Taking Stock (8 page)

A chirping sound from the hall broke her trance on the book. A head of thick dark hair extended inward horizontally from the door casing, followed by bushy eyebrows, a generous nose, and a puckered face that continued to chirp as he scanned her expression from several feet away. She couldn’t imagine why the office crazy had chosen her doorway for his roost.

He stepped inside, short, stocky, smiling now that his chirping was done. He introduced himself as Stan Nye, her partner, the only other person who worked for Herman. The contrast from Herman to Stan was astounding. If he could survive here, certainly she could, too.

“Boy, not much going on here. Let’s take a spin. I’ll show you who’s who and what’s what.” This was the welcome she expected from Herman.

On the ride to the twenty-third floor, Stan summed up working for Herman simply. “Do what he tells you, keep quiet, and life is grand.”

If his meandering pace and his advice were any indication, Herman’s requirements for Stan weren’t terribly stringent.

Technically there weren’t any places they couldn’t go, but Stan lowered his voice as they passed the boardroom where Sarah had started her workday. He marched down the mahogany hall past rows of sharp, efficient-looking assistants and pointed out Herman’s closed door. His crisp steps said what he did not. Stan was intimidated up here among the executives so much so that he forced himself to walk professionally, a vast improvement over his earlier bird impression.

The wide rectangular hallway paralleled the perimeter of the building. He pointed out Marty Finch, the company CEO, and indicated a large area of offices for the money managers. Their offices were less ornate than Marty Finch’s, but even their assistants had better views than Sarah.

At the corner, Stan unceremoniously slipped into the stairwell and descended to the floor below.

Stepping out onto the twenty-second floor, Stan relaxed. He let himself into the computer room and showed her around the rows of glass paneled cabinets. He couldn’t tell her what the machines behind the glass did exactly, but he was proud that he could slide his card in the reader and walk inside whenever he wanted to. The cramped room next door was full of wires and one single computer. Stan bragged that only four people had keys to get in. Sarah would be the fifth when she earned Herman’s trust.

Back in the hall, she wondered how reliable Stan could possibly be.

Stan pointed out Brad Foster, who was glad to stop and chat about the accomplishments in IT. She pegged him for a decent guy, but when they were out of earshot Stan told her that everyone hated Brad with the possible exception of Marty, his CEO brother-in-law. Next they visited
Eric
a Fletcher, who seemed tense and high-strung. She gave a genuine smile, but was either too busy or too arrogant to take a minute and say hello. Stan couldn’t have been more positive about
Eric
a as they headed for the elevator. Sarah wondered if his admiration and her arrogant attitude both stemmed from the elegant lines of her face and her perfect smile.

The next three floors blended together. The noise level grew subtly with each floor they descended until they stood on the nineteenth floor in the middle of a long strip of gray cubicles that made up client services. People talked everywhere you looked. It was one constant blabbering, yammering of voices, each one clear if you stood nearby, but trailing off into a jumble of noise as you moved away.

Sarah had made a solemn promise to herself the night before not to get involved with another man at work. Dating coworkers at her last job had been catastrophic. The isolation of a traveling project team worked wonders for productivity, since there wasn’t much else to do alone in a strange city. Playing with company men was a hazard she was warned about early on, but it became a bit too convenient. One short-lived road romance led to numerous invitations for more, some legitimate and some that begged the utmost discretion.

Here, on her first day, she’d already met a man who could make her break that promise. Gregg Turner was different. He had a solid hunky physique like many of the consultants she worked alongside, but Gregg’s job demanded compassion. He solved customer problems and coached fresh college graduates through their first professional years. He was part babysitter, part kindergarten teacher, part mountain man. They shook hands outside the cubicle of a customer service person, a kid with a headset who looked nineteen. He and Stan both admired Gregg reverently.

Sarah wanted to learn more.

The intersection of their work lay in a file drawer of customer complaints. Stan admitted he hadn’t researched anything in that drawer in the eight years he’d been at BFS. It was tricky business. Angry customers had to be called and Stan had little taste for that. Surely some of the complaints were founded and she wondered what had been done with those. An investigation would get her closer to Gregg and possibly win her favor with Herman. Glad for the help, Gregg made a copy of the latest complaint letter. The drawer held hundreds more that had been researched and responded to. This one drawer held more promise than anything in Herman’s plan about human resources and accounts payable and there was enough work to keep her within sight of Gregg for the next three months.

Brad grunted as he locked out
two forty-five
. He let out a whoosh and eased it down for another rep. The dweeby guy in the corner with the pot belly and receding hairline was struggling with a lat pull-down of forty-five pounds. He was as much a total joke as his trainer was smoking hot. Five-ten with long legs and an ass only a teenager or an aerobics instructor could maintain. The whole package was wrapped so tight in spandex she’d hold Brad’s attention over anything else that walked in. She urged the middle-aged guy on as if managing forty-five pounds was some sort of accomplishment. The real accomplishment was paying attention to this guy long enough to earn her fee.

In the other corner a muscle-head was curling sixty-five pounds with one hand, as intent on the bicep in the mirror as he was on curling the weight. Footsteps droned on a treadmill in the next room broken by a CNN newscast that had repeated the same stories for about the fifth time since Brad arrived. He pressed the weight up and rested it on the holder, his eyes locked on the spandex-clad buns in the mirror.

A figure in sharply-creased blue pants blocked his line of sight.

“Impressive. That’s gotta be over two hundred.”

“Yeah.
Two forty-five
.” Brad sat up and faced Ray from accounting, a pretty solid guy, but dry and more than a little uptight.

“Amazing what you can do when you’re down here all day.”

“Hey, the clock never stops in IT.”

“Apparently there’s a substantial pause between twelve and two.”

Brad grabbed a worn white hand towel and dabbed his face to hide a chuckle. He sprayed a fine mist from the water bottle and wiped off the bench as if that might remove twenty minutes of heavy sweat from the black cushion. “Say what you want, but when you bean counters run home for dinner we’re just getting going.”

Brad slid off the weights one by one and replaced them on their holders. Ray watched. “What’s the good word upstairs
?
You guys still hacking my budget
?
”

Ray’s face tensed. Why did mention of the budget process make him nervous
?
He was the one who spent his time uncovering the boondoggles and trying to kill everyone’s pet projects. “Computers are kind of important in the mutual fund business,” Brad said.

“Hysterical. You and those guys in investment management and their six-figure software packages are going to spend us out of existence.”

“Not likely.”

“If my brother were CEO, I wouldn’t worry either. The rest of us are a bit closer to the layoff line.”

Brad replaced the last of the weights and led Ray toward the locker room. “We haven’t had a layoff in sixty-two years and we’re not going to start. Don’t go around scaring people. It’s not healthy.”

Ray trailed silently along the cinderblock hall. He said nothing even after they entered the rows of lockers, likely out of fear that someone might overhear. Brad’s relationship with Marty sheltered him from the scrutiny Ray feared. He performed well, but he did things his way, unencumbered by policies he didn’t like or didn’t care to enforce. Ray had no such luxury; he had to play by the rules.

Ray retrieved a business card from his locker and headed back to work.

Brad headed for the sauna.

Forty minutes later Brad reclined in his overstuffed leather chair facing the harbor. He disregarded an inbox full of messages and a slew of project status reports he’d been neglecting. Instead he watched a series of jets land two minutes apart. Staring out the window he imagined the country farmhouse he’d tear down and the life he’d build when this was finished. The time was coming soon and sadly, Brad would be making the trip alone.

The phone rang. Brad instinctively punched the button. “Brad Foster.”

The metallic voice squawked a single word, “Speaker.”

Brad hopped from his chair, breezed across the room and closed the door. Returning to his desk, he hesitated for a breath before picking up the phone. When the receiver touched his ear, the voice blared.

“Where have you been
?
  Marty can’t fire you, but you could at least pretend to care about your job.”

“That’s none of your damn business,” Brad retorted.

“Careful, Tough Guy. Everything about you is my business. I own you. You screw up, you expose this thing before I’m ready and the world will crash down around you in a heartbeat. The package is always ready.”

The shiny briefcase left inside his apartment had changed his life. The shock that someone could slip inside and leave without a trace was disquieting, but that was nothing compared to what the case held. The contents still had Brad terrified two years later. The recordings were made when Brad was just beginning to trust his new friend. Brad took a few hot stock tips. He sold Worldcom short and made a killing then did the same with Tyco. He was on top of the world until he listened to himself being told these companies were in trouble with the SEC by a voice he didn’t recognize. The tapes were dubbed, but sounded so authentic Brad couldn’t tell what he’d said and what had been clipped together. From then on he listened to unabashed demands and did what he was told. For three years the commands from his demonic partner had become increasingly forceful and the burning in his stomach had become decidedly more intense.

“That’s better. Now, how did we do last night
?
”

“The market’s been quiet. I’m waiting for a swing.”

“What
?
You need to run this thing every night. And you need to turn it up. Get on it,” the voice said.

“If the market’s flat it’s not worth the time.” Brad was thinking risk.

“This thing needs to be grabbing anything it can. This isn’t the time to be shy. Speaking of time - how’s our friend
?
Plenty stressed I hope.”

“My maneuver on Sunday cost her a day. She’s frantic. I can’t believe she hasn’t gone screaming to HR.”

“Keep her distracted. Tired angry women don’t make good decisions. That’ll be important when you get back.”

“Nothing to do but wait. I don’t see how she’s going to make it, but if she does, she won’t have an ounce of energy left.”

What would happen if
Eric
a failed
?
The ramifications would surely hit him, but how hard
?

“Have you met the new auditor yet
?
I hear she’s a real stickler. Wouldn’t want her investigating me,” the voice said.