Flicking
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Dorian knew he needed to do something immediately. The picture again showed Dorian asleep, but pointed at his head, it showed a gun, aimed just above the ear. The caption read ‘BANG’.
Had they wanted to, they could have killed him.
Dorian didn’t move for several hours, but for a twitch here and there, or a shake of the head, little else. The sun’s rays gradually threw light into the room. Dorian only noticed a frightful silence. Well past eight am his phone rang.
He should skip the call, sit still, let it go to voicemail. But after a few rings, his hand shot out and lifted the receiver.
“Hello?” He wished for good news, not remembering what good news looked like.
“Hello. Could I speak to Dorian, please?” A British voice? Or Scottish?
“Yes. I’m Dorian.”
“Oh. Dear. Let me introduce myself. My name is Tara. Tara Stevens to be precise,” the voice said deliberately.
“Ok.”
“I knew your sister.”
“Oh.”
“At LSE. The London School of Economics, that is.” Her words eased out.
“Oh.”
“We were really good friends since towards the end of last year.”
“Did she mention you?”
“She must have.”
“I don’t remember.”
“That’s crazy. We spent loads of time together. We were going to room this year. We had it planned after she came back from Milan and me from Edinburgh.” She cleared her throat, her voice gained strength.
“Ok.”
“Anyways, is this a bad time?”
“Ah.”
“I’m calling quickly to tell you how sorry I am about Federica and your parents. She used to talk about all of you so much.”
Dorian felt like Tara might have spoken more than she had in a long time. She sounded nice. “They were great,” he said.
“It sounds like you really did have such a close family.”
Dorian’s eyes looked away from the monitor in front of him. “It’s sweet of you to call.” He should always be polite.
“I was completely a wreck for days when I heard, and it’s not my family, though sometimes, from all the stories that Federica told, it felt like it was. It’s bloody awful. You must be destroyed.”
“Bloody?”
Tara laughed, the sound like an alien signal. “Bloody’s a swear word over here. It’s British English. I guess you don’t use it over in the States?”
“No, not really.”
“Well, look. I just wanted to tell you how sorry I am. I didn’t want to take much of your time. I’ll let you go now. Nice meeting you virtually, speak to you soon.”
“Nice meeting you as well.” The receiver was halfway down, when he stopped. What would he do now, he panicked. “Hold on,” he shouted into the phone, “stay.”
“Hello?” She hadn’t hung up.
“I don’t want you to go. You’re the only link I’ve got to my sister. Tell me how she was like at LSE.”
“Oh, golly. And I fully forgot to give you my phone number.” Embarrassment poured through the phone. “I’m a dreadful person.” She paused. “How was she? I tell you, she was such a wonderful person. She always lit up a room. I know it sounds cliché, but that’s what it felt like to me. We would run in Regent’s Park, didn’t matter what weather. We’d see movies when we had a spot of time. You must know all this.”
“Yeah. She was a good sister.” He held back tears.
“She loved the artsy-fartsy movies.”
“She did.”
“But I’m so rude. How are you? It must be terrible.”
“Not so good.” Could he really tell her about the freak trying to kill him?
Dorian left Boston with immediate effect. He’d realized that sticking around was probably the best way to get himself killed. Until then, he’d assumed he was relatively safe, but ReeperG’s pictures demonstrated how wrong that thought had been. It was close to seven pm, and Dorian stood in one of the many grey waiting halls of Boston’s Logan Airport, a bag pulling at his shoulder. Inside, his laptop, a book, and essentials. After Tara’s call, he’d made the decision, convincing her to take him in. He’d explained how he needed to get away, and soon enough, he’d accepted an offer to visit Tara in London. It would be a good place to hide out. Who would expect him there? Although he doubted Tara would have been eager to take him on if she knew about ReeperG.
His cell phone buzzed: an MMS. It came from his roommate’s desktop, that Dorian had modified before leaving. The computer had snapped a picture of a man in a black balaclava and a gun.
Dorian breathed sharply, then sat down.
Research
Back at her desk, Andrea couldn’t exorcise ‘snooping’. Her job is what she was doing, she told herself. If she saw something strange, no matter what the CFO said, she had to ferret it out, didn’t she? She could just picture the Andrea-faced ferret, whiskers sticking out in all directions, rooting around in a pile of financial papers. She laughed.
“What’s so funny?” Marco’s head popped over the wall of her cube.
“Oh nothing. Ferrets. Well, me as a ferret. Weren’t you supposed to be at that production meeting all afternoon?”
“Yeah. Ended early.”
Andrea pursed her lips. “Look, I had this thing I went to the CFO with. I hope you don’t mind. I thought you’d be gone too long.” Why did these things make her feel sheepish?
Marco raised his eyebrows.
“It was the Beehive thing. Remember we said it might be a few thousand dollars? Well it was two hundred and fifty grand. So, I figured that might be a slight issue, see?”
“So you went to the CFO?”
“Yeah.” She looked down.
“And he wasn’t interested.”
“Yeah.”
“Like the famous show poodle incident?”
“Yup.” Andrea grimaced. “Ok, ok, so I fucked up. So sue me!”
“It’s your reputation girl.”
“But…” Should she tell Marco about the CFO’s call? No. Why shouldn’t she tell him? Fuck if she knew, she just wouldn’t.
“But what?”
“Chicken butt!” she answered brightly.
“Screw you.” Marco walked away.
The next day, Andrea had slept on the Beehive incident. Her mind was made up. A call to Melbox’s auditors should sort this thing out. This was definitely a Sarbanes-Oxley problem. Her contract specifically required her to report it. Not that her reasoning convinced her in the slightest. They’d be pissed off, big time. She wrote the SOX helpline number on a scrap of paper from the handout they’d received in training last spring, the same handout now stuffed in the bottom drawer of her desk. Paper in hand, she walked, snuck?, into one of the meeting rooms.
“SOX hotline. How can I help?”
“Hi, I’m calling to report a concern about Melbox Movies.”
“Great. What’s your name?”
“I’d rather do this anonymously.”
“Sure, that’s fine. Let me get a form ready. What is the nature of the issue?”
“There’s an offshore account that’s sucking cash, and no one can identify it.”
“Great. We’ll look into it. Thanks, goodbye.”
“It’s called Beehive…”
But the line was dead. Andrea made a loud raspberry sound. They sure were interested in what she had to say. That guy hung up before she could even say anything.
She dialed again, not to be put off.
“SOX hotline. How can I help?” Shit, it was the same person. Didn’t they have a real call center?
“Who am I speaking to?”
“I’m sorry, we’re not permitted to give our names. My ID number is four six nine oh… uh two three one seven.”
“You must be kidding.”
“Oh no, miss. How can I help you?”
“I just called a minute ago and you hung up before I could tell you what I was reporting.”
&n
bsp; “You did?”
“Yes, don’t you recognize my voice?”
“Uh, not really. Sorry ma’am, we get a lot of calls here. Uh, not that that should worry you. Most of the calls turn out to be nothing, actually. Interesting, no?”
“Sure.” Andrea tossed her hair, a technique that often made an impression on unruly conversationalists but of course had no impact over the phone. “Let me report my incident again then.”
“Well miss, if you’ve already reported it, there is absolutely no need to file a second report.”
“Huh?”
“We investigate every incident with absolute rigor.”
“Excuse me.” A sharp quality entered Andrea’s voice. Her foot tapped impatiently. “No one took my report. I was hung up on before I could say what was wrong.”
“Ah. Well, in that case, let me get a form—“
“Don’t you have forms there in case—“
“Do you mind if I put you on hold?”
“—someone calls to report an incident?”
The line went dead. And stayed that way.
Seething, Andrea tried ‘one last time’. That fucker was going to take her report if it was the last thing she did.
“All of our agents are busy with other callers. Due to exceptionally high call volumes our hold times can be lengthy. If it is convenient, please call back another time.” A click and a new voice. “The estimated hold time is forty-five minutes. We apologize for the inconvenience.”
That’s it! They didn’t want to hear her report, and that was final. She would be doing this one on her own. No problems. Her feet clumped across the carpeted floor in vexation. The only question was: how? What did she need so she could get to the bottom of this little mystery? She’d gotten all the clues she could get from the financial systems. Now she needed to figure out who was pulling the strings. A friend of the CFO’s, that was for sure.
During lunch, Andrea pondered. Her