Chapter 3 #2
My assistant has already sent me my schedule as we arrive in the parking lot.
Brenton. Meetings. Presentations. Two young investors coming to pitch their ideas.
Lunch with my associates. More meetings.
A legal review. The day arranges itself in my head like a well-oiled machine, going exactly in the direction I intend.
Unless…unless the girl who forgot her bag decides to add waves to my motionless ocean.
Will she even show up? Why do I care so much?
The question stays with me through the drive, follows me into the lobby, and sharpens by the time I step into the elevator.
Two young men in suits press themselves toward the back after greeting me with terrified nods, their mouths opening as if they have something to say before common sense revises the impulse.
Good. I accept competence and results. This must be known by now because I have become increasingly accustomed to silence when I enter my building.
An email notification appears on my phone, but I tuck it into the pocket of my dark navy suit before reading it.
Will she come? When? Will I have to wait all day to see her?
I pinch the bridge of my nose, irritated by the sudden urge to punch something simply because a girl with soft lips and a torn purse has interrupted the architecture of my morning.
At least I completed my workout. That should balance the beast in me today.
“Gentlemen,” I say without looking at the two men as I step out onto the executive floor.
Heads lift across the thirty-second floor when I enter.
The space is bright and designed to intimidate without trying.
The executive wing contains my associates, my assistant, the principal's meeting rooms, Nate’s and my office.
The sun cuts through the floor from every side, piercing the glass walls like blades.
I can see everything from here: my company, my people, and beyond the windows, my city.
I go straight toward my office, offering clipped nods to every familiar face I pass because I may be an asshole, but my mother still raised me correctly.
Kathy is already standing from her grey chair by the time I arrive at my door.
Behind her, the word "CEO" is printed in a thin, contemporary font on the door.
I could have chosen glass and curtains, but the constant movement of fabric would have unsettled me.
And a part of me does not want anyone to see me play chess by myself. How could they understand?
“Kathy.”
“Good morning, sir,” she says, handing me a cup of black coffee with no sugar and no milk. “Detective Brenton is already waiting for you.”
She wears her usual black dress today, though she has added a beige cardigan with small pearls sewn along the front edges.
Her rectangular glasses intensify the entire general-at-war energy she carries so effortlessly, and I secretly enjoy the way she makes interns stiffen as if basic scheduling might become a battlefield under her command.
“Anything new?” I ask.
“Anderson Douglas’s wife left him for her gym coach, the annual Summit Bank gala has been postponed until May, and one of the new recruits, Matson, is showing strong promise.
I would highly recommend considering him for the IT department.
He is quicker than a calculator and less needy than most of our new interns.
” I nod without showing amusement, though her ability to condense gossip, business intelligence, personnel assessment, and social threats into a morning briefing remains one of her more valuable skills.
I may have Brenton as my private investigator, but Kathy is my eyes and ears in every room where people foolishly assume assistants are furniture.
Do not misunderstand me. I do my own homework.
Always. But there are things one can only process from the field, and I am not the kind of man who wastes ten minutes making idle conversation beside a coffee machine.
“I’ll consider it,” I say. “Send him to my office after lunch.”
Her face does not move, but I know approval when I see it.
“If,” I clench my jaw, “ a young woman comes by to retrieve a bag…” I add, “Send her directly to my office.”
For the first time that morning, Kathy’s professionalism slips by half an inch.
“A-a, did you say a young woman, sir?”
“Yes.”
“Her name?”
“I don’t have one.” Her eyes sharpen behind her glasses. Interesting, they say.
“What does she look like?”
“Brunette. Works with the cleaning crew.” Kathy’s eyes turn into slits.
“Understood. I’ll send her in directly.”
I place my hand on the door handle, then pause.
“And um, good job, Kathy.” She is not the kind of woman who waits for praise but it never hurts to hear it.
Nate asked me to be more…human. I guess this is me trying.
The shadow of a blush flashes by. “Thank-thank you, sir.” Her voice is low and raspy, the kind of voice I can only imagine comes from decades of smoking.
I do not mind it. Of all the women I know, Kathy might be the only one I would enjoy sharing a cigar with, and the only one who would actually appreciate the gesture.
She gives me a clipped nod and returns behind her desk as the phone rings.
“Ashford Holdings Executive Department,” she answers dryly.
“How can I help you?” I close the door and allow myself a faint smile, because whoever is on the other end of that line needs to have their affairs in order if they hope to pass her radar.
Kathy can smell bullshit from miles away.
Hiring pretty young assistants had been tempting at first but when I interviewed Kathy, I knew, within minutes, that she was the right person.
Even if a shark the size of a Vodianov tried to barge in, she would find a way to hold him back just long enough to warn me first.
“Someone’s in a good mood,” Brenton says.
I turn toward him. He is standing beside my chess set, one hand resting on the back of a black leather chair, his attention on the unfinished game I left there two nights ago.
He has that Harvard professor quality people imagine English teachers should possess, tweed jacket, brown wool trousers, black hair salted with white, and shadows under his eyes darker than anyone I know.
Does he ever sleeps? I wonder, occasionally, what his demons are.
What war he has not finished yet, and why he still tries to win it every night instead of surrendering to the ceiling like others would.
His emails always arrive at the strangest hours.
My smile dissipates, replaced immediately by my usual poker face, the one capable of burying joy the size of a tsunami beneath an impeccable social mask. That is one of the reasons I do not trust easily. If I can hide in plain sight, so can everyone else.
“Did you find what I need?”
Brenton winces. “Not exactly.” He approaches my desk while I turn toward the window, looking over the city.
Westhaven stretches beneath me in steel, glass, and damp morning light.
My city, infested with rats wearing two hundred grand watches and driving flashy sports cars.
If I need to kill the Vodianovs, is it better to go for the head or the heart?
Head would be business. Heart would be family.
Maybe I should toss a coin, like in the old days when Father would summon me to blow on it without telling me what was at stake.
“The combination works for several variables,” Brenton explains, placing a file on the corner of my desk.
“All of them are detailed here. According to the intel I still have inside their network, it is most likely the combination to a door, possibly some kind of basement or lower-level access point.” My gaze remains on the city.
“I first considered coordinates,” he continues, “but they do not land anywhere useful. The warehouses are organized by name, not number. No birth dates, business dates, or family events correspond to the sequence either. My guess is that the person who gave it to you was asking for help by giving you a piece of information valuable enough that they expected you to investigate it yourself.” I do not react.
A plane slides between two buildings in the distance, cutting through the cloudy sky like a knife through soft skin.
A combination. A door. But to where? And what would be waiting behind it? Gold? Weapons…or people?
“Scotch?” I ask, my mind already churning through the next move. The young woman who gave the combination seemed hopeless and sad, and perhaps it was truly a way to help me without incriminating herself.
Brenton’s brow lifts. “I thought you preached a healthy mind and body.”
“There are exceptions to every rule.” He adjusts his cuff links as I turn back to him, the file still untouched on my desk.
“I’ll leave you to it, sir,” he says in a rush. “Everything is in there. I’d like to get back to work and keep digging.”
“What’s the matter, Brenton?” I ask. He exhales through his nose, then removes his glasses and wipes them with the hem of his jacket.
“I have a bad feeling about this, sir. An enemy handing over an olive branch is not exactly Vodianov-coded. I understand this may have been their way of warning you after the North deal, but the Vodianovs are a special breed. What if it’s a trap?
What if they are trying to lure you into a place to put the blame on you? ” His mouth tightens.
“We will terminate their warehouses,” I continue, “and if we find evidence of human trafficking rings, I will make sure to put an end to them. Keep searching. Something will come up. I am sure of it.”