“Do I have this on right?” I asked the professor.
“Your bowtie is loose. Turn around.”
I did an about turn and felt the professor fiddlin’ with the adjustable bowtie. It tightened.
“Can you still breathe?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, so not tight enough then.”
“Hey.”
“Just kidding, Tank.” He had me turn around again. “Perfect. You look like James Bond.”
“I look like a penguin on steroids.”
“Nonsense, son. Besides, people like penguins.”
“Are you gonna be ridin’ my case all night, Professor?”
“Most of the night, anyway. Come on. You’re in for a surprise.”
I hoped it was a good one. We’ve had our fill of bad surprises.
The Courtyard by Marriott was a cut above most hotels, but not fancy. The professor called it a business hotel, but I saw plenty of people who didn’t look like executives. I didn’t bother to point that out. I was just glad for a nice place to stay. In the early days, we often had to rely on the professor to pay for airline tickets, food, and the like. These days, someone was taking care of such things. Don’t ask who. I don’t know. None of us do. Not yet.
We rode the elevator down three floors to the lobby. Seated on a sofa situated across from the desk was a young woman with vivid red hair. Andi normally let her hair hang whatever way it chose, but not tonight. She had spent part of the day at the hair salon, but to me there was nothing they could do to improve on perfection. I may have been wrong. Her hair had been pulled, woven, whatever they did in such shops, close to her head. She wore an evening dress of white and black stripes that were set on the diagonal. The dress left one shoulder bare. Not being an expert in such matters, I have no idea how a designer would describe it. I settled for “wow.”
Andrea Goldstein (we just call her Andi) rose from the sofa and all the air left the room. She seldom wore makeup, but tonight she proved she had skills that went beyond computers and patterns.
She straightened the dress. “Do I look all right?”
She was looking at me. I cleared my throat and wondered if I should comment on the dress, her hair, her makeup, her beauty, so I said, “Um, wow!”
The professor chuckled, something he seldom does. “It’s okay, Andi, I speak fluent Tank. He says you look gorgeous.”
“Yeah, what he said.” I’ve never been quick.
Andi smiled in away that nearly melted my spine. “Mr. Bjorn Christensen cleans up pretty good, too.”
“Hear that, Tank? She thinks you look like James Bond.”
“I didn’t say that, Professor.” Andi’s smile widened. “But you do, Tank.”
I hoped for all I was worth that I wouldn’t blush.
I blushed.
The professor’s expression soured. “Where’s Barnick? Do I have to go get her?”
“Of course not, old man.”
The voice came from behind us. A very familiar voice. I turned and got another shock. Brenda Barnick looked like she had just stepped from a model’s catwalk. Her dress was white on top and contrasted with her ebony skin. Gold lace something or another separated the floor length black dress. She too had spent time getting her hair done. She wore dreadlocks most of the time. Of course, she still had those, but somehow the hairdresser worked some kinda magic. For a streetwise tattoo artist, she looked like a movie star.
“Give us a spin,” Andi said.
Brenda did. It was a tad wobbly. “I hate these shoes. They make no sense.”
“No worries, girl. You’ll get the hang of heels. All you have to do is shut out the rest of the world and focus on your feet.”
“That should make the evening fun for me,” Brenda said.
A movement behind Brenda caught my attention. “That you, Daniel?”
No response.
“Come on, dude,” I pressed. “I’m wearing one, too.”
Daniel was the youngest member of our team. Just ten years old, and a year ago he was spending much of his time in a mental institution for children. Apparently telling people you have invisible friends is not a good idea. He has no parents. He was alone until he found us. Daniel has been a lifesaver several times.
Brenda has been declared his guardian. She introduces him to others as her son. They usually look at his white face, then at her black skin. When that happens, she narrows her eyes and says, “What?”
Brenda is tough. I think she could cower a rhino just by staring at it. Despite her tough exterior, Brenda has a heart of gold. She is a natural mother, and she takes care of Daniel as if she gave birth to him.
I stepped to Daniel and held out my fist. He smiled and started our secret handshake. Fortunately, he chose the short one. The long one takes two full minutes.
“Now that we’re done looking at ourselves, it’s time to go.” The professor pointed at the entry doors. A long black limo pulled up.
First a tuxedo. Now a limo. It all should be fun. I doubted it would be.
It never was.
CHAPTER
2
Square Pegs
The limo was long and black and shiny. I’m a pickup guy, Chevy if you must know, but once inside the Ford I began to change my mind. Like I said, I’m a simple guy, but a man could get used to this. The car was a Ford Excursion that looked as if someone had spent a year or two stretching the thing. I counted the seats—fourteen people could fit inside. It looked expensive. It smelled expensive.
Our seat was a long, deeply padded bench that wrapped around the back of the vehicle and ran along one side of the passenger area. A simulated wood bar ran along the other side. Once we were in and comfy, the professor and Brenda wasted no time in helping themselves to the wine. There was even a soda for Daniel. Me, I passed. I’ve never been good with liquor. Something Brenda knows since I let myself get talked into drinking something I shouldn’t. When I came to, I learned my football friends had dumped me off in a tattoo parlor. That’s were I first met Brenda and got my first and only tattoo. I wasn’t conscious during the tattooing. I’ve stayed away from booze ever since.
I glanced at Daniel. He was in awe. He held his soda, but showed little interest in it. There was too much to see.
A small brochure awaited us, and I glanced through it. “Hey, Daniel, this car’s got four televisions. Four, little dude.”
His eyes widened. Daniel doesn’t talk much. He’s certainly capable of it, he just chooses not to. Much of the time he seems lost in a world only he can see, or playing a video game on his smartphone. I’ve even heard him talk to people who aren’t there. No, that’s not quite right. He talks to people the rest of us can’t see. Don’t get me wrong. The little guy is not nuts. His invisible friends have helped us a few times in the past.
The limo pulled from the hotel and onto the street. Our hotel was in a San Diego suburb called Kearny Mesa. Our destination was downtown proper. The professor told us to expect a twenty-minute drive, maybe longer. It was Friday night, and he had been told traffic could back up anywhere along the path. Since we were headed to a party, we didn’t have to be there on the stroke of seven.
Night had settled like a thick blanket, so the professor turned on the overhead lights.
“Okay,” he said. He spoke just above a whisper. “We have a few minutes for review. Andi?”
Andi Goldstein, still so pretty she hurt my eyes and my heart, shifted in her seat and pulled a set of folded papers from her purse—the kind of purse women call a clutch.
“We’ve gone over this before so I’m going to be quick. We’re going to Krone & Associates. It’s an architecture firm. That you know. I’ve spent part of the day gathering information. I had to do it at the salon, but I found what I needed. Gotta love smartphones.”
She passed one page to each of us. On the page were some photos and a brief history of Krone & Associates.
“Krone is our primary concern,” the professor said. “At least that’s w
hat I glean from the little information our handlers give us.” He pressed his lips into a line. “One of these days, we’re gonna find out who they are.”
“Focus, Dr. McKinney.” Andi was one of the few people who talk to the professor that way. She had been his assistant for several years and traveled with him while he tried to convince the world there is no God, that religion is for fools, and that smart people know that. I don’t know it. I’m a Christian myself, and I don’t hide it. Naturally, I irritate the professor a good deal. There’s some satisfaction in that.
“You tell, ’em, girl,” Brenda said. She was the other one who spoke her mind to the professor. Andi had earned the right; Brenda just didn’t care what the professor thought.
“Krone & Associates has been in existence for thirty years and is responsible for scores of large building projects. About twenty years ago, the firm broke into the high-rise design business by winning a contest for a skyscraper to be built in Houston. They won a couple of contracts after that and pretty soon businesses wanting a high-rise with their name on it came calling. Now, bear in mind, much of this comes from their website, so it may be filled with PR fluff.”
“No doubt,” the professor said.
Brenda found a small bowl of cheese and another of tiny crackers. “Snacks!”
That woman can eat and never gain weight.
Andi pressed on, snacks not withstanding. “The president of the company is Allen Krone, as you might guess. His wife is Janice. Those are the first two photos. Both are sixty years old.”
“Ancient,” Daniel said. Then he smiled. I only mention that because he does it so seldom.
“Watch it, young man.” The professor straightened. “I happen to be sixty.”
“Ancient,” Daniel repeated.
Even the professor had to grin.
Andi cleared her throat. “If I may have everyone’s attention including young Daniel and Old Man McKinney.”
“Ohhh, nice one, girl,” Brenda said. “That moniker could stick.”
“It better not.” McKinney didn’t bother to look up from the page. It was if he was vacuuming the information into his brain. The man never seemed to forget anything or anyone. Kinda scary.
“Like many architecture firms, at least from what I can tell from the websites I visited, Krone & Associates has other partners.”
“Let me guess,” Brenda said. “Krone & Associates has, well, associates.”
“Nothing gets by you, Barnick,” the prof said dryly.
“Straight up, Doc.”
Andi sighed and plowed ahead. “The firm has two associates. I think they’re called ‘principals’ in the trade. The next photo on your page is Jonathan Waterridge. He’s forty and been with the firm for the last decade. I couldn’t find out what firm or firms he served once he left the University of Southern California School of Architecture. In fact, he’s barely a blip on the Internet.”
“The woman is his wife?” the professor asked.
“Yes. Her name is Helen. I imagine she’ll be at the party tonight. I couldn’t find out much about her, either.”
The limo slowed on the freeway. The professor’s source about San Diego traffic was right. We were surrounded by sedans, sports cars, a Humvee, and an eighteen-wheeler. Drivers and passengers stared at us. Now I know why limos have tinted windows.
“The third partner is Ebony Watt, age forty-five.”
“A woman architect?” I said. A chill filled the limo. The professor stared. Andi and Brenda glared at me. “Don’t get me wrong. I think that’s great.” The temperature dropped another five degrees. I sighed.
“She’s black, too, Cowboy,” Brenda said. “You wanna comment on that while you’re at it?”
At least she called me Cowboy. That was her favorite term for me. I’ve heard her use stronger, less complimentary terms for people.
“I didn’t mean that as it sounded. I just meant . . . How do I get out of this?”
“Tank, this is one of those times when silence is golden.”
“Understood, Professor. I’m shutting up now.”
“Ebony Watt came to the company from an architecture firm in Los Angeles. She graduated from UCLA with a degree in architecture and urban design. She also has a degree in interior design. I found out more about her than I did for Waterridge. She’s been featured in Architectural Record and other industry magazines. Oh, and I found this interesting: her husband is Eddy Bruce Watt.”
The last statement floated on a sea of silence. I started to ask who Eddy Bruce Watt is, but kept my promise of silence.
“Really?” Andi said. “Seriously? None of you know Eddy Bruce Watt? The blues player. You’ve heard of B. B. King, right?”
We all admitted to knowing King.
“Okay, Eddy has been described as a younger B. B. King.”
“If you say so,” Brenda said. “I’ve never been a big blues fan.”
The traffic began to move faster, and Andi took that as an excuse to move on. “The retirement party is a pretty big deal among some San Diego executives and politicos. Who knows, maybe the mayor will show up.”
“What’s her name?” I said. Another silence. “You see what I did there? Did ya?” I plastered on my biggest smile.
“Nice, Cowboy,” Brenda said. “There may be hope for you yet.”
“It feels good knowing that my friends would consent to be seen in public with me.”
“Hang on, Cowboy. I didn’t say that.”
“To answer your question, Tank,” Andi said, “I didn’t look up the mayor’s name. I’ll do that if he or she shows up.”
Andi began collecting the papers she had passed out a short time ago. “It wouldn’t be good to take these in with us. It might look like we’re a team of stalkers. Okay, last thing from me. This is more than a retirement party. Allen Krone is passing the torch to his partners. He will formally announce the new name of the firm: Krone, Waterridge, and Watt. As founder, his name stays on the letterhead, but the real business will be handled by others.”
I made a mental note. Now, if only I could remember who was who and when to keep my mouth shut.
Downtown San Diego oozed with cars and pedestrians. Some of the streets were one-way. Taxis slithered through lines of traffic. Pedestrians crossed at intersections, some even waiting their turn, others, not so much. It seemed every corner had a nightclub, bar, restaurant, fast-food joint, or some combination of those. Friday night was a busy time in the big city.
I watched the people on the street. There were men and women wearing nice clothes—not tuxes and evening gowns, mind you. They seemed too bright for that. Others wore their best barhopping rags. Many women wore skirts. Some were tiny. Others were tight. Some were both.
Mixed in the group were a number of people with dirty, tattered clothing, uncombed and filthy hair, and carrying bags of what I assumed were all their worldly possessions. They moved through the streets paying no attention to the partiers; the partiers returned the favor. It was if two worlds shared the same space and the people of one could not talk to the people of the other. There was sadness in seeing that. Didn’t seem right to stare at the homeless from inside a limo.
The driver showed great skill driving through the obstacle course of cars and pedestrians. He turned each corner as if he were steering a Volkswagen instead of a limo the size of an oceangoing barge. I hoped the professor would give the guy a big tip.
A Plexiglas window separated the driver’s area from the passenger compartment. I was beginning to wonder how we would know when we were getting near when a voice came over speakers hidden in the limo’s ceiling.
“We’re pulling up to the building now,” the driver said. “Someone will get the door for you.”
I was stunned. It was a woman’s voice. I had assumed the driver was male. You can bet I kept that little assumption to myself. Of course the driver had opened the door for us at the hotel, but I paid him, I mean her, no mind. I was blinded by the limo. Pretty dumb, I know.
“Thank you, driver,” the professor said. I had to admit, he was smooth. He acted like he was used to being carted around in a limo.
The vehicle slowed to a stop, but was still several feet from the curb. I guess one didn’t parallel park a car like this. As soon as the wheels stopped rolling, the door opened.
A man in a doorman’s uniform said, “Welcome to the Portal Bayfront Plaza. I hope you had a pleasant drive.” He held the door while he stood to the side. That was the first thing I noticed. The second thing was the man’s blue skin.
Yeah, that set me back a little, then I noticed the street and the sidewalk were also blue. When we exited the limo I learned why: our destination was a high-rise with a glass skin. All the glass was cobalt blue.
“Wow,” Brenda said. She tilted her head back. “I’m impressed. How tall is this thing?” Brenda had no problem striking up conversations with strangers.
The doorman closed the door, and the limo slowly pulled away. “Technically, ma’am, it is a fifty-story structure.”
“Technically?” Andi always wants details.
“Yes, ma’am. It is forty-eight stories above grade and two stories below. FAA regulations.”
As he said “FAA” a commercial airliner flew overhead. The doorman smiled as if he had planned that. “San Diego International Airport isn’t far from here. The Federal Aviation Administration limits all buildings in the flight path to five hundred feet or less.”
“But fifty-stories sounds better than forty-eight. Is that it?” Brenda said.
“I couldn’t say, ma’am.” He nodded and offered a Hollywood smile. “This way, please.”
He led. We followed. “You look good in blue, Tank,” Andi said. “Hey Brenda, can you use your magic tattoo ink to turn Tank blue?”
“I’d be willing to experiment.”
Apparently I wasn’t out of the doghouse yet.
I glanced at the building. I was too close to see all the detail, but what I could see was amazing. The front of the building was glowing blue glass, but partway up was a different floor. A single story was dark green. It split the building with maybe one-third of the floors below the glowing green band and two-thirds above. At least the best I could tell.
The Assault: The Revealing, Infestation, Infiltration, The Fog Page 22