by Cleo Coyle
“Thanks but I’ll take it from here.” I hung up and used my THORN phone to speed-dial Quinn in DC.
“This call cannot be completed as dialed . . .”
I screamed and tossed the smartphone on my desk. Using the landline, I tried again. This time I got right through, but reached an assistant who told me Mike Quinn was on a classified retreat with Homeland Security.
“Mr. Quinn’s boss has an assistant who might be able to get a call through. Let me talk to Ms. Lacey’s secretary—”
Ms. Lacey?! “Excuse me, did you misspeak? I thought you said Ms. Lacey?”
“Yes. Miss Katerina Lacey is Mr. Quinn’s supervisor.”
A woman? I sank into my chair. Mike never once mentioned that Lacey—the boss who was always trying to lure him back to DC—was a woman!
My shock was interrupted by a familiar voice. “Clare? Is that really you?”
“Yes, it’s me! Oh, Mike, it’s good to hear your voice. Why haven’t you replied to my messages?”
“What messages?”
“I’ve been calling and calling, sending e-mails and texts—”
“I never got them. When I tried to reach you, I always got a message that said you were out of range . . .”
Oh, God. My THORN phone must have blocked all messages to and from Mike. That was the only explanation possible. Eric made sure I could never reach Mike for the entire trip, while he pulled his “propinquity” stunt.
Oh, I wanted to scream!
“I’m so, so sorry, Mike. There was a problem with my phone. If I can’t get it fixed, I’m tossing it into the Hudson River and buying another.”
“I’ve been missing you.”
“Me too. I wish we were together, right now.”
“Did you get my roses?”
I stared at the faded blossoms. “Yes, I did.”
“And . . .”
“And—” I didn’t want to do this over the phone, but I couldn’t help myself. “Why didn’t you ever tell me your boss was a woman?!”
A long pause followed. “It’s irrelevant, Clare.”
“No it is not! You should have told me.”
“I didn’t because I knew this was how you’d react—”
“But—”
“Calm down, all right. She’s a battle-ax.”
“I’m sure she’s not.”
He fell silent, and I took a deep breath, listening to my inner voice. You and Mike are finally talking again. Don’t blow this now . . .
“Look, I’m sorry I sound suspicious. I know I have no right.”
“You can say that again.”
I closed my eyes, considering his point of view. “Let’s not do this over the phone. Can you come to New York this weekend?”
“I’m sorry, Clare, but I can’t. First you had to go away. Now I have to. After this conference, I’m flying to London for meetings with MI-6. Secured meetings—that means no computers, tablets, or smartphones. I’ll be out of touch for several days.”
“Is the ‘battle-ax’ going with you?”
“Yes.”
“Why don’t you hang her up in the Tower of London with the other medieval torture devices?”
Mike actually laughed, and I realized how much I missed that sound.
“You’re obviously excited, Clare. I do love it when you’re excited, but not about silly things like this.”
“It’s not silly—” I stopped myself, and smiled for the first time in a long while. “Listen, if you like me excited, come home. You’ll see me more excited than you can handle.”
“Can you hear me smiling?”
“I love you, Mike.”
“I love you, sweetheart, and I promise I’ll come back soon. Tell you what—I’ll arrange a special dinner date. It’ll be a surprise. Something to celebrate our reunion.”
“I can hardly wait . . .”
When we finally ended the call, I felt much better, despite the fact that Mike had kept me in the dark about his boss. I understood his reasons—I was trying to, anyway.
The phone buzzed again. This time it was Nancy.
“Hey, boss! I have a question about this weird Paleo Pizza.”
“I’ll be right down.”
Duty was calling for me, as well as Mike. It was time I focused on the party at Eric Thorner’s mobile gaming division—aptly named Appland.
Fifty-five
THE East Coast headquarters of THORN, Inc., was officially open for business.
While Eric’s staff oriented themselves to the new digs, my people prepared treats in the company kitchen for the opening-day celebration. Invited guests would arrive around noon, when my baristas were scheduled to roll out the snacks.
I was responsible for catering, and the recipes were my own. But there was more to do than serve up goodies. Tuck would be hosting an espresso-making demo, while Esther would give lessons on how to create latte art.
I was on the hook for a dessert performance, and was all set to fry up fresh, hot batches of my nonna’s Italian donuts (as a little tribute to Eric, and his love of the Metis Man’s “out of the pastry box” philosophy). Despite my schedule, I refused to allow work to interfere with my unofficial duties.
I intended to finish what the late Charley Polaski had started. I would continue her investigation into Bianca Hyde’s death and uncover the identity of Eric’s car bomber—hopefully without ending up in the morgue.
Grayson Braddock had the strongest motive for setting the car bomb and framing Nate—but billionaires like Braddock were big-picture men. They wouldn’t purchase their own groceries or drive their own cars, let alone plant an explosive device to blow a competitor sky-high.
Braddock would have used an accomplice, most likely a mole inside THORN, Inc., to provide inside information about Eric’s whereabouts, to access restricted areas like the server farm, and to plant the bomb.
So how does a coffeehouse manager uncover a corporate spy turned assassin? Okay, that’s one I haven’t figured out yet.
By the time I arrived at Eric’s shiny new office building, housed in what was once an old toy factory, the sidewalk was crowded by gawkers watching animated light sculptures of flying dragons projected onto the company’s twelve-story glass façade.
With the exception of THORN’s high-tech display, this quiet, tree-lined Manhattan neighborhood of modest, low-rise structures (once tenement buildings and small factories) looked nothing like what it had become—part of the second largest technological hub in the world, a little Silicon Alley to California’s legendary Silicon Valley.
Google, Mashable, and Bluewolf, Inc., all had offices here in Chelsea, and Tumblr was just down the block. These companies were attracted by the district’s charm, and the availability of old buildings with high ceilings and plenty of natural light.
Ironically, during the twentieth century, this little area had been the center of America’s toy industry—and in my view, nothing had changed much in the twenty-first. Apps, e-games, digital devices, and social media sites were the toys of our time.
I pushed through the gawking crowd, then THORN, Inc.’s glass doors. After clearing security, I noticed Esther in front of the company logo.
“Hi, boss. Isn’t this a cool place?”
“How’s it going so far?”
She shrugged. “Everything’s copacetic inside the castle—”
“Castle?”
“You’ll see. Oh, and there’s a woman with Ashleigh Banfield glasses and a T-shirt looking for you.”
I scanned the people around us. “All of these women are wearing horn-rims and tees. How will I recognize her?”
“This one is Eric’s sister.”
I wondered if there was another Thorner sister, because Esther’s description didn’t come close to matching the evil glamour queen I’d argued with at the Source Club. Either way, it didn’t matter. Since Eden was near the top of my to-be-interviewed list, I headed upstairs.
Stepping off the escalator, my jaw dropped. The ent
ire second-floor gallery was taken up by a full-sized replica of a medieval castle topped by a sawtooth battlement.
I recognized Eric’s sister as she approached me through the arched portcullis.
Esther’s description had been on target. Eden Thorner had swapped her contacts and slinky dress for chunky glasses, snug denims, and a form-fitting white tee emblazoned with the word Milady. She offered me her hand, and a (surprisingly) welcoming smile.
“It’s nice to have a second chance to meet you, Ms. Cosi. Please allow me to apologize for our first encounter—”
“No need to apologize.”
“Yes, there is, Ms. Cosi. You have to understand, I was frantic with worry that night. First someone tried to murder my kid brother, and then he decides to check himself out of the hospital against his doctors’ orders.” She shook her head. “When I saw him dining at the Source Club, I thought he’d risked his health, possibly his life, simply to indulge another one of his reckless infatuations.”
“You thought I was some kind of gold digger?”
“Yes, frankly. I’d never seen you before, and I had no idea Eric had important business with you. I feel terrible. I behaved like a monster, Clare, because I thought you were a monster.”
“Let’s forget the whole incident and start over, okay?” I smiled (guardedly). I still wasn’t sure if this woman was friend or foe—to me, anyway. She seemed protective of her brother, so I doubted very much she was helping Grayson Braddock sabotage him . . . Or was she? Could Eden have a motive to double-cross her brother? How forthcoming would she be if directly questioned?
I cleared my throat to find out: “I take it Eric’s had some problems with his past . . . infatuations?”
“My brother’s a genius in some things, but not all things.”
“‘All things’ being women?” Bianca Hyde came to mind, but I thought it best not to mention her—yet.
“It’s understandable, my brother’s naiveté, given what he went through growing up. While his peers were attending school, learning to drive, and going out on dates, Eric was stuck in hospitals and rehab facilities.”
“It must have been difficult for him.”
“His computer was his only friend. I guess it paid off, but Eric can be gullible where women are concerned.”
“Where is Eric, anyway?”
“He flew back to the Silicon Valley offices. Eric was away so long he has to play catch-up.”
“Oh, too bad.” Okay, I was fibbing. I was incredibly relieved Eric wasn’t going to be here. I wanted to question his people without the boss hovering. (I also hoped someone here could figure out how to unblock Mike Quinn’s calls on my THORN phone!)
“I didn’t know this was going to be a theme party,” I said, still studying Eden. “I do love the décor.”
“We’re rolling out a sword and sorcery game app in June, so we decided that should be the theme. Just be thankful it isn’t Pigeon Droppings.”
Oh, Lord, what a thought. “My Italian grandmother thought bird droppings were lucky,” I confessed, “but I’d hate for anyone to wonder if that dollop of white in their espresso macchiato was something other than steamed milk.”
We both had a laugh.
“Pardon me, Milady.”
The youth interrupting us was tall enough to be a center on the Knicks basketball team. Lean and gangly, he self-consciously swiped at straight black bangs, then tugged at an oversized black tee with Slayer spelled out in fiery letters.
“It’s party time, boss. Everyone’s waiting for the hostess.”
“Tell them I’ll be right there, Darren.”
“Yes, Milady.” Darren bowed deeply before departing. “Your wish is my command.”
“‘Milady,’ huh? That’s an interesting title.”
“I know, it’s a little childish. Darren’s the one who gave it to me. He has a romantic streak—and he’s obsessed with sword and sorcery games.” She shrugged. “You have to admit, it’s more impressive than ‘Senior Projects Manager.’ And ‘House Mother’ just sounds pathetic.”
“Hear ye! Hear ye! Let’s party!” an amplified voice proclaimed.
“That’s my cue, Ms. Cosi. I’d better go.”
“Can we speak again after the party?” I asked “I may need help with a project.”
“Of course, Ms. Cosi,” Eden replied. “Anything I can do to help.”
“Please, call me Clare.”
“Only if you call me Eden—and give me first dibs on those freshly made Italian donuts on your menu.”
I watched Eden go, realizing that Eric had been right about one thing: I did find her likeable.
Fifty-six
THE castle’s courtyard was convincingly medieval, with a faux-stone floor and a “keep” where our food and drinks were served, buffet style.
Everything else was right out of downtown Tokyo.
High-definition computer monitors had been mounted along the foam castle walls, displaying big-screen versions of the game apps developed by THORN, Inc.
Pigeon Droppings was represented, side by side with its 2.0 and 3.0 upgrades. Plague Me was another gross-out game (“Cure patient zero before you catch the plague”); Spaghetti Bender and Bear Trap were strategy games (“Smarter than wildlife, or are you game?”).
I was more comfortable with the foodie apps. App-itite in all of its international permutations, and U R What U Eat were both impressive. Count Calorie also conveyed vast amounts of useful information, though I certainly wasn’t the demographic for a calorie-counting app with a vampire mascot and the tagline This Doesn’t Suck.
I did very much like the Jackson Pollock–sized wall canvas for finger painting—with light. Using just their digits, staffers were able to create doodles and drawings on the wall via a projection device the size of a clock radio. Like many of Thorner’s apps and devices, Handpainted was voice activated. All the painter had to do was request the color he or she wanted.
Meanwhile in the center of the courtyard, Eric’s staff had activated something they called a Spectrum Digitizer. The device, about the size of a small refrigerator, projected holographic sculptures all around it. And when two young men called up the Dojo program, I knew I was witnessing the future of gaming and entertainment.
In a burst of floating color, a full-sized 3-D ninja materialized and crouched down in a fighting stance, waiting for action. The two human players began battling the holographic ninja, leaping, ducking, punching, and kicking at the warrior of light, while a mechanical voice kept score using words like Strike! Dodge! Wound! Miss!
At the side of the courtyard, a line of standing consoles displayed other inventions. One held a full-sized holographic computer keyboard—a projection in midair meant to serve as an accessory to Eric’s advanced THORN phones. As I tested it, sensors picked up the movements of air molecules around my fingers, deciphering and processing each keystroke.
I was air typing a test text message to Esther when I noticed a pair of lurkers intensely watching me. In their twenties, they looked so much alike they had to be brothers—or sisters. With oversized Slayer tees and matching unisex haircuts, it was tough to determine gender. A quick Adam’s apple check revealed they were likely a brother and sister. They whispered to each other and disappeared.
My skin prickled, and I listened more closely to the conversations around me.
This was supposed to be a party, yet the tech staff seemed stressed about their projects. The event sounded less like a fun get-together and more like a group debate in the basement of a college computer lab.
“Look at that! The image still pixelates in the third quadrant!”
“Play testing revealed some issues.”
“Issues? It’s buggy!”
“The Go-Board rejected my design document. I hate educational games.”
“So tweak the refresh rate—or adjust your meds!”
Over the arguments, I heard a familiar voice and spotted Garth Hendricks in the crowd.
The Metis Man
had gone totally native for today’s celebration—Native American. A buckskin jerkin encased his torso, and brown, leather pants covered his legs. His feet sported moccasin boots with Navajo designs, and his pierced ear displayed a tiny dangling dream catcher.
He was holding court with a cluster of teenagers—boys, mostly, but a few girls, too. With oohs and aahs, the group watched a series of videos showing amateur rockets launching from fields, backyards, school playgrounds, and parking lots.
When the Metis Man noticed me, he turned things over to Eden’s intern, Darren the Giant.
“Who are those kids?” I asked.
“Our Junior Rocketeers,” Garth proclaimed like a proud father. “Each one designed and built a rocket that’s reached a thousand feet into the air and returned to Earth with its payload—a single egg—intact.”
“That’s impressive.”
“Thank you. And I’ve heard impressive things about you—and your daughter. Paris was a great success. Eric was very pleased with your performance.”
“Eric was the performer. I was just trying to help.”
“Are you having fun helping us today?”
“I’m technically working, and so is everyone else, it seems. Eric’s staff is clearly obsessed with their work.”
“I take responsibility for that!” Garth beamed as he said it. “The real goal of management should be to make meaning, not money. Tasks should be presented as existential challenges to engage the employee’s imagination.”
“Oh?”
“People working toward a meaningful goal will not stop. THORN’s technical staff puts in twelve-hour days, and they come in on weekends, too, because their only goal in life is to meet the challenge, solve the problem. This is the new workplace model!”
I considered the building we were standing in and thought about the workers in the toy factories of the previous century. They worked ridiculously long hours, too, but in those days it wasn’t called “the new workplace model.” It was called a sweatshop.
Hearing shouts of warning, I looked up to see a pair of young women sliding down a spiral chute through a rabbit hole in the ceiling. A few people scattered so they could land on their feet.