Archer Securities

by Jove Belle

  “I’m headed out for a lunch meeting. Do you need anything before I go?”

  “Yes, actually. I need the financial statements for those three departments. Home goods, food products, and electronics. An overview, plus detailed statements, going back at least five years.”

  When she finished speaking, Laila became acutely aware of IT Dude staring at her. It was different than the slobbering interest he’d shown her earlier. This time, he regarded her with open-mouthed astonishment. Uncle Samar, however, smiled at her with the same soft expression that he seemed to reserve for her and Sia alone.

  “What?” She glanced back at IT Dude, who shook his head and looked away.

  “Nothing.” He pushed his cart out of the room, his gaze focused studiously at a point on the wall that Laila didn’t find particularly interesting.

  “What was that about?” Laila asked after IT Dude left.

  Uncle Samar chuckled. “I imagine it has something to do with you tossing out orders to me. People here don’t do that. They think I’m in charge.”

  “Oh. Right. Sorry.”

  “It’s fine. Don’t change a thing. Are you hungry? I’ll have my assistant order a sandwich from the deli downstairs for you.”

  “Roast beef and a Cobb salad.”

  “Done.” Uncle Samar backed out of the office, one hand on the doorknob. “I’ll have her get those financial reports for you as well.”

  Rather than resuming her review of the files Max sent her, Laila called computer services for the tutorial on the workings of Archer’s systems. Sure, her uncle would get her the reports she needed, but it would be much easier if she could access them on her own.

  After twenty minutes on the phone with a pleasant man whose name Laila forgot as soon as he said it, she felt comfortable enough to work on her own. She thanked him for his time, disconnected the call, and returned her attention once again to her email. The only report left to review was the one labeled Samar Raje.

  Before she could click on it, there was a soft knock at the door and a woman entered. She carried a stack of papers and a deli bag, both of which she set on the table next to Laila.

  “Lunch. And work.” She nudged the bag and the papers successively.

  “Thanks. I didn’t know I was hungry until Uncle Samar mentioned food.”

  “My pleasure. Let me know if you need anything else. I’m Ava, and you can find me just outside Mr. Raje’s office.”

  Without a second thought, Laila tucked into her lunch. The file on her uncle could wait.

  CHAPTER 4

  The wind was cool against Trinity’s overheated skin as she leaned against the railing that separated her from the Willamette river. With the water at her back and the greenbelt stretched out to her front and sides, she watched as children ran squealing through the grass. It was an early summer day that promised to be long and hot, but in that moment, halfway through her morning run, she was at peace.

  To her left, a group of older people moved gracefully through their tai-chi routine, and she briefly considered joining them. Their peaceful, zen-filled presence was the perfect counterbalance to the light laughing from the children that she could just hear over the music in her headphones. This morning, she chose Bob Marley to ease into her day with the lyrical promise of “No Woman No Cry” in her ears. As delightful a distraction as tai-chi would be, her morning schedule limited the time she could spend on her run. Perhaps another time.

  Arms stretched out along the banister, eyes partially closed, she luxuriated in the simple pleasure of the moment and tried not to think about the demands waiting for her at home. Between work and the ever-present worry about her mom, Trinity savored times like this. Having Carol there helped, but it didn’t erase the fact that soon Trinity would have to make a more permanent decision about Ornella’s care. Her health declined incrementally every day. Trinity wouldn’t be able to pretend things were fine for much longer.

  Right here, right now, the extra five minutes spent enjoying the light breeze off the water as it mingled with the scent of fresh bread from the bakery nearby wouldn’t hurt.

  It was perfection.

  Of course, it couldn’t last. With a heavy sigh, Trinity stepped away from the rail to resume her run. She only made it a few steps before a man, showing off for his friends as they tossed a football around, backed into her and almost knocked her to the ground. Trinity was able to catch herself, but he was not as lucky. He sprawled across the path at her feet. His friends stood a few yards away, laughing and calling out to him. With an easy grace, he rose to his feet, a charming, ready smile on his face. The football he’d risked injury—his own and Trinity’s—to catch spiraled away in a lopsided, drunken crawl that spanned the length of the walkway only to peter out when it hit the grass.

  “Hi.” The man doubled his grin and ran his hands through his hair. It was short in the back, long on top, and the way it hung in his eyes was a little too much like a cultivated surfer look to be cool. “Sorry about that.”

  “No problem.” Trinity didn’t remove her earbuds, but she did offer him a friendly smile. Because she’d dallied too long enjoying the weather, she didn’t have time for further delay. She bounced on the balls of her feet, a universal sign that she wanted to be on the move, not standing around. Still, there was no reason to be unpleasant, not with the voice of Bob in her head, encouraging her to embrace her fellow man.

  The man brushed his hands over his chest as if knocking off dust after a hard day of work. He stuck out his hand. “I’m Dave.”

  This was where it always got tricky for Trinity. With his introduction, Dave had revealed his intention.

  Rather than shake his hand, she held hers up. “I’m sweaty and need to finish my run.” She went to side step around him.

  Of course, he moved with her, stepping to the side to block her way. “Wait, what’s your hurry? I thought we could get to know each other.”

  She stopped bouncing and planted her feet. With careful, controlled movements, she removed her earbuds, tucked them into the pocket with her mp3 player, and pushed her sunglasses up onto her head. Hands on her hips, she said, “Really?” She hated bullshit like this.

  Dave’s smile faltered. He tilted his head to one side and cast a fleeting glance toward his friends. “What do you mean?”

  If she were at a bar, maybe she would understand his confusion. But here? On a jogging trail, covered in sweat? How could this guy possibly think she was interested?

  “Dave, listen,” she spoke in that sugary-sweet voice that she reserved for the especially stupid, “I’m sure you’re a great guy—” she had an entire monologue ready about how she wasn’t into him and that it clearly wasn’t going to happen between them, with a bit about consent to tie it up nicely at the end, but he, of course, interrupted.

  “Whoa there. Don’t go saying anything crazy now.” His smile morphed from frat boy to used car salesman—both tried too hard to be charming, but one was a bit shadier about getting what he wanted. He looked over his shoulder at his buddies as they howled with laughter. “Why don’t you come hang with us for a while? Have some fun.”

  “Not going to happen.” Trinity shook her head. So much for channeling the mellow of Marley. Men like this—privileged, entitled, white—made her crazy.

  Dave shook his head. “Wow, look, you don’t need to get wound up.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.” Trinity wondered how wound up Dave would get if a man twice his size knocked him to the ground and prevented him from leaving, all in the name of misguided flirting. Until now, it had been such a lovely morning.

  Dave faltered. Clearly he wasn’t used to being shot down. He leaned in toward her and said, “I just… I thought we might talk. You know, exchange numbers?” His smile wavered. “You know?”

  A couple of joggers stopped to watch the exchange, a man and a woman.

  Trinity sighed. “Could you just step to the side? I’m officially late now.”

  She probably could ha
ve curtailed the whole encounter by telling him she was a lesbian, but why should she have to? “No” should have been enough. Not to mention, that approach could backfire. Some men considered it their obligation to “straighten out” lesbians.

  “Dude,” the male jogger stepped up, “let her leave.”

  Dave raised his hands up in front of him and said, “Whoa, everything is fine here. No need to get involved.”

  The man turned to Trinity. “Is that right? Is everything fine?”

  Trinity walked around Dave, giving him a wide berth. “It is now. Thanks.” She gave the couple her most grateful smile and took off without further comment.

  The mellow high she’d felt a few moments earlier was officially busted to hell.

  * * *

  “I’m back.” Trinity slipped off her running shoes and left them in the basket by the front door. Their house was old, built in the late 1800s, and had beautiful dark hardwood floors. When she was little, her mom had made Trinity take her shoes off because she’d track mud through the entire place without realizing it. Now, old enough to keep track of her own muddy feet, she still removed them every time she entered. It was a comfortable habit that reminded her of easier times. “Mom? Carol?”

  “In here,” Carol called from the kitchen.

  Trinity headed toward the kitchen, the reusable shopping bag that contained her lunch swinging at her side. In the entrance to the kitchen, she stopped short. Her mom and Carol stood at the counter, lacing together the top crust of what looked to be a cherry pie. Trinity closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and then opened them again. “What’s this?”

  “Ornella wants to go to church this evening. She’s baking a pie to take to the minister.”

  “Oh?”

  For years, Trinity had accompanied her mom to church every Sunday morning and Wednesday evening. Recently, they were doing pretty good if Ornella realized where they were about twenty percent of the time. She hadn’t requested that they attend service in too many months to count. Tears swam at the back of Trinity’s eyes, and she tried to regulate her breathing. Slow, easy breaths made it easier to keep things from spilling over. Church was something she’d thought was fully and completely past, yet here she was, watching her mom as she put the final touches on one of her signature pies. All so she could attend the evening service.

  “Yes, baby. Don’t look so surprised. We go every week on Wednesday. You know that.” Her mom spoke with that same comforting sweetness that had carried Trinity through every hiccup and bump of her early teenage years.

  Trinity’s vision blurred even more. Then, completely without her permission, her tears spilled over. She crossed the kitchen, and Ornella engulfed her in a strong hug. For several moments, they stayed like this, with Trinity soaking up her mom. Then, after far too short a time, Ornella stiffened. The moment had passed, along with Ornella’s awareness. Trinity pulled away, and her mom studied her with a guarded, cautious expression.

  “Hello,” Ornella said. “I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Ornella.”

  Trinity gave her a wobbly smile and said, “It’s nice to meet you.” Then she turned to Carol and hefted her shopping bag. “I’ll just put this in the fridge in my office. You two have fun.”

  Thirty seconds, give or take. That’s how long she got with her mom before she turned back into a stranger. How much more would she have gotten if she hadn’t taken an extended break during her run?

  Trinity retreated to her office and dropped off her lunch, then ran upstairs for a quick shower. Nobody would know if she started work right after her jog, but she couldn’t stand the feeling of sweat clinging to her. Besides, the few minutes with the hot water sluicing over her body gave her an opportunity to regroup. When she finished, she inspected herself in the mirror. The whites of her eyes were a crosshatch of red, contrasting starkly against her dark pupils and skin. A few drops of Visine helped. Her hair had grown out enough that she needed to get it straightened again. Or maybe she’d have it braided and weave in some deep burgundy highlights. Or maybe she’d cut it all off. That would certainly be easier. She sighed, something she seemed to do endlessly these days.

  To work. That would help her to focus on something beyond her own state of affairs. She dressed and headed downstairs to her office. Her office line rang the moment she switched it on and didn’t ease up until late that afternoon. During a lull, she logged onto her message board. Helping others, those who needed it even more than she and her mom did, made her feel better. Not quite right, but better.

  It took a moment for her to put her security protocols in place and access the encrypted message board. There was only one new thread, this time about a birthday party for a single mom who lived in Las Cruces, New Mexico. So far, most people had responded with a bottle of wine or a six-pack of beer. One person had committed to a bottle of whiskey, Jack Daniel’s.

  Trinity opened a new tab in her browser in order to track down the woman. A birthday party was the pre-designated code for an individual in distress, generally financial, but not always. It took only a few minutes for Trinity to find her. She was newly single, left financially wrecked by the divorce. The ex-husband looked pretty nasty on paper. If the DEA was to be believed, he was fairly high up in one of the Mexican cartels. The woman had escaped to a shelter with her two children and was trying to put together enough money to relocate far, far away from him.

  With the event authenticated, Trinity returned to the message board. A pint of mezcal and a handful of limes. Anyone care to match? The pint of mezcal was a straight forward message. A pint of anything equaled five thousand dollars. The fruit, on the other hand, was a lot more fun. Each lime—or any accessory, really—was a promise to do something intangible in terms of dollars, but that often turned out to be far more beneficial in the long run. She didn’t often go this route. It involved paving new pathways, and that increased the odds that she might be caught. But after her morning encounter with Dave, she was happy to work out some of her male-focused frustration on this woman’s ex-husband.

  First, she did a search for property under his name throughout New Mexico and Arizona. In addition to the house he’d shared with his now ex-wife, there was another property farther north in Los Lunas, a suburb of Albuquerque. Nothing in Arizona. Very carefully, she dipped into the local utilities company for each property. She changed the account status for both from current to overdue, with balances in excess of ten thousand dollars each. He would receive one notice before the power was cut.

  Because she liked symmetry, she posted a credit to the domestic violence shelter in the sum of the overdue amount for both of his properties. This, to her mind, was absolute poetry.

  The trouble with cartel money was that cartel members rarely reported their earnings. He only had one vehicle registered in his name, so she put a clamp notice on that account. This meant that, at some point in the future, maybe today, maybe three years from now, whenever he was cited for a parking violation, the city would put a boot on his tire.

  Her work extension rang, a call from another computer specialist. She didn’t toggle over to her work screen, but kept chipping away at the ex-husband’s online profile. Three limes—the power at his houses, the power at the shelter, and the wheel boot—weren’t enough. She could do better.

  “This is Trinity.”

  “Trin, hey! It’s Becker. What’s up?”

  Becker had worked for Archer even longer than Trinity and was one of the people she called when she couldn’t find an answer. He was generally upbeat and cheerful, was rarely stumped by her questions, and had a weird fascination with model airplanes—which he liked to talk about endlessly.

  As Becker talked, Trinity revoked the ex-husband’s license, created a new set of documents for the woman and her children, and arranged for them to be delivered to her via courier. She listened halfheartedly, catching snatches and inserting a well-placed noise of agreement as needed. Then he said something interesting, and all of her attention snapped to a
clear, pointed focus on his words.

  “…investigator. Apparently there have been losses.”

  “Wait. What? Backup. Losses where? And tell me about this investigator.”

  “Well, I haven’t met her…”

  “Oh.” Trinity closed her eyes and practiced that conscious detachment that her yoga teacher preached. It did little to quell her desire to strangle Becker. It was just like him to bring something up that he knew little to nothing about and then leave her hanging with a bunch of questions and no answers.

  “I talked to her, though. She called on her first day. I walked her through the basics of Archer’s systems.”

  “How do you know she’s an investigator?”

  “She said she’s here for a special project, and she’s got access to everything. Plus, she requested financials from several departments, and she’s got Samar Raje jumping through hoops. That man doesn’t jump for anyone.”

  The threads Becker laid out could, in fact, mean the woman was an investigator. It could also mean that she was a ringer sent from Archer’s office in Hong Kong, meant to take over Raje’s position. The CEO, who was based there, liked to groom Archer’s executives personally and then drop them into place when it was least expected. She hadn’t heard any chatter about Raje being under scrutiny, but it was possible. Becker’s conclusion about an investigator was a stretch, but worth checking out nonetheless.

  “What’s her name?”

  “Laila Hollister. Oh, and she called Mr. Raje uncle.”

  Not a ringer then. She wrote the name on a piece of scrap paper. It wouldn’t hurt to look into it.

  “Listen, Becker, I need to get back to work. Chat later, yeah?”

  “Sure, Trin. Bye.” He always sounded a bit like a kicked puppy when she ended the call.