Chapter Four
CALEB
By eight the next morning, I have learned three things.
First, Helena Ward did not buy the Halden through any of the companies her firm usually uses for straightforward acquisitions.
Second, she paid enough above the nearest competing offer to make three different commercial brokers use the phrase strategic premium when what they meant was what the hell was she thinking.
Third, I have apparently become the kind of man who searches a billionaire’s property filings before coffee. Mason watches me do it from across the studio.
“You’re clicking too hard.”
“I am not.”
“You are. The mouse has done nothing to you.”
I scroll through another transfer record. He drops a paper cup beside my elbow.
“Drink.”
“I have coffee.”
“That is yesterday’s.”
I look at the cup near my drawings. He’s right. I drink the new one. It tastes terrible.
Also normal. Mason lowers himself into the chair opposite my desk. He is broad through the shoulders, permanently in need of a haircut and wearing the green overshirt his wife has been threatening to throw away for two years. He points at my screen.
“Find proof she is a lizard yet?”
“No.”
“Disappointing.”
“She used a separate acquisition vehicle.”
“She buys buildings for a living.”
“She overpaid.”
“Rich people do that for fun.”
“She froze tenant increases for ninety days yesterday without consulting anyone.”
Mason pauses.
“Okay. That’s weird.”
“Thank you.”
“I didn’t say bad.”
“I didn’t either.”
He looks at me. I look back. He smiles slowly.
“Ah.”
“Don’t.”
“You like her.”
“I met her once.”
“Twice.”
“Yesterday was an inspection.”
“You noticed.”
“What?”
“That I counted.”
I turn back to the computer.
“I don’t like her.”
“Sure.”
“I don’t know her.”
“That is a different sentence.”
I consider throwing the coffee at him. Instead I open the photograph from yesterday. Helena entering the Halden. Me behind the glass.
The image has no useful metadata. Whoever sent it stripped everything obvious. The number routes through an online service that makes identifying the sender difficult without involving police or a subpoena. Helena offered both. I said not yet.
That may have been stupid. It may also have been the first decision in twenty-four hours that felt like mine. My phone is on the desk. Her number is in it now.
I saved it as Ward. Then changed it to Helena Ward because pretending I did not know her first name was ridiculous. Then changed it back to Ward because Mason walked past. I hate my life.
“What did she say about the picture?” he asks.
“That she doesn’t know who sent it.”
“You believe her?”
I stare at the screen.
“Yes.”
The answer comes faster than I expect. Mason hears that too.
“Interesting.”
“Her face changed.”
“People can fake facial expressions.”
“Not that one.”
“You know her expressions after two meetings?”
“No.”
But I know structures under pressure. I know the difference between a decorative crack and the one that tells you to clear a room. When Helena saw the current photograph, whatever happened to her was not performance. I close the property record.
“What I don’t believe is her answer about the building.”
Mason leans back.
“What was the answer?”
“She wanted the Halden.”
“Revolutionary.”
“She wanted me to accept that as complete.”
“Did you?”
“No.”
He drinks his coffee.
“Then ask.”
That simple. I dislike simple advice when it is correct. I pick up my phone. Mason raises his eyebrows.
“Right now?”
“Go work.”
“I am working.”
“Somewhere else.”
He stands.
“Tell your billionaire I said hi.”
“She is not my billionaire.”
“Yet.”
I point toward the door. He leaves laughing. I wait thirty seconds because I refuse to reward him by calling immediately. At thirty-one, I do.
Helena answers on the second ring.
“Caleb.”
She skips hello and says only my name. I look at the floor.
“Busy?”
“Yes.”
“I can call later.”
“No.”
A door closes on her end. Background voices disappear.
“You’re still busy.”
“I have nine minutes before someone notices I’m not where I’m supposed to be.”
“That sounds serious.”
“It means an investment committee is waiting for me.”
I almost tell her I’ll call back. Then I remember she could have let it go to voicemail.
“You paid fourteen percent above the next bid.”
Silence.
“Good morning to you, too.”
“I had coffee.”
“Was it terrible?”
I look toward Mason’s desk.
“Why?”
“You usually drink the place downstairs.”
Every muscle between my shoulders goes tight. The joke leaves me. She hears that.
“Caleb.”
“How do you know where I get coffee?”
Another silence. This one lasts longer.
“Public photographs.”
“Public photographs.”
“Yes.”
“You identified my coffee shop from public photographs.”
“Yes.”
“That is not normal.”
“I did not say it was.”
There is something almost worse about the lack of denial. I get up and walk toward the windows. Rain has stopped, leaving the glass streaked. Six blocks away, somewhere above a line of roofs, is her apartment.
I do not know which window. The thought makes me strangely angry.
“How long has this been more than one background check?”
“Those are two separate questions.”
“No. They’re really not.”
“Seven months.”
I stop.
“You said eleven yesterday.”
“I first saw you eleven months ago.”
“And this?”
“Became less casual later.”
“Less casual.”
“Yes.”
“That’s what we’re calling it?”
“No.”
Her voice is very calm. Too calm. I press my fingers to the cold glass.
“Why did you buy the building?”
“I told you.”
“Tell me the part you didn’t.”
There is a distant sound from her end. A knock, maybe. She ignores it.
“The previous owner intended to empty it.”
“I know.”
“You would have lost your office.”
My hand drops from the window. There it is. Not a confession. Close enough to feel like one.
“So you bought a nine-story building because my lease was going away?”
“No.”
“Helena.”
“No, Caleb. I did not spend that amount of money solely because you rent two rooms on the seventh floor.”
“That is the first thing you’ve said about this that sounds sane.”
“That seems unnecessarily insulting.”
“It wasn’t meant as an insult.”
“What was it meant as?”
“I don’t know.”
That stops me. The truth of it. I do not know what I want from her. An explanation large enough to make everything reasonable?
Proof the anonymous messages are exaggerating? A reason to stop thinking about the exact way she said I wanted to hear you yesterday? None of those fit together. She speaks first.
“The Halden sits between two properties we already control. The purchase makes strategic sense.”
“Then why overpay?”
“Because I wanted certainty.”
“About the building?”
“Yes.”
I wait. She sighs.
“About your lease as well.”
I close my eyes.
“Jesus.”
“You asked.”
“I know.”
“That is generally what happens when questions receive answers.”
“Do you practice being impossible or does it come naturally?”
“Mostly natural.”
A laugh gets out before I can stop it. Her breathing changes so slightly I might have imagined it. I didn’t.
“Were you watching yesterday?” I ask.
The words remove the remaining humor.
“What do you mean?”
“Before you came over.”
“No.”
“Did you know where I was?”
“I knew you would be at the Halden.”
“Because?”
“You told Tessa we could inspect at four.”
“That’s normal information.”
“Yes.”
I rub my forehead.
“I hate that I’m now categorizing the information you have about me into normal and not normal.”
“So do I.”
That sounds genuine. A knock comes again on her end.
“Ms. Ward?” someone says faintly.
“One minute,” Helena replies.
Then to me, quieter, “I need to go.”
“Wait.”
She does.
“The hearing.”
“What about it?”
“You said that building was familiar.”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you ever say anything to me?”
“At the hearing?”
“Anytime.”
She takes so long that I check the screen to make sure the call has not dropped. Finally, “Because I didn’t intend to speak to you.” That answer bothers me more than if she had claimed shyness.
“You intended to watch me.”
Silence.
“Helena?”
“Yes.”
The word lands flat and heavy. No defense. My pulse moves once, hard.
“Did you send the photographs?”
“No.”
“Did anyone who works for you send them?”
“I don’t know.”
“That isn’t reassuring.”
“I know.”
“Do you know more about whoever did than you’re telling me?”
“No.”
I listen. She does not sound offended. She sounds frustrated. Possibly scared.
“Okay.”
“Okay?”
“I believe you about that.”
She goes quiet. I hear someone open the door on her side.
“Tessa,” Helena says.
Then, away from the phone, “Tell them I’ll be there in two minutes.” A woman answers something I cannot hear. Helena returns.
“Caleb.”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t open anything else they send you alone.”
My jaw tightens.
“That’s not your decision.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
A pause.
“Yes.”
The answer is smaller than the others. I look out at the Halden’s reflection in the window across the street.
“Send me the number for whoever is handling security.”
“I will.”
“Not your personal file on me. Not a report. Just whoever handles the messages.”
“I understand.”
“Good.”
Another pause.
“Have your meeting.”
“You’re dismissing me?”
“You have three thousand people waiting for you.”
“Only twelve.”
“Go terrify them.”
This time she laughs. Not the controlled almost-smile from the conference room. An actual brief laugh. Warm enough to make me forget for half a second that the woman on the phone has known my coffee order longer than I have known her voice.
Then the call ends. I lower the phone. Mason is standing in the doorway.
“How much did you hear?”
“Enough to know you are absolutely screwed.”
“Helpful.”
“Was I wrong?”
I look at the blank screen.
“No.”
That is the problem.