Madeline Carter - 01 - Mad Money (13 page)

In any case, I wasn’t hanging around. I
wasn’t even really sure why I didn’t want to give her my DL. Part
of it was principle, sure. It was an invasive request. But a larger
part had to do with not giving too much away. And that, again, was
instinct. Pure instinct. At the moment I was a rabbit (or a deer or
an elk or something else made of meat) and I had to get out of the
forest.

I left the building and got back to my car
without any real idea of what I was going to do next, but there
were still two hours left between now and when I was meeting Emily
for dinner. I left the parking lot, turning left instead of right
and thinking I’d circumnavigate the building and see what I could
see. See what? Ernie out back locked in a cage that the killer
receptionist had constructed? A neon sign flashing the words:
“Something Fishy”? Ernie in an office window waving a sign that
read “help me”? Really, none of the above, but I did the
circumnavigation anyway.

Turning the corner, almost the first thing I
noticed gave me a new idea. A fairly dangerous idea, but what the
hell? I was apparently in that sort of mood.

Near a side door was that necessity of the
modern workplace: an outdoor smoking area. At the moment, Langton’s
had half a dozen well-dressed workers ranged around a cylindrical
chrome object, no doubt some sort of ashtray.

I parked in the next block, in front of a
fast food place, went in, ordered coffee and a bagel to go, then
sauntered towards the smokers — different ones by now, no doubt —
with my take-out food providing a badge of belonging. If I did
indeed work at that office, it would be weird to go for a coffee
and a snack so close to the end of the day, but it probably
wouldn’t be the kind of weird anyone would comment on. These days
enough people work funny shifts and extra time that food and coffee
can happen whenever. And so, I headed over with my goodies and made
like I was mingling or thinking about smoking.

This was a scary moment to me. Scary even
though I’d spent enough time working in large offices to know that
not everyone knows everyone. Also, I knew that even if I was found
out, the most that was likely to happen would be I’d be given the
bum’s rush. Or carded again. Whichever came first. Still, it’s
moments like these that make you realize that anthropologists are
dead wrong about the history of humankind. At one point, no matter
what they all tell us, we were herd animals. We all live with the
fear of being discovered as not quite fitting in with the herd.
We’re afraid that, should the leaders discover this, they’ll turn
and kill us. With their bare hands or teeth or hooves or other
sharp, pointy animal bits. This is a fairly universal human fear.
And it’s one I’ve had periodically throughout my life — high school
springs unasked to mind. But I’ve never had the feeling so strongly
as standing outside the Langton Building with a bunch of smokers
I’d never met before, praying dully to fit into their clique while
I figured out if I’d need some sort of key or cardlock to get in
the side door they’d all evidently come out of.

And, of course, they were all busy with
their own lives and conversations and so barely noticed me. I
relaxed against a stone bench and sipped my coffee, hoping I looked
like I was enjoying a stolen moment in the afternoon sun and that I
wouldn’t look
too
conspicuous not smoking.

“I haven’t seen you around here before.” The
owner of the voice was tall, maybe 25 and good-looking in that
cookie cutter corporate way. Well-trimmed hair, closely shaven,
strong features, well-pressed suit. What he had said was so cliché
I wasn’t sure if I should laugh or act chagrined. Since it was also
true, I settled on the former.

“Well, I haven’t seen you either.” Also
true.

“I work out of the sales office down at the
factory in Orange,” he said by way of introduction.

I nodded knowledgeably and decided to try a
stab. “You just came up for the... stuff today?” I said airily. But
it stood to reason that the announcement of a new CEO would provide
the sales department with a lot of... stuff. Even so, I didn’t
breathe again until he nodded.

“Yeah. And look how
that
turned out.
I may as well have stayed in bed today.”

Another knowing nod while I pondered my next
pithy-yet-leading remark. Instead, I came up with the rather bland:
“Yeah. Who’d have thought?” Good, I said to myself, just go with
it.

“
Seriously.
And then those guys
hanging around all afternoon?”

I nodded. What could I say?

Fortunately he didn’t wait for my comment.
Have you ever noticed that if, when you’re talking to someone you
don’t know well, you pretty much keep your mouth shut, they’ll just
blab on and on. And on. Wanting to fill up the empty space with
their heated air. This seemed like a good tack now. To be honest,
though, the fact that I was too nervous to trust myself to speak
for any length of time in a way that was perfectly normal is to be
credited for what actually became a good course of action. “I’m
sure at least some of them were cops,” he said. “Some of ‘em even
looked like they might have been rent-a-cops.” He was growing more
animated as he spoke. And he clearly watched too much late night
television.

“You really think so?” Demure and ready to
be convinced seemed to be the way to go.

“Sure,” he answered knowledgeably. “All the
signs are there. And who else would act like that? Did you see the
way they were storming around like they owned the place?”

“I... I didn’t, actually,” I said
truthfully. “I was busy at my computer for most of the day.” I
didn’t mention that my computer was an hour’s drive away.

“Did you see
anything
? Like, no one
I’ve spoken to has even seen the mysterious Ernest Billings. So I
figure it must all have something to do with him.”

“What else?”

“Exactly,” he nodded as though I’d echoed
his thoughts. And since I’d said precisely two words, I thought
that was an interesting reaction. He was continuing. “I got the
word to come up here in order to be addressed by the new chief.
Then nothing and then all of this,” his gesture encompassed the
building and I took it to mean whatever foolishness was being
cooked up by head office: a universally understood gesture. “A
completely wasted day: even the donuts were lousy.” Then another
universally understood gesture: the late-arriving charm: “but I did
get to meet a tall and striking blonde.”

“I don’t think we can say we’ve properly
met.” I stuck out my hand, “I’m Madison.” Then silently cursed
myself. Could I have thought of
anything
closer to Madeline?
And why on earth had I thought it necessary to introduce myself
anyway? The answer was obvious even to me: I was stalling. And
filling up the blank space with inane stuff and hoping he’d either
get to the good stuff soon (although I was beginning to doubt he
knew any good stuff), or provide cover that would get me inside. By
now, though, I was figuring that with out of town sales people
flitting around the office, there was a good chance no one would
notice a sales-appropriate dressed woman hanging around, as long as
I stayed out of reception, which I
completely
intended to
do.

“Steve,” he supplied. Of course. What else?
“Steve Rundle.”

He was looking at me expectantly and I was
suddenly just blank. A part of me was already storming the gates.
Another part sensed that I’d better move quickly if I wanted to
avoid a dinner invitation. And did I? I had to think about it for a
second. Yes. I did.

If I were the betting type — and, come to
think of it, I am — at that moment I would have bet that if I were
to make a move to go into the building, he would accompany me,
thereby providing the cover I desired. I tried it on:

“I guess I’d better get going,” I indicated
the elegant zig-zag building with my head. “Phone calls, you
know.”

“Yeah, I guess I should see what’s up as
well,” he said, stubbing out a Marlboro Light. “After you.”

Too bad there’s no profit in making bets
with yourself.

My heart headed to my throat as we headed
towards the door. This was it. I was imagining all sorts of high
tech nightmares by now: a single lowly retina scan (now who’d been
watching too much late night TV?) followed by the low thrum of
sirens and the jangling of alarm bells ending with me getting
hauled off in handcuffs: “Renegade stockbroker attempts to
infiltrate privately held company after the call of a halt to
trading. Film at 11.”

What I was forgetting, and what all that
late night TV hadn’t prepared me for, was that this was a company
that made jam jars. And maybe jars for peanut butter. Nobody on TV
does that. The companies in those shows are always deeply involved
in making top secret nuclear systems for submarines and interesting
stuff like that. No one ever sets movies or television shows in
glass jar companies because there wouldn’t be anything exciting
going on. Certainly, little that would be top secret.

The side door that we entered was just a
door. No high tech stuff at all beyond a very formidable-looking
lock, which wasn’t locked. The door led to a nice, quiet little
staircase that led to an unexceptional hallway. Steve looked like
he was headed right so I opted to go left.

He stopped me before I could make good my
escape, “Do you think they’re still having the thing tonight?”

I must have looked as blank as I felt,
because he went on: “You know, the Hyatt hail-the-chief thing.”

“Geez, Steve,”
geez
? “I don’t know. I
haven’t heard anything.” Also the truth.

“Me neither. Well, if they are, I’ll see you
there, OK?”

“Sounds good. And if they’re not,” I said
with a smile as brightly casual as I could muster, “I’m sure I’ll
see you around.” And I headed down the hallway in what I hoped was
the direction completely opposite reception.

I followed the long hallway, still carrying
my take-out bag — I’d finished the coffee while chatting with Steve
— and trying to look nonchalant while I looked for a place to land.
It was nearing five o’clock on the afternoon of an exceptional day
for the company, so while some people were still beavering away in
the offices I peered into as I walked by open doors, other offices
were empty while still others were occupied by two or more workers
having the sort of urgently quiet chats that people have when the
corporate ground beneath their feet has moved. My confidence
soared.

In this moment — having just concluded a
successful “interview” with an insider and moving with easy
confidence through an unfamiliar building, I felt like I’d missed
my calling. Suddenly I was Madeline Carter, girl detective on the
case (though on the case of what I wasn’t sure) and I promised
myself more encounters like this one, just to get the old
adrenaline pumping. I was, for the second time in one day,
deliciously smug. And, like that earlier smugness, the feeling —
unfortunately — wasn’t permitted to last. Smug is definitely an
area I need to target for self-improvement.

That smugness was challenged when two men
and a woman came out of an office directly in my path — nowhere to
run — and started heading down the hallway in my direction.

“So you haven’t had any calls from the press
yet?” the woman was saying.

“Not yet, not at all,” said one of the men
and, from the context and from the voice, I thought it might be
Hewitt, the PR flack I’d spoken to earlier. “We’ll just have to
hope that holds.”

I mustered my courage to greet them with a
nod, a smile and a bored expression as we passed each other in the
hallway. I thought the first man looked at me piercingly,
questioningly. For one tense moment I thought he was going to stop
me, but he didn’t and in another minute they passed into a
different office and closed the door behind them. I felt like
collapsing against the wall in relief, but I pulled myself together
and kept going. This was hardly the moment to fall apart: that
could come later, I told myself, once I was out of here. I kept
moving.

The distant yet familiar “beep-beep-beep” of
a microwave that has completed its mission came from still further
up the hall. I could smell the odor of something soup-like and
that, together with the beeping, gave my plan an immediate target.
Some sort of lunchroom was not far ahead. I could stop there,
appear engrossed in smearing cream cheese on my bagel and consuming
it while fitting and listening in and planning my next move. I
increased my pace.

As I’d known from the beeping, the lunchroom
wasn’t empty. And the moment I stepped inside the door, I saw
something that my subconscious hadn’t allowed me to contemplate as
a possibility: the person removing a steaming cup from the
microwave was wearing a mauve twinset. I started to back out the
way I’d come, but either my determinedly casual entrance had
alerted her or her preternaturally sharp and bat-like senses had
caught me on her sonar, because she looked up sharply, like an
eagle might look at a mouse.

“You!” she probably didn’t scream it, but
that’s how it seemed.

I backed up half a step.

“Don’t even think about moving,” she said as
she went for the phone, never taking her eyes off me. It didn’t
take a lot of mental exercise to figure she was calling the
much-hallybalooed security.

The lunchroom telephone was situated on a
table deeper into the room where munching workers could be
conveniently disturbed while they grazed. It seems quite likely
that my lilac-clad nemesis had made a quick calculation based on
appearances — I could see I wasn’t the only one who had done it —
and decided that a 30-something woman in a Prada suit was an
unlikely candidate to flee. If that is, in fact, what she thought,
she was wrong. While she entered the necessary extension numbers I
did some quick calculations, wished I hadn’t flunked calculus and
had passed on philosophy altogether, collected myself and...
bolted.