by Isabel Jolie
We’re going with the key message that BB&E remains a trustworthy company and will work with authorities to ensure any illegal activities are brought to light. The suspected fraudulent activities are limited to a small number of related accounts, and all involved are no longer employed by BB&E.
Rhonda calls my cell. I wave goodbye to the PR team and head to the elevator bank, gesturing to the group gathered around the conference table that I need to take this important call. I’ve spent hours with them. They’ve got it under control. They don’t need me.
“You’re on a call with the board at twelve thirty.”
“It’s a call, not in person?”
“Yes, not everyone is in town. It may only be the chairman of the board and you. I’m not sure.”
I check the time. I’m starving. I need fresh air.
“I’m gonna run out and get a falafel. You want anything?”
“I can get you lunch.”
“Thanks, but I need the air.”
“If you’re sure. I’m jonesing for a grilled cheese, so I’m gonna head down to the cafeteria.”
“One day your arteries are going to repay you.”
“Maybe. But if they’re gonna clog, I’d rather it be because of melted cheese than fried chickpea.”
“Ha ha.” I hang up and scroll through text messages.
As I wait for the elevators, the silent television in the corner of the reception area catches my attention. The weatherman is on, but the white scroll on the bottom of the screen reads Evan Mitchell, CFO, and Tom Bennett, CEO of BB&E served indictments.
Grand. Cat’s out of the bag and all hell’s gonna break loose. My phone lights up and vibrates as if it’s internally combusting.
Once outside, I search the perimeter for the falafel guy then head his way, lost in the barrage, scanning for client messages, as those rank of the highest importance. Damnit. I had hoped we’d have more time before the media got hold of it.
Frank, SVP of Operations, and I are scheduled to meet at two to go through the list of clients to determine which ones need to be contacted before the end of day. Most clients will get a call from their client services manager with our prepared message. The most important clients will get a call from Frank, who technically oversees all client relationships, or from me, Interim CEO. The title makes my head spin. Frank might be pushing eighty and speaks with the speed of a tortoise, so unless he has a relationship, I’ll be making all the calls. Fuck, it’s gonna be an insane afternoon. I should’ve met with Frank earlier, but I needed the announcement about my interim post to be made.
When it’s my turn in line, I step up to order my normal. I don’t even get a chance to open my mouth.
“Chase, my man. I heard you were at the shooting.”
“Yeah.”
“So crazy. Tragic. Awful. I heard there were, like, five shooters. You must’ve been freaking out.”
“There was one shooter. I’m pretty certain they’ve confirmed it was one shooter.”
“No, man. I saw it on my wife’s Facebook. Crazy. You lucky you made it out alive.”
“Yes. I am.”
He hands over my falafel, just like I like it, with extra sauce. “You need water?”
“No. I’ll get it inside.”
I pull out my wallet, and he waves it away. “Nah. This one’s on me. Glad you’re alive, man.”
“Thanks, Manny. You da best,” I say as we fist bump. And that, my friends, is why it pays to be a repeat customer.
As I step away from Manny’s stand, my cell vibrates with yet another text. A large man crowds me from behind, and I step out of his way, closer to the curb. The fucker’s about to make me drop my falafel.
There’s a text from Sadie. Headed over to fingerprint. See you soon.
Something hard jabs against my side, and I spin, ready to push back. New Yorkers who push and shove are one of my biggest pet peeves. I take two steps out of the guy's way, off the sidewalk and into the street between two parked cars. What the fuck is his problem?
The fucker grabs onto my bicep and pushes me hard. My falafel goes flying out of my hand.
“What the fuck, man!” I belt out as another guy comes out of nowhere and grabs my other side. This is fucking nuts.
The guy shoves his chest out, and his buddy comes out of nowhere. Like we’re about to brawl on the street. Assholes.
I move to get away from these whack jobs. There’s nothing to gain from a fight. A van is double-parked on the street, and I go to get between it and the street parked car.
“Move it or I shoot,” the giant to my side growls.
My heart stops. Like, no blood pumping anywhere when I register the glint of stainless steel jabbing into my side.
The side door of the van slides open. The guy behind me edges me forward, then at the last minute, shoves me with a hard thrust that smacks my shin against the van. Fuck. Pain ricochets through my leg. I go to rub the source, but the asswipe snatches both my wrists, and I hear the sound of handcuffs clicking.
The guy in the driver’s seat stares straight ahead, and his right hand grips the wheel. A black cloth bag falls over my head. Ho-ly shit. I’m being kidnapped.
“You guys know you won’t get away with this, right?”
“Shut up,” a deep voice snarls beside me.
“Who hired you guys?”
“Shut up,” the same voice repeats.
“This isn’t gonna end well,” I warn. My hands are locked behind my back, but I shift, attempting to locate the phone that should be in my pants pocket. It won’t take Sadie long to track it. She’ll find me. The only thing is, as I shift around, I don’t feel my phone.
“I can’t believe we fucking did this in broad daylight.” It’s a different monotone voice.
“Didn’t have a choice. The feds’ve been staking out his apartment.”
“Not smart.” The guy sounds pissed.
“What do you care? You’re unrecognizable. Drive.”
“You guys can change your mind. Just let me out. No harm, no foul,” I offer.
“You speak again, and I knock you out. Got it?”
I nod, compliant. In safety courses, they tell you getting out of the car when kidnapped is imperative. Only, I’ve got two muscled giants on each side of me, a black bag over my head, and I’m fucking handcuffed.
“I’ve already provided testimony to the FBI. Kidnapping me doesn’t help your bosses.”
A crushing, painful, blunt object slams into the side of my head, and I smash against the hard body sitting to my left. Pain radiates through my head and the base of my neck.
Thirty
Sadie
* * *
The moment we enter BB&E’s offices, I sense a tenseness in the air. Employees cluster in small groups throughout the lobby, heads down, and the hum of conversations fills the vast marble interior. When the elevators open onto my old floor, the silent television monitor behind reception streams news. Both receptionists are turned, reading the news alerts, although at the moment the scroll announces earnings for Apple.
Neither of the receptionists gives either Agent Connor or me a second glance as they converse in hushed tones. As I roam the hall, the first thing I notice is that no one is sitting in the cubicles. Clusters of employees gather in groups. I bypass my dark, empty office, and when I reach Chase’s, his door is closed, and it’s clear from the interior window his office lights are off. I knock anyway and twist the knob. The door is unlocked.
Rhonda comes around the corner with a cell phone to her ear. She sees me and presses the cell to her chest.
“Sydney…he’s not here.”
“I brought Agent Connor. We’re going to fingerprint the file cabinets. Where is he?”
“He stepped outside for lunch…but that was a while ago.” She checks her wristwatch. “He had an important meeting at twelve thirty. That’s where he must be.”
Her desk phone rings, and I point inside Chase’s office. “Do you mind if we go in?”
“Not at all. Go ahead.”
I push the door to Chase’s office open, turn on the lights, and Agent Connor opens his bag and withdraws the items he’ll need to fingerprint. It’s unlikely we’ll find anything, but it’s worth the time it’ll take to dust the cabinets. Surveillance has obtained video footage from the building. We weren’t monitoring the building security cameras for this case, but we should be able to figure out who took the files from the footage, at least, if the files are no longer in the building. Even if they carried them down the stairs instead of using the elevator, which is unlikely given the number of boxes the files likely required, we’ll see them in the parking garage footage.
“Syd…Agent?” Rhonda stands in the doorway, gripping her cell phone, her gaze flitting between me and my colleague.
“You can call me Sadie,” I offer.
“Chase didn’t join the 12:30. I assumed he must have gone up to sit with one of the executives for the call, but he never called in. Everyone’s executive assistant has been calling me to locate him. I can’t—he’s not answering his cell.” Her flushed skin color and fidgety stance says she’s nervous and worried.
“When did you say you last saw him?”
“He called me. He was with the PR team all morning. He called to ask if I wanted a falafel. He knew he had the twelve thirty. It was with the board. He wouldn’t miss that meeting.” My heartrate speeds along to the staccato rhythm of her words.
“Agent Connor, I’m going to look for Chase. Are you good doing this?” He was going to be doing it on his own, anyway, as he’s part of the forensics team. He nods, barely pausing preparing his brush for the task ahead.
I push Rhonda out the door. “Let’s start downstairs at the falafel place. We’ll make sure he made it there.”
Rhonda holds her cell phone out, hitting Chase’s name, hanging up when his voice mail answers, then dialing again. The repeated, frantic activity obliterates my focus. I want to tell her to cut it out. I refrain. If he’s somewhere out there on a con call, and he sees her repeatedly calling, he’ll at the very least take a moment to respond, even if via text.
We rush through the glass lobby doors. There’s a wider concrete pavilion in front of the office building, and street vendors line the edge along the street. There’s a coffee cart, a hot dog vendor, and then, to the far side, I spy the falafel guy. I take off to the shiny food cart then slow when I hear Journey playing Any Way You Want It.
The song stops, and I spin, searching the perimeter. The song plays again, only this time Rhonda hears it, and she holds her phone out like a beacon. The song ends once again.
“Call him again. Let it ring.”
She does so as pedestrians zip around us, oblivious. I close my eyes to focus all my sensory power on the ring tone, lifting one foot after another in the direction of the song that no doubt will be playing in my head for the rest of the day. Leave it to Chase to choose a ringtone that imprints.
The ringtone stops, and I spin to Rhonda. “Again.”
That’s when I see it. On the street, against the curb, partially hidden by the front wheel of a parked car. A few feet away is a mangled silver wrapper. Murky orange sauce splatters the sidewalk. Unsuspecting pedestrians must have stepped in it.
“Rhonda.” I point at the mess as I bend and pick up the phone. It rings, and I see Rhonda’s name flash on the screen. Rhonda’s mouth opens, and she covers it with her fingers. Her eyes water, and all her visible reactions are what’s playing out in my insides. Focus. Hold it together.
I dial Agent Hopkins. I’m not undercover, and he’s not my handler anymore. But of everyone on Operation Quagmire, I know him best.
He answers on the second ring. “Agent Keating.”
“Chase Maitlin is missing. He had a board meeting at 12:30 he wouldn’t miss. I found his phone and his falafel outside by the street.”
“Why would they do that? We have his test—”
“I found his phone. On the curb. It’s the only explanation.”
“Shit. They knew we had agents outside his place at night, so they waited until he was at work. Where are you?”
“At BB&E’s office. I’m with Rhonda, his assistant.”
“Did anyone see anything?”
“I found his phone and called you.”
“Okay. Let me go update the team. Ask around. See if anyone saw something.”
I hang up and survey the area. The falafel cart is obviously first. But who to ask next? The coffee cart directly across the pavilion. But if they saw someone getting kidnapped, wouldn’t they call the police? Then I remind myself someone could have called it in. Even if someone did, it wouldn’t reach the FBI, not yet.
Rhonda stands still, an expression of shock plastered on her open-mouthed face. I redirect my attention away from her. My chest pounds. Adrenaline courses through me. I breathe deeply. Focus. I recognize the dark haired, middle aged man Chase and I have bought lunch from more than once over the last few weeks. The cart is essentially a pull-behind kitchen, and the side of the cart is maybe five to six feet wide. If he was inside, he wouldn’t have had a line of sight to the location on the curb where I found his phone.
He’s wiping down the narrow stainless-steel counter when I approach. A smile spreads when he looks up and sees me.
“Sydney!” He beams. I’ve bought from him maybe twice. He must be a savant with names. And I do not have a matching skill set.
“Hi. Was Chase Maitlin here earlier?” Yes, I would’ve used his name to address him if I remembered it. Yes, I should say more, but my gut tells me I don’t need to warm him up.
“Yes. I gave him a free falafel. You want one? I give you one, too. After all, you are a hero. You shot the bastards.” He’s already whipped out the bread, placed it on a wrapper, and holds it out, expecting me to tell him if I want a spread.
“No, thank you. Maybe another time.”
He loses his smile as he sets the wrapper down.
“I’m looking for Chase. I’m trying to retrace his steps. Do you remember what time he came here?”
He shakes his head and pauses, squeezing his lower lip between his thumb and index finger, before answering. “Nah. Sorry. I don’t pay attention to time.”
“Was he alone or with someone?”
“He was by himself. Had his phone with him. Always busy on his phone, that guy.” He smiles, then frowns. “Did something happen?”
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out. I found his phone over there, and a smashed falafel isn’t too far away.”
He leans his body out the cart’s window, stretching to see where I’m pointing. As I thought, there’s no way he would’ve seen anything. He disappears in the back of his trailer. A moment later, the side door on the cart opens, and he steps out, walking over to the area I pointed. I follow him, and we both stare down at the smashed falafel.
“This is the falafel I gave him. Extra sauce. He likes it spicy.” He stares down at the falafel, then bends down to scrape it up, using the corners of the opened silver wrapper.
“Wait.” I bark.
He freezes.
“Let me take photos before you pick it up.” He nods and backs away.
I’m fucking this up. I should’ve taken photos immediately. It’s not exactly evidence, but it could be useful for showing the team what I found and where. I return Chase’s phone to the spot between the tire and curb where I located it and take photos with my phone, then send them off to Hopkins.
After I give the go-ahead, falafel guy bends and picks up his creation from the sidewalk. “Litter,” he mumbles. “We must take care of our city.”
He tosses it in a nearby trash can, somber. “You find him, okay? You find him, I give you both free falafels. I like that guy.”
I smile. “Me too. Thank you. Here’s my card. I know you couldn’t have seen anything, but if you think of anything at all that could be useful, call me.”
He runs his thumb back and forth over the card though
tfully, nods, and returns to his cart.
I’m in route to the coffee and hot dog carts when Hopkins calls.
“Sadie, you’re not gonna like this, but we found the guy who stole the files. He told the agents who interviewed him that he was hired by Chase Maitlin to remove those files and dispose of them.”
“He’s lying.”
“I tend to agree with you. But right now we have two running theories. One, Chase Maitlin is being set up as the fall guy for this, and they plan to make him disappear so he can’t defend himself, or two, Chase Maitlin is guilty, and he’s done a great job of playing us.”
“He’s not guilty.” Hopkins is aware I have a personal relationship with Chase. I sound like a girlfriend, not an agent right now. But none of that matters. I’m right.
“Chase’s attorneys have been contacted. If he’s playing us, he’s playing them too. They don’t believe for a minute Chase stole those files, but they also shared he has copies of everything electronically, and he gave copies of those files to them. So, right now, as long as his attorneys follow through with willingness to share the files, it definitely seems the first case scenario is most likely. Why don’t you come back here to the office? You’re too close to this to be in the field. Come back here. We’ll find him.”
“What’s the team doing? To find him?”
“We’ve sent agents out to Mitchell’s and Bennett’s homes to ask questions.”
I exhale my frustration. “That’s fine, but it’s not like either of them would have personally taken him. This isn’t a case where he willingly got in someone’s car. His phone and falafel were on the ground. If either of those guys is involved in this, they didn’t do it personally. They hired someone.”
“We know. But this is a logical next step. We might gain some valuable information.” His tone is calm. It’s a signature agent tactic to calm down someone who is frazzled. The buildings blur.
I re-focus. Scan the street for any cameras. “Do you have anyone checking street cams? He was taken on 38th near 6th. About thirty yards from the intersection.”