No Offense

by Francesca D'Armata

  The last time someone told Nick he’d gotten moved was fourth grade. He was confused. “Moved me?”

  “You’re on five now.” She squirmed, looking in need of a restroom.

  “Five?” He approached her.

  “Yes, five.”

  “Nothing is on five but maintenance and bats. Is this a joke?” He leaned down toward her. “Did Jason find out I searched his cubicle?”

  “Mr. Qualls moved you.”

  “Qualls?”

  “He said you’re on your way out. Mr. Keaton said he couldn’t fire you. You searched Jason’s cubicle?”

  “He can’t fire me.”

  “I heard them fussing for over an hour late yesterday. They had a man on the speakerphone who sided with Qualls, and you got relocated.”

  “Somebody is running Keaton.” Nick looked down the hall toward his office and then back at her in a panic. “Where’s my stuff?”

  “Monte packed up everything for you and took it down a few minutes ago.”

  He sprinted to an open elevator and held the door attempting to close. “Where are the keys?”

  Donna cringed. “There are no keys. It has a combo lock. Seventeen-six-seventeen.”

  The elevator pushed against Nick. He pushed back. “A combo?” Nick let loose of the door. He dropped forty-five floors and stepped into obscurity. No one was in sight since nobody unnecessarily went to the fifth floor. Maintenance didn’t even want to be on five. It was off-limits to the public and almost everyone else. It was dubbed “the dungeon.” Every mechanical operation was on the floor. Ten years ago, the mechanics were in the basement. Floodwaters from a tropical storm rose two feet in the hull of the building, knocking out the power for weeks. After that, all electrical components were safely banished five stories up. It’d take a flood big enough to float Noah’s ark to reach them now.

  Nick forged around a maze of electrical panels, finally reaching the only substantial light source, a kitchenette. Two tables, four chairs, a small fridge, and a vending machine with products containing not much more than sugar and white flour were crammed into the small room. Next to the kitchenette was a fire escape. The next door was cracked open, with a padlock dangling on the frame. He flung the door back hard enough to squash a roach on the wall behind it, startling Jason inside. Jason dusted a clump of webs off his suit. “So you ticked off Qualls?”

  “Means I’m doing something right.” Nick surveyed the oversized closet. Nothing but boxes stacked around a distressed desk with a single chair pushed underneath it.

  “That’s why I report to Keaton. Qualls is kind of nuts.”

  “Keaton’s in that same food group.”

  “Kevin questioned some of Qualls’s business expenses. The next day his hard drive was toast.”

  “A virus?” asked Nick, surveying the room.

  “A fire. Made it look like spontaneous combustion.”

  Nick slid out the chair. “This place looks like a spontaneous combustion.”

  “Does Cricket know?”

  “No, she’s touring the Caribbean, planning a honeymoon. Hope she finds a groom while she’s down there.”

  “You know she’s telling people you’re engaged. You better set her straight before she picks out your tux.”

  “She’s lost her marbles.”

  Nick searched around for an electrical outlet. He found a single one on a light fixture above his desk. He plugged in the power cord, dangling it down from the ceiling to his computer, and tethered his cell to his laptop for an Internet connection.

  Nick hesitated and gazed at Jason. “You’ve been island-hopping.”

  “Island-hopping? What do you mean?”

  “I’ve seen the flight log. Swigging margaritas? I have the bills too.”

  “Nobody is supposed to see that but me and Keaton.”

  “Did you forget I’m still VP of finance? It cost some kind of coffee beans to fly a jet.”

  “Right.” Jason slowly bobbed his head. “It was authorized by Mr. Keaton.”

  “I’ve tracked every trip on those planes for the last two years.” Nick poked at his keyboard. “I know where they went and who was on them.”

  Jason spun around. “Man, this place is dark. Can’t you get more light in here?”

  “Did you see the wiring? Ten more watts would put my life at risk.”

  “Not any more risk than what you’re doing at that computer.” Jason kicked at a box and flapped an arm over another. “I can get Mr. Keaton to bring you back upstairs today.”

  Nick quipped. “I’d rather be here with the bats.”

  “This is pathetic.” Jason leaned over the desk at Nick. “Is there anything I can do to stop you before you ruin your career?”

  “I’m in a closet with cockroaches the size of my foot. What career?” Nick ran his hand across his desk, gathered a layer of dust, and dumped it onto the floor. He logged onto the computer. He entered his pass code and scrolled down his e-mails, deleting most of them.

  “Everything is fine now. Nobody cares about the past.”

  “Some do.”

  “Our dividends will be the highest in the history of the company. This place is amazing. And you’re searching a black hole, trying to find something to complain about.” Jason slapped Nick’s desk, moving a few papers. “Nick, you need to join the party.”

  Nick lunged out of his seat “Party? This is no stinkin’ party.” Nick propped his hands on his waist. “You know Keaton is a crook. You may look the other way, but you know it, Jason.”

  “I’m not the corporate police. I’m doing what I’m supposed to—my job. And that’s what you should do too.”

  “That sounds really nice and sweet, but there are guys in prison today who were just doing their jobs.”

  “Show me, Nick. You think you know more than the authorities, who can’t find anything wrong. You think Mr. Keaton doesn’t know you’ve tried to get anyone you could to investigate him. Oh, he knows.”

  “Good!” Nick sat back down, focusing his monitor.

  “Mr. Keaton wants to bury the past and forget it.”

  “Why not? He might have picked up a shovel and dug a couple of graves himself.”

  Jason shook his head. “Think about the money.”

  “I don’t care about the money.”

  “Sure, you don’t. Your parents are loaded. If you didn’t make another dime, you’d still pay your bills, buy your cars, and take your European vacations. You don’t know what it’s like when you can’t pay your bills. When you barely have enough food to eat. Knowing your family is one paycheck away from losing its home. Working your way through school and ending up with student loans you’ll be paying back with your social security check. Then you see Mr. Hunter showing the rich kid favoritism. You don’t have a clue—”

  “So, I haven’t had a tough time, but that doesn’t disqualify me from caring about those who have. Or caring about what injustice was done to Hunter and his family. Yeah, my parents are wealthy. You want to know what my filthy-rich parents taught me? That being poor and having wealth have something in common. They both magnify your character. And I promise you this: I’m going to make this right.”

  Jason brushed off his jacket. “Make what right? Why won’t you play the corporate game? Nobody does everything perfect. There’s give and take. No business would be profitable if they followed all the rules. I guarantee you, Hunter didn’t.”

  Nick ran his fingers around the keyboard. “I guess it’s better to be stupid than involved.”

  “Are you calling me stupid?”

  “I hope so.” Nick hesitated, giving Jason a chance to respond, but he did not. “I’m looking into hundreds of bank accounts Denison didn’t even know existed. It wasn’t easy, but I found them.”

  “Hundreds?” he mumbled, looking disturbed.

  “Yes.”

  Jason tightened his lips.

  “You know how you catch fraud? You follow the money.”

  “Corporations are co
mplex. I just do my job. That’s it. I’m not into anything sinister.”

  “Did you find out why Mr. Keaton wants you wiring assets all over the place?”

  “I’m telling you nothing.”

  “What computer is he using to post the wires?”

  “His laptop.”

  “Why would he use a device that’s not company issued?”

  Jason turned to leave. “I have to get back upstairs.”

  “I’m sure you do.”

  Nick hibernated the remainder of day. Lunch was forgotten. His shirt hadn’t been white for hours. Papers were scattered on his desk in a way that no one but him could find anything. There were no visitors. No interruptions, until his cell lit up—Donovan. He answered quickly, “Donovan, I’m really tied up now.”

  “You might want to listen very closely.” The sergeant’s authoritative tone would scare most people.

  Nick drank from a cup. “OK, shoot.”

  “I had a visit from a young lady named Candy. She was waiting for me when I got to the station this morning. She’s a receptionist at JHI. And she’s scared to death.”

  Nick lifted the cup halfway and stopped. “There’re a couple of new girls down there. I don’t know them. What’s she scared of?”

  “She’s making some wild accusations.”

  “They’re all lies. What does she say I did?”

  “Not you, kid, it’s your CEO—Harry Keaton. She says he’s a murderer.”

  Nick swallowed, held up a framed picture of himself and Hunter. “Does she have evidence?”

  “You think she’s credible?”

  “Wouldn’t surprise me.”

  “She tapped the phone in Mr. Keaton’s office.”

  “I knew I should have done that.”

  “It’s called illegal wiretapping. I can’t use it. She says three guys were arguing. Two in the office and one over the phone. They talked about some people they toasted. Get this—one of our undercovers saw Zev Chevoski coming into your building.”

  Nick inhaled. “That gives me the creeps.”

  “We’ve been trying to get that son of a gun for years. It’s difficult when he keeps so many layers between him and his criminal activities. We just haven’t been able to nail him. Witnesses mysteriously disappear. Nobody will talk. Had a guy looking at twenty-five years for sex trafficking and still wouldn’t deal. We have undercovers around him. The problem is they haven’t been able to make a direct contact. Would you check to see if anyone from the company is missing? Or left abruptly? I don’t want to come down there and cause a stir until I get some facts.”

  “You want a favor?” Nick angled his head.

  “Just get it done. Working with rumors is great for movies. I must have probable cause.”

  “Movies?” Nick rolled his eyes. “You think I sit around here dreaming, like this is a movie?”

  “Wouldn’t surprise me.”

  “This is real-life stuff.”

  “Just find out if anyone vanished or left under strange circumstances. Maybe I can figure out what they were talking about. One phone call. I mean it. I’m not keeping you out of jail this time. I’m the investigator. Not you. Don’t go chasing criminals!”

  “Just remember, that works both ways.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “For the good guys and the bad guys.”

  “Just get the info and don’t put anyone in the hospital doing it.”

  “I’m always glad to assist HPD.”

  “Never mind—”

  Nick hung up.

  Chapter twenty-seven

  Three quarters of the bungalows on Saint Ambrose had already been torn down. The original homes built in the 1930s needed major renovation or bulldozing. The old Fitzpatrick place across the street had been replaced by a two-story, forty-two-hundred-square-foot stucco. The street was lovely, with mature trees reaching across the cement and gracefully embracing. Trains randomly rattled along the tracks parallel to the west side of the street.

  Steely was just as surprised as Beatrice Hunter was about to be that they were going to live there. The home was a place of great memories, as long as she stayed out of the back bedroom. Beatrice hadn’t been told about the last time her mom was there. It would be her room.

  Steely stopped in front of the house and cut the ignition. There was no reason to give Bea advance notice of where they were going. Bea might try to escape. Jump out of a running car. Who knew what she might do? And the thought of Bea complaining for 110 miles might have caused Steely to jump out of the car.

  The look on Steely’s face was the same as when she’d swallowed one of Bea’s BLTs. Her stomach pains were something she wasn’t sharing with Bea. They’d both have stomachaches if she did.

  Bea glared at Steely. “You have gas?”

  “No.”

  “You constipated?”

  “No.”

  “You sure have a lot of gastro problems for someone your age.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “It’s getting dark. Why are we out here like sitting ducks?”

  Steely looked over at her and calmly said, “Miss Bea, we’re sleeping here tonight—that is, unless you call nine one one.”

  Bea swung around toward the house. “Is this your old place?”

  “Yes.”

  She swished her head from side to side. “Take me to the funeral parlor!”

  “Not just yet…”

  Bea peered at the home for a few seconds, took a deep breath, and slowly exhaled. “Are there rats?”

  “Not inside. But there are some in Houston. They’re in every city.” Steely chuckled awkwardly.

  “I’ve never seen bricks fall off a house. A strong wind—a weak breeze—could blow it down.”

  “The foundation is sinking into the earth. Other than that, it’s good,” Steely said confidently.

  “You think you’re funny?”

  “It’s livable, as long as the plumbing works. I know how particular you are about doing your business.”

  “Having a working toilet is not exactly a modern convenience.”

  “It is for some people.” Steely cracked open the car door. “I’m going inside, where there’s a really cold air conditioner, which I’m sure you know is more important than a foundation in Houston. The tenant is here with the keys.”

  The conversation had gone better than Steely had envisioned. Bea was still breathing. Thoughts of Bea’s dropping dead in the car had crossed her mind. She calmly got out of the car and went inside.

  The house had a familiar smell. Not a bad odor, a good one. The entire place could burn down and be rebuilt, and she’d still be able to detect her dad’s aftershave and her mom’s perfume.

  Steely glanced out the front window.

  Bea flung open the door and rushed inside.

  Guess she’s not sleeping in the car.

  “I’m not sitting out there and getting knocked over the head,” Bea said, catching her breath. “I’ll stay the night. That’s it.”

  “Wise decision,” Steely answered from the kitchen. “Why don’t you take a look around?”

  “The tenants were probably a bunch of slobs,” Bea grumbled. “Bet they left a big mess. I’m not cleaning up after a bunch of slobs.”

  Bea went first to the room she utilized least. The kitchen. Appliances had been updated once, in the sixties. They were sparkling clean avocado green. Then she moseyed down the hall, like an inspector, to the biggest bedroom, which was across the way from Steely’s. She swung her head toward the bathroom between them. Ended up staring in a framed mirror hanging on the living-room wall. “Guess this will do,” Bea said, posing. “Do I look fifty?”

  “Aren’t you sixty-two?”

  She snapped, “That wasn’t the question.”

  Steely didn’t answer. Even a carefully arranged compliment could be construed the wrong way. “What do you think of the house, Miss Bea?”

  “You think you’re smart, don’t you?” />
  “What do you mean?”

  “Moving my furniture in here. What if I didn’t come?”

  “We had to get it out of storage. Did you want me to send it to Grey Canyon?”

  “Everybody’s a comedian.” Bea settled into her recliner, strategically facing the TV. “I can do without a lot of things, but not without my chair and TV.” She eased back. “I missed this chair.”

  “So what do you think?”

  “No offense, but this has to be the worst home in West University.”

  Steely replied, “There’s plenty of room for two people. Right? And it will only cost twenty-one dollars and sixty-seven cents per day. Don’t you think it’s cute?”

  “Is that slang? Like ‘sick’ meaning ‘good’?” Bea went over to the back windows and stared. The shades were up and windows open. “Somebody’s out there. Eee, that’s a wide load,” she said loudly.

  Steely ran over and slammed the windows.

  Rosie, a full-figured woman with a tight perm, marched toward them and joined them inside. “Who are you calling a wide load, missy?”

  Bea bent down to Rosie, magnifying the height difference. “Huh, what’s wrong with being stout? I was stout once.”

  “Stout?” Rosie angrily asked.

  Steely put her arm around her tenant. “Rosie, this is my mother-in-law.”

  “Bless your heart,” Rosie replied. “You got stuck with her?”

  Steely had never seen a wig tossing fight and sure didn’t want this to be her first. She maneuvered Rosie around to the front door. “Rosie, it’s so good to see you.” Steely hugged her, nudging her at the same time.

  “You too, honey.” Rosie squeezed Steely’s hand, almost spraining her pinky, and whispered, “Are you safe here with that woman?”

  “Yes, it’s fine.” Steely mouthed, “She’s elderly.”

  “Well, I sure hate leaving this house.” Rosie rubbed her eyes. “Me and my husband felt a lot of love here.”

  “TMJ,” spouted Bea. “I don’t want to hear about your sex life.”

  “TMJ?” Rosie whispered to Steely. “You need to lock her up.”

  Steely caught Bea’s attention and crossed her finger on her lips. “Miss Bea, why don’t you check out the bathroom?”

  “I don’t know what there is to check out,” she said, scanning the room. “That can is a can.” Bea went in and flipped on the light.