything else. “None of it.”

  “I know about the gas lines.”

  West stops.

  “So does the FBI,” Josh adds.

  West puts his hand on the doorknob.

  “Mr. West, I know you wouldn’t kill anyone yourself,” Josh says. “Ever.”

  West twists the knob.

  “There are thousands of people there by now,” Josh pleads. “Thousands, James. Women, children. In their homes, in their offices. In the hotel, the mall. Please. You’re not this person.”

  West opens the door. “I’ve always been this person.”

  C h a p t e r 5 4

  “JUST GOT A confirmation on Josh Harrison’s GPS tracker. He’s definitely up there in West’s condo.”

  Agent Pillsbury presses the elevator button, then turns to the five men beside her in James West’s lobby, four agents and an older bald man in a scarlet-red jacket and tie. “Our wonderful doorman friend—”

  “Bob,” he says.

  “Bob. Bob says the perp lives on floor thirteen. I need one of you down here to make sure he doesn’t come down while we’re in transit. Once we’re inside, we’ll split in groups of two, search the place for the vic. Any questions?”

  “How long’s this elevator going to take?” one of them asks. “Thirteen floors are not that many. Let’s take the stairs.”

  “It won’t be too long,” says Bob the doorman.

  Agent Pillsbury looks up. The elevator is heading down from the twenty-fourth floor.

  C h a p t e r 5 5

  WEST CLOSES THE bedroom door. “Hey! Where are you?”

  West’s limo driver comes out of the bathroom. “Sorry, had to take care of some business.”

  “Take care of him.” West nods in the direction of his bedroom, walks to the kitchen counter. “I told him a bullet to the neck. Grab a tarp from the floor of the pantry. I think the painters saved a couple from our kitchen renovation a few months ago.”

  West grabs his keys, walks to the front door. He sees his driver walking down the hall toward the bathroom again.

  “Hey!” West yells. “Other direction. Now. Do it now.”

  “I need to go to the bathroom again.” He holds his stomach. “And I left my hoodie in the back bedroom. He might recognize me.”

  “You’re about to kill him, Billy.” West opens the front door. “Fucking idiot.”

  Billy Donovan scratches the bandage on the side of his face, heads toward the pantry. “Good point.”

  “Text me when it’s done,” he says from the doorway.

  “I don’t have a phone anymore, fucker.” Billy enters the pantry, bends down. He talks to himself under his breath. “I’m supposed to be dead. Remember? You had me torch some random homeless man.”

  The front door slams.

  “Watch your tone, you piece of shit.” West walks to the pantry. “Remember where you came from. I pay you more than any of the others, remember that too.”

  “Yessir, sorry, sir.” Billy’s stomach growls.

  “I have a burner phone in the top drawer of my dresser,” West says. “Find it. Use it.”

  “I don’t have your cell phone number anymore, sir.”

  “Jesus Christ, Billy.” West takes his wallet out, grabs a business card, hand writes his cell phone on it. “There.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Stop with the sarcasm, Billy.” West brushes by an empty pizza box on the counter on his way back to the front door. “And clean this up. No wonder your stomach is a mess.”

  WEST SLAMS HIS front door, enters the elevator foyer, presses the down button. He looks up, notices the elevator is on the ground floor.

  He looks at his watch. “Screw it.”

  He opens the stairwell door, and heads down to the parking garage.

  C h a p t e r 5 6

  AGENT PILLSBURY, THE agents, and the doorman exit the elevator on James West’s floor.

  “This his door?” she whispers to the doorman.

  “It’s soundproof,” he says at a normal volume. “But yes, that’s his.”

  Agent Pillsbury and the other agents pull their guns out. They stand ba
ck as the doorman is about to swipe the key.

  Bob the doorman turns back to her.

  “Go on. You can do it.” Agent Pillsbury nods at him. “Yep, just slide the—yep, there you go. FBI!”

  Agent Pillsbury walks in first, the other three agents begin to enter one behind the other, securing the perimeter. She checks the living room, behind the couch, behind the curtains, out on the patio overlooking the city.

  Nearby, another agent checks the kitchen, jostles the door to the pantry.

  “Locked,” says the agent.

  “Shh.” She hears a faint thud through the door off the living room, and maybe a voice. She can’t be sure.

  “Back bedrooms are clear,” says the agent coming into the living room from the hallway.

  “Bathroom’s clear,” says the other. “Recently used though. Jesus.”

  “Everyone, shh!” She walks to the door where she hears the commotion, motions for them to get in formation. She holds up her fingers. One, two, three. “FBI!”

  “JESUS CHRIST!” JOSH yells. “Oh, thank God.”

  Agent Pillsbury rushes to his side. “Glad you’re still with us.”

  While two agents secure the bedroom, the other one pulls a switchblade from his pocket and releases Josh from the ties.

  “Thank you,” Josh says, then turns to Pillsbury. “I thought you were the limo driver. West was about to send him in to kill me.”

  Agent Pillsbury presses her ear to talk to her agent downstairs. “Any sign of the perp?”

  Josh hears her sigh. “He has a car.”

  She presses her ear again. “Check the parking garage. Now!”

  “He just left,” Josh says. “He’s probably still down there.”

  Agent Pillsbury lowers her hand from her face and helps Josh up from the bed. She almost touches his black eye. “You okay? The limo driver messed you up pretty bad.”

  “I think the limo driver is the hooded man who followed me to the building last night. He had a key, came down the stairs. He busted into a storage closet I was hiding in. I didn’t get a look at him before he knocked me out.”

  “Geez, I’m so sorry we put you through this.”

  “I found some information in that storage closet.” He picks up a crumpled jacket from the floor, puts it on. “It was jam-packed full of files. West hired a third-party company for the gas lines, doctored the contracts, the inspections. I got a few photos of the paperwork on the FBI phone, over there on the counter.” Josh walks to the valet, throws Pillsbury the iPhone, grabs the two flash drives. “I heard West on the phone asking Pamela to make sure someone was still in the building. I’m not sure, but I think they may be targeting the vice president.”

  “That’s what we’re afraid of.”

  “We have to hurry. West is about to follow through with something called Project Fallback.”

  “Fallback?” Agent Pillsbury asks.

  “Yes. I found a note Kimbo left me in one of the secret rooms. Kimbo says the details of West’s Fallback plan are hidden in an overlay on the ArchEngine file. Some sort of emergency plan involving the gas lines. My guess is he’s going to blow the building. The plan for tonight is all here on one of these drives.” Josh holds up the one with a red sticker. “We gotta access the ArchEngine file, figure out exactly what he’s up to.”

  Josh grabs the FBI phone and tosses it to Pillsbury. He shoves all of the flash drives in his pocket, walks into the living room.

  Agent Pillsbury follows. “Hold up, young man. We’ll handle it. Hand me the drives.”

  “No. There’s no time. He may have taken the SSD, but I’ve got the ArchEngine file, I know the passwords, how to access it all. If West is on his way, we may be too late.”

  Josh walks out the front door.

  “You.” Agent Pillsbury points to one of the men. “Stay here. Find the limo driver. Check all the spaces, the nooks and crannies, the locked door in the kitchen. You two, come with me.”

  As she’s closing the door, a light from outside the patio doors catches her eye. Élan’s new headquarters is fully lit against the darkened sky, spotlights running up and down the façade, the logo shining brightly.

  C h a p t e r 5 7

  WEST PARKS HIS car in a handicapped spot off of 12th Avenue, on the edge of the Hudson River. He takes the SSD drive out of his pocket, throws it in the river. As he runs up the three tiers of concrete steps leading up to his masterpiece, he gawks at the TriCity Towers, shining brilliantly in the spotlights against the Manhattan cityscape. Strong winds are blowing off the Hudson, cooling the sweat on his brow.

  Wiping his forehead with his handkerchief, he spots Tracy. She’s in the courtyard with a guest, a tall skinny man swimming in an oversized suit, probably a basketball player. She’s pointing to the Brutalist statue in the center of the fountain.

  “Tracy! Walk with me.” He doesn’t slow down.

  “If you will excuse me, Mr. Spitz,” she says to her VIP guest. “That’s our CEO. I’ll be right back.”

  She runs to meet up with West.

  “Where’s the vice president?” West walks up the final flight of stairs.

  Tracy follows. “With Pamela. Probably up on the roof, he really wanted to see the view. Why?”

  “Is there security by the elevators?”

  “Yessir, you’ll need a badge. They’ve been instructed not to let anyone through who hasn’t been cleared.”

  “Thanks, Tracy, that’ll be all.”

  Tracy stops, turns, walks back to her guest.

  “Mr. West!” An older lady with a cane walks up to him. “The silent auction is going splendidly. We’ve already raised an additional thirty million dollars and we’re not even—”

  “That’s wonderful, Harriet.” West walks to the security checkpoint at the atrium entrance. He steps to the front of the line.

  “Mr. West, sir, good to see you tonight.” Jamal gets a headset ready. “Packed crowd.”

  “Just the badge.” West holds out his hand.

  “Yessir.” He hands him a VIP badge. “Anything else I can help you with?”

  “Yes, don’t let anyone else through without my authorization.” West’s voice becomes stronger. “I mean it. The FBI was all over my ass this afternoon.”

  “The FBI, sir?”

  “Nobody gets through, understand?” He secures the badge to his lapel. “Don’t forget what we have on you.”

  West walks toward the elevator. Holding his badge to the security guard, West sees an elevator door open. He runs inside just before it closes. The other people make room for him.

  West looks at the panel of buttons, floor twelve is lit up. “You’re going up?”

  “Yes, Mr. West,” says a voice from the back. “Chris Dixon, North American Talent. We’re going to the sky bridge level that links this building to the other two.”

  “Fuck!” West grabs his mouth, looks around the elevator.

  A beautiful woman cups her hands around a child’s ears.

  “Sorry,” West says.

  The elevator begins to ascend, the magnificent views of the Hudson River flooding through the glass.

  “Oh, look, honey, turn around.” The woman pivots her daughter.

  “Wow!” the little girl says.

  “Sandra, this is our CEO, James West,” Chris says. “He’s responsible for this beautiful building. Mr. West, I’d like you to meet Sandra Billings, one of our biggest donors.” Chris clears his throat. “And her eight-year-old daughter, Grace.”

  “Nice to meet you.” West shakes Sandra’s hand.

  “You too.”

  West looks down at the little girl. “Cursing is bad.”

  “I know,” she says, never taking her eyes off the view outside. “I said butt yesterday.”

  “Grace.” Sandra smiles, pats her daughter on the head.

  West smiles. “I have a little girl about your age. She’s nine.”

  Ding.

  “We’re here,” Chris says.

  “You
guys have a good night.” West smiles as the others exit.

  Grace turns around to West. “Thanks for building a sky bridge!”

  “You’re welcome!” West gives a thumbs up just as the doors close.

  His smile disappears. He presses the button for Sublevel One.

  C h a p t e r 5 8

  BILLY CROUCHES DOWN beside the pop tarts and gummy bears on the shelf. He can see a shadow through the louvered door of the pantry. He hears a knock, followed by a voice.

  “FBI, open up.”

  Billy moves to the back of the pantry. He listens as the agent jiggles the door handle. He hears scraping, then sees a knife sliding through the latch bolt.

  He throws an open bag of flour at the door just as it opens.

  The agent’s mouth fills with white powder. He begins coughing, waving his gun, shooting at random, sending potato chips and pieces of bread flying into the air. Billy grabs the gun, wrestling it with both hands. They dance around the pantry, knocking over shelves. Billy gets the upper hand and pushes the agent to the ground, straddling him, as both of them fight for control of the gun. Two cans fall on the agent’s face. Billy uses the agent’s momentary release to grab the gun.

  He shoots the agent in the neck.

  Out of exhaustion, Billy drops the gun on the agent’s chest. His hands fall to the ground to brace his weight, landing on either side of the agent’s body. Billy breathes heavily. Blood begins to ooze into the flour on the floor, forming a paste on Billy’s fingers. He digs the bullet from the agent’s neck with his index and thumb and shoves the bullet in his jacket pocket. He stands up, runs to the kitchen sink, turns on the faucet to wash off. He grabs a towel, dries his hands, then starts wiping down the faucet.

  He grabs a set of gloves from underneath the sink and starts to work.

  He takes the towel and a bottle of bleach and scrubs the mess in the pantry free of his fingerprints. He leaves the body on the floor.

  He scours the bathroom, wipes down and bleaches any and all surfaces.