Chapter 9
Tristan
Ice pelts against the window with a fury, and the dark sky kills all visibility. The gloomy rainy day has transformed into an icy, miserable evening. My weather app shows the mixed sleet will continue until tapering off around midnight.
Nelson Peltz stops at Lucia’s desk.
“Weathers getting worse,” he announces. “I’m taking off. I’ll take the report you left and review it tonight.”
I can’t make out how Lucia responds as her back is to me.
“Anyone give you trouble with the calendar changes?”
“No, sir.” That I hear, as well as the brightness in her tone. While I can’t see her face, I imagine she’s smiling up at him like she’ll happily reschedule appointments whenever he wishes. Which, it is her job, but I’m quite curious about the person who took priority. She’s nowhere to be found in Lumina’s network, so I sent her name to Ozzie.
“Excellent.” He steps back from her desk and falters while wrapping his scarf. Our eyes meet, but there’s no acknowledgement. “The sidewalks will be slippery. Don’t stay much longer.”
“Yes, sir.”
It’s curious she always calls him sir. I wonder if that’s something she picked up somewhere along the line or if it’s what he expects of those who work for him. What a pompous wanker.
Today dashed my hopes of finding a short list of suspects by querying email source and phone logs. I haven’t yet accessed credit card receipts, but those would be reimbursable expenses, and it’s difficult to believe someone would be so inept as to use a business credit card for illegitimate expenses.
Besides, this isn’t a petty fraud we’re dealing with. We’re dealing with someone who is choosing illegal means to expedite research and speed delivery of products to market. A person, or group of someones, willing to use human test subjects as if they’re lab rats. And they’re willing to kill to keep the secret.
Undiscovered deception can create a feeling of superiority, and that’s when carelessness begins. There are signs the carelessness has begun. William Salo is still alive and might wake to tell us more. His former boss might have died of natural causes, but if he didn’t, that means someone is eliminating anyone with knowledge of William Salo’s activities.
Hun Tap Tareth is another source that was undeniably eliminated, but he’s the sort who ran in a dangerous circle. There’s no way to know which party ended him.
Lucia stretches her neck to one side and kneads her shoulder muscle. Her nails are short and unpolished, but she looks as elegant as any of the women on the executive team thanks to her slender shoulders, erect posture, and her low braided bun. Her glossy, twisted dark strands catch the eye and fill me with the desire to undo the twisted knot and send her sexy mane tumbling.
But I shall behave. She may be an invaluable ally if I can encourage to open up and share with me what she knows about the others. And if I can’t get her to open up, then I’ll have to dig deeper to figure out why. I can’t forget that she’s someone who theoretically could be enticed to take part in a lucrative scheme.
I don’t have any work to bring home, but even if I did, I’d place it on the network and login from home, as taking work home doesn’t fit with my profile of the spoiled nepo baby. My coat drapes one arm, and the rhythmic sound on the panes behind me has me wishing for an umbrella.
My knuckles wrap softly against the door frame. Lucia startles when my knuckles hit the wood.
“You ready?”
She glances around warily, like a guilty party scanning for witnesses.
“I’ll meet you.” I strain to decipher the hushed words. “At the pub.”
She turns back to her computer.
Peltz’s office is door is locked, and the light is off, as are all the office lights on this floor. Given the weather and the fact many here live outside of the city proper, I don’t expect to pass another soul on my way out of the building.
Under normal conditions, I’d push for her to closeup for the night and join me, but her uneasiness stops me. To me, this is temporary. I’m hunting killers and those complicit, then I’ll be on my way. To her, this is her career. Her livelihood.
People expect Tristan Wagner to ignore rules. An office affair presumed. If I mess around with the staff or violate a few HR policies, thanks to the glory of nepotism, the most I would endure is a stern lecture. I can’t anticipate the same for her.
With a nod, and a discreet, “See you soon,” I’m on my way without her.
Outside, the weather is unusually horrid. Ice batters all exposed skin. The waterproof trench coat keeps me dry, but the icy wind cuts through the fabric in unforgiving gusts. Head down, I barrel down the sidewalk, noting closed signs on stores along the way.
I push through to Charly O’Neills, only to be greeted by an apologetic William flipping chairs onto tables as another staff member sweeps.
“Sorry mate. We’re closing early tonight. They’re predicting this storms going to intensify. Half the staff called in sick. Something’s going ‘round. And me and Lillian live a good way out.”
The television screens are dark. There are no patrons. The patter of ice against the window panes is the predominant sound as there’s no overhead music. Behind me on the entrance door hangs a closed sign, something I missed when I pushed the door open, probably because my head was bowed to avoid the ice.
“Do you mind if I wait here? I’m meeting someone.”
“Not a problem, mate, but we plan to be out of here in the next ten minutes.”
“Ten minutes should be sufficient. Thank you.” I pull out my mobile, but I haven’t populated Lucia’s details. But she can’t be far behind. The bigger question is, what shall we do? If this pub is closing, our chances of finding a place to dine are slim.
I pull up a restaurant app, but how many places will update the app with an unscheduled closing? Is that even an option for dining establishments? Last-minute hour adjustments? Will they bother?
Outside the glass pane of the door, a woman in rain boots, a taupe trench coat and black gloves holding a box in the air over her head slips and slides down the sidewalk. As she gets closer, I recognize the swishy pleated skirt.
“We need a Plan B,” I say, holding the door open for her and flinching as ice pelts my skin.
She shakes off the box as she enters. Ice coats the corners and the top.
“No umbrella?”
“Better than nothing.” Her cheeks are flushed from the cold, but her eyes are animated. She’s more alive in an icy downpour than cooped up kissing Pelz’s derriere. “Don’t see you with an umbrella.”
“An oversight. Day two in the office. Haven’t had time to leave behind a few umbrellas for such occasions. You’ve been there seven years.” As the words come out, it hits me. I shouldn’t know this. She hasn’t shared it. If she asks, I’ll tell her my mum told me. She can’t know I’ve spent the day roaming through personnel files and doing database queries.
William approaches, a key in hand, apology in his expression. “Sorry mates. Hate to push you out into this mess, but I need to lock the door. We go out the back.”
“You’re closing?” Lucia asks, and a sense of wonderment fills her eyes as she takes in the space. “A little ice has you closing shop?”
“Aye, and you’d better take care getting home. It’s a nasty business out there.”
“Oh, it’s a quick walk for me,” she answers, “But you get home safe.”
She lifts her box again, which is now wet along the corners and edges thanks to melting ice. “You up for feijoada?”
“Pardon?”
“Stew. Should work for this weather. I have some back home I can heat, if you’re not opposed to leftovers.”
“Lead the way.”
He watches us closely as we depart, but says nothing. She offers me her box, but I wave it away, encouraging her to lead. I take the street side out of habit, protecting her, although there are few vehicles on the road to splash us.
She pushes open the side door to a four-story home sandwiched between similar buildings. Inside there’s a tiny landing and stairs. To our right is another door that I presume enters the rest of the house. She doesn’t kick off her boots, but does set the box on the ground.
“I’ll take care of that in the morning,” she says, but I have the impression she’s speaking to herself.
“Thank you for having me. I’m about a twenty-minute walk away.”
“You would have frozen. You should have grabbed something for protection.”
Unlike her, I’m not wearing gloves. Holding onto anything would have hurt my hands.
“Come on up.”
“You know, this wasn’t what I was envisioning, but this is nice.”
“Well, you might want to hold on to opinions until we get inside.”
The staircase is narrow, and we climb for what feels like forever, ascending four floors.
“You landed the penthouse?”
She snorts. “I landed the attic. My landlord has had this place in his family for three generations. When his parents died, he converted it to apartments. He lives with his family on the first two levels, his aunt lives in a converted apartment on the third level, and then he rents the attic for extra income.”
“Entrepreneurial of him.”
She opens the door, and I get my first glimpse of the real Lucia.
As one would expect in an old attic space, the ceilings are low and heavy, exposed wooden support beams protrude. Small windows tucked strategically into eaves provide light. The space is technically one room, but there’s a kitchen area in one alcove, a low bed that appears to double as a sofa, and a curtain provides privacy to an alcove with a tub, sink and toilet.
My mother wouldn’t stay one night here, and yet Lucia has remained here for seven years. The walls are whitewashed stucco, but color warms the space. The worn mismatched throw pillows on the bed include every color of the rainbow, and the throw over the mattress has a concoction of fabric swatches as if she sewed it together herself. A metal stand with wheels is off to one corner, and an array of monochrome office clothes hang from the contraption. A shelving unit overflows with folded garments. Stacked shoes line one wall.
And to the side of her bed, the one wall that doesn’t have a shelving unit or hanging rack placed in front of it is a mirage of photographs of smiling people.
“Your family?”
The refrigerator door closes and sets a covered dish on the counter. “Friends and family.”
I join her in the kitchen area. She doesn’t have a kitchen table, but the counter that divides part of the kitchen alcove is raised in one section, and two green vinyl stools sit beneath it. I pull one out and sit, watching as she stirs a brown concoction before setting it in a counter top microwave.
“Have you got much family here?”
“No.” I actually know this answer, but I ask in the hopes she’ll open up. She presses buttons and the vintage appliance emits a low hum. “Not many friends, either. My bestie hit her limit and returned to the states last month.”
“Limit?”
“Her company has a policy that she can only live abroad in one country for seven years.”
“Ah.” I recall from her file she’s here on a Visa program. Lumina has extended her visa multiple times, a testament to her work. “And where are you in the citizenship process?”
I can only assume she wants to stay here. Although, based on these accommodations, I’m unsure why.
“I have EU citizenship. I haven’t applied for Swiss and it hasn’t been a problem.” She pauses, and it feels like she’s got more to say.
The microwave beeps. A powerful aroma fills the space and hunger stirs. The door closes, and she presses a hip against the counter. She reaches behind her head and I’m taken in by the way the fabric stretches tight. Her hair spills down, still caught in braids, but no longer held back. One by one, her fingers release her woven strands. It’s a metamorphosis of sorts.
“What about you? What’s your story? Did you need to move home because you overstayed your visa in Great Britain?”
“I have dual citizenship.” As an Interpol officer, I don’t concern myself with Visa issues. But as I look around her tiny flat, and consider her post, and the fact she has few family and friends here, I can’t help but wonder why she’s stayed in Switzerland for so long.
“So the story is true? You simply missed home? Felt it was time to make your mark in the company your great grandfather founded?”
“Something like that.” I offer her a small smile. I’d prefer to tell the truth, but a semblance of it will suffice. “What about you? Did you fall in love with Geneva?” Lake Geneva separates France and Switzerland and the area, surrounded by the Alps, is often referred to as the Swiss Riviera. Charlie Chaplin famously chose Geneva for his second home.
“I love Geneva.” There’s a flush to her cheeks, augmented by the cascade of waves around her shoulders. “But I don’t plan on living here forever. I’m just…”
The microwave beeps once more, and she spins. She’s holding something back. My gaze traces the curves of her waist and ass. She’s focused on dinner, but I’m not hungry for food.