Whisper Network

by Chandler Baker

  She and Katherine both came out of their separate stalls at the same time, their eyes meeting in the mirror as they washed their hands.

  “Did the police come talk to you?” Ardie asked her.

  Katherine lowered her eyes and scrubbed her hands hard under the hot water. Red bloomed on the skin around her thumb. “They did.”

  “How’d it go?”

  Ardie turned from the sink, her hands dripping onto the tile floor. She ducked her head to check underneath the stalls.

  “I was honest.” Each word given equal weight. “I told them I hadn’t worked here very long and that I was upset this had happened.” She shut off the faucet and reached for a paper towel. Ardie wondered how she would have described Katherine to a friend, if she’d been the sort of person to describe people to friends. If she had friends other than Sloane and Grace. This woman who’d occupied so much of their collective mental space, it suddenly felt to Ardie like she was seeing her for the first time without a filter. She was not, as Ardie previously thought, ripe and womanly. She was bony, with a white scar on her dry, flaky elbow. She was like a bunny sighted in a neighbor’s yard, twitchy and alert. Ardie wanted to stretch her hand out, to coax her. But Ardie could still see the smolder of stubbornness and intensity and mettle that had gotten her this far haunting her eyes. It hadn’t gone out and that was a good thing.

  “And?”

  “They asked a few more questions and left.” Her tongue worked unseen against her teeth, visible in the way it bulged beneath her cheek.

  It seemed there was not a time in a woman’s life in which intense conversations didn’t frequently take place in ladies’ rooms. Ardie remembered her brother’s obsessions with women’s restrooms when they were younger. What are they like? he’d ask and she would dutifully describe different ones she visited as if they were each foreign countries—chaise lounges, tampon dispensers, purse hooks, and, sometimes, if particularly exotic, hair spray and aerosol deodorant cans.

  “Ames asked to meet with me. Before.” There was a hidden urgency in the statement that stopped Ardie’s hand as she pumped the paper towel dispenser. “Someone may have seen me looking for him. What if they tell the police?”

  By necessity, “before” had also been on Ardie’s mind. She’d gone upstairs to get tax documents signed by a payroll officer. She had repeated this to Detectives Martin and Diaz. By the time she returned to the fifteenth floor, Ames was dead.

  “Looking for your boss isn’t a crime.” She ripped through the roll. “Who else knows?” Ardie asked, placid. Seismic activity underground.

  In the background, water rushed through pipes like blood through veins, pumping through the living organism of the office building.

  “Grace,” she said, voice thin as paper. “I saw Grace that morning. I told her that Ames wanted to talk to me and she asked what I was going to do.”

  “Okay,” Ardie said. Since the incident, Grace had twice called in sick. The Incident. That was how Ardie had begun to frame it in her mind. A word that, as a noun, meant event or occurrence, but, as an adjective, meant falling on or striking something.

  “Are you going to drop the lawsuit?” Katherine returned her attention to her reflection.

  “I don’t know,” she answered, truthfully. “I think we’ll press ‘pause’ on it.” Their lawyer, Helen, had filed the formal complaint and pressed the causes of action. She’d reached out to HR to set a time for discussion and mediation. And then Ames had gone and fallen off an eighteenth- story balcony and that changed things. How much, Ardie couldn’t say. “Until the investigation wraps and then figure out how best to proceed.”

  We’re checking out all angles, the female detective had told her when she and her partner showed up in Ardie’s office, guns fastened to their hips. Truviv was a big, high-profile company. People in Dallas were going to pay attention. So Ardie understood why the police had to ask questions, to cover their bases.

  “Sometimes I think I’m cursed,” Katherine was saying to the version of herself—whatever that was—that she saw in the mirror. “It’s like the universe can sense I’m supposed to be working in some factory or flipping hamburgers back in Boston and wants to set the balance right.” Her voice was too high. She dropped her hands and breathed deeply. “I’m just kidding,” she said, to Ardie now. “If I really thought things worked that way, I wouldn’t be here. Would I?” Her face transformed and, like magic, Katherine was pretty again.

  “I’m sure you have nothing to worry about.” It was such a comforting idea that she decided she, too, would believe it.

  Transcript of Interview of Sloane Glover Part I (cont’d.)

  13-APR

  APPEARANCES:

  Detective Malika Martin

  Detective Oscar Diaz

  PROCEEDINGS

  DET. DIAZ:

  Mrs. Glover, is it true that you at one point said: “It would be easier just to kill him” in reference to Ames Garrett?

  MRS. GLOVER:

  I’m not sure I said that exactly and if I did I was joking. When we were considering how to proceed—whether to file a sexual harassment lawsuit, I mean—I may have pointed out that, logistically, one would be simpler than the other. Again, in jest.

  DET. DIAZ:

  Is that your usual brand of humor, joking about murdering someone, someone who—I’ll point out—happens to be dead, Mrs. Glover?

  MRS. GLOVER:

  Obviously, Detective Diaz, we chose to sue him not to kill him. To do both would have been a bit of overkill, don’t you think? Sorry, poor choice of words, but you grasp my meaning.

  DET. DIAZ:

  The elevators have security cameras inside them.

  DET. MARTIN:

  You were on the elevators shortly after Ames Garrett died. In fact, you, and Grace Stanton, and Adriana Valdez, and Katherine Bell were all on the elevators around the time of Mr. Garrett’s death.

  MRS. GLOVER:

  I’m sure that’s right. It’s an office building.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  17-APR

  The woman standing in the lobby of the Truviv building held herself like someone who was starting to get used to getting what she wanted. She was tall and trim, not exactly a model, but certainly further along the scale than Sloane, who had only ever been referred to as a “spitfire” or “spunky” (inexplicably, not words typically used for taller women). The woman’s auburn hair—no way was it natural—was pinned into a French twist and she had a straight nose suitable for a Greek statue. A younger woman, perhaps thirty, and a graying but handsome man flanked her, like well-paid accessories.

  “Cosette?” Sloane clipped over to the woman, who was utilizing both thumbs to tap a message into her device. Sloane gently touched her elbow. “Hi, I’m so sorry, was I expecting you?” Sloane was already cataloguing the week’s commitments, but no memory of a Cosette meeting surfaced.

  Cosette Sharpe sheathed her phone in the pocket of her blazer. She smiled at Sloane and bent down to kiss both of her cheeks. “No, no, I just flew in.” As if someone just flew in from New York. A diamond-encrusted Rolex peeked out from Cosette’s sleeve, easily forty grand, by Sloane’s count. Cosette gestured to her two colleagues to excuse her and a chill, as icy as the carats on Cosette’s wrist, passed through Sloane.

  Cosette was a former college classmate, a close friend of her college best friend, Jenny, and seven years ago, Jenny had arranged a coffee date for the two of them while Cosette was “in town.” She’d made a pitch for a large portion of Truviv’s external mergers and acquisitions work and Sloane had personally gone to Ames to make the case because she believed in doing that sort of thing for other women when it was in her power. Now Cosette was the relationship partner for a Fortune 500 company, and Sloane had excellent outside counsel, and she received a full case of Veuve Clicquot each Christmas. It had been a win-win.

  Sloane stared up at Cosette, trying to detect whether or not she’d had work done. “Sloane. The board called me in
to handle the harassment suit.”

  Of all the times for a woman not to lead with an apology!

  “You’re not a litigator,” Sloane said.

  “I know. Believe me. I told them that. But we’re a big firm. I brought other members of our team.” She nodded her head back to the two lawyers staring at their phones. “Truviv feels safe with us. And as the relationship partner, I’ll be here to consult for the company.”

  “Come on. You have got to be kidding me.” It really took a lot of self-control for Sloane not to swear.

  “Look.” Cosette leaned in. “Privately, you know I’m inclined to believe you. But this is an important client for our firm and for me in particular. It’s nothing personal.”

  “I got you this job, Cosette.” Heat crept up Sloane’s bra. “You reached out to me for help. Women in law have to stick together.” She put on a falsely sweet voice. “I think that was the exact quote.” She tilted her head and waited for Cosette’s response while wondering how long it would take the security guards loitering in the booth at the opposite end of the lobby to reach Sloane if she wrung Cosette’s neck. (Only a thought.)

  Cosette squeezed Sloane’s shoulder. “I remember and, trust me, I will do whatever I can for you on this side of the table, okay?”

  There went the exaggerated blinking thing again. Derek was probably right, it wasn’t her best look but—“Um, no, Cosette. Not okay.” She pinched the hand resting on her shoulder and removed it from her person.

  Cosette sighed. Her lower teeth were beginning to jut. “I’m furthering the cause in my own way, you realize. I stand to be the youngest partner on the executive committee and a woman. That’s not such a bad message for young women, either, is it? And I can do my part from the inside. More power, more influence.” Cosette smoothed the front of her blouse, pulling herself up to her full height.

  “I hope you warmed up before performing that level of mental gymnastics.”

  “What I hope is that we can resume our business relationship when all this blows over.” She smiled. “I can even help you find a job somewhere that pays better than this place, if that’s the route you decide to go. Like you helped me. You’re a good attorney.” Cosette clasped her hands together and instead of shaking hands with Sloane gave a short bow of acknowledgment before turning back to her colleagues, who were waiting at the elevator bank.

  Sloane waited for her to walk a couple steps away. “And you’re a bitch.”

  The words echoed in the lobby and Sloane thought she could see Cosette’s spine stiffen.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  17-APR

  “Cosette is here.” Sloane believed that real friends didn’t knock or ring doorbells; they came right in and helped themselves to whatever wine bottle was already open in the fridge. She applied this philosophy liberally throughout her life.

  “Where?” Ardie asked from behind her desk. It was almost comical how they were all hanging around, manning their desks, as though everything were perfectly normal. A lawsuit. A dead boss. A—dare she even think it?—murder investigation? And here they all were in Theory suits, saving drafts onto iManage like they mattered.

  Except for Grace. What the hell was Grace up to?

  Sloane paced the narrow space that Ardie had been allotted on the fifteenth floor and, for once, it had absolutely nothing to do with reaching her step count goals. “In the building, Ardie. Cosette Sharpe is in this building right now. Do you feel that?” She tilted her head up to the ceiling. “I think the air actually just got colder.”

  “Why’s she here?”

  “I’ll tell you why. She’s helping with the sexual harassment case. Our sexual harassment case, Ardie. Not helping us, mind you. She’s helping Truviv.” She circled her finger in the air to demonstrate.

  “Wow.”

  Sloane ground her teeth like a pestle to a mortar. “Et tu, Cosette?”

  “But…” Ardie considered and Sloane could tell that Ardie was going to try to be rational. Why did Sloane insist on surrounding herself with such rational people in her life? Big mistake. “Maybe that means they’re actually taking it seriously. Our claims.”

  This stopped Sloane just short of the fiddle leaf fig stationed in the corner. “You think so?” she asked, turning the idea over. Ardie shrugged. The thing about Ardie was that she didn’t consider the other person’s feelings when choosing whether to deliver good news or bad news. The news simply was what it was: news. Which meant that Sloane could trust her. She was a compass pointing due north. And she had pointed Sloane in the direction of a previously unseen possibility. “Maybe you’re right,” she said, cooling by a couple of degrees. “That would be one less thing to worry about.” Their eyes met. A small, unintentional admission.

  And, honestly, it wasn’t even as though Sloane had been worrying about the investigation, per se. Or was “honestly” only a thing liars said? She should be mindful of that going forward.

  The police had come for Ames’s things. The day the crime scene investigators came to box up Ames’s office, Sloane wondered what they’d find. The atmosphere in the office had been buzzy, alert with the possibility of a juicy morsel, some scrap to share. It was as if they were all watching the pallbearers at a funeral to which none of them had been invited. Instant messenger applications dinged with the messages of information beggars, hungry for those scraps. Did they find anything? Was there a note? Were those women blackmailing him? Did he really scratch goodbye into the balcony? Why are they still investigating?

  Many of Sloane’s colleagues had made flimsy excuses to visit the secretarial kiosks or make copies or go to the restroom an inordinate number of times to catch a glimpse of the carrying out of Ames’s desktop computer or the removal of his gallery of famous photos from the wall. A popular theory had hatched that Ames hid a suicide note behind one of the pictures, but so far, none had surfaced. And not even Beatrice had been able to secure reliable information.

  It was the not knowing that was the problem. If he didn’t jump, then someone had to know something … but who? Sloane had started by considering the possibilities she knew.

  Katherine was being awkward, but then she was a little awkward. She probably felt that, on some level, she’d set all this in motion. Ames’s death followed the lawsuit, which followed Katherine’s story. So yes, there was catalyst Katherine. Grace hadn’t come to work since the day that Ames had died. Out-of-character, yes, but she’d also been so sensitive since having Emma Kate, so she might simply be in self-preservation mode. Or maybe she was actually sick. At least Ardie seemed to be her usual unflappable self.

  Sloane wanted to know what really happened and whether her friends knew anything they weren’t saying, but she hadn’t yet sorted out how to go about it.

  Never be surprised. That was a solid legal strategy. Never be surprised by what the other side would find. And now she had both Cosette and the police to contend with. So, honestly, wasn’t it imperative that she knew what had gone on prior to Ames’s death in order to protect herself and her friends?

  “Honestly.” There it was again. That pesky little word.

  Sloane lowered her voice and leaned in. “How do you think that blood got on the balcony?” she whispered.

  Ardie: “I honestly don’t know.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  18-APR

  When Rosalita arrived on the fifteenth floor, Ardie was on the phone. Ardie saw her and gestured her to stay. Stay, she mouthed. Come, come. Giant waves of her arm, leaving Rosalita no choice.

  “When are you coming back?” she was saying into the handheld receiver. A question: Why did nobody in fancy offices use cell phones instead? A badge of honor to be chained to a desk, loopy cord like a leash yanking the employee back to work? Random thoughts occurred to Rosalita as she waited, like tracing cracks in the wall out of boredom. She tried not to listen, but she wasn’t Salomon. She wasn’t half deaf. “I don’t know what to think.” Ardie sighed. She twisted her chair sideways, slacks
draped like hanging curtains over her knees. Under different circumstances, Rosalita might have been annoyed at being asked to hold still. She might have read it as an insult, her time less valuable than the lawyer’s just because her time was literally less valuable. “No, I don’t regret suing him, suing … Yes, of course it’s unfortunate. But it’s—I’m not sure … Probably, yes. Ultimately. But, things are still delicate.” She smiled at Rosalita. “Are you okay?” Rosalita thought she was speaking to her and only closed her mouth in time for Ardie to say, “I’m worried about you. You sound—okay. I have to run. Have you been sleeping? Try to get some rest. Bye.” The phone clattered into its cradle.

  “Trouble has a way of multiplying, doesn’t it?” she said to Rosalita, who didn’t know whether that was true, only that trouble metastasized if it went untreated. Ardie looked at her expectantly and then Rosalita remembered the reason she was here. The something wonderful.

  “I brought something for you,” she said, holding out a simple, brown paper bag.

  Ardie narrowed her eyes, skeptical. In a different life, they might have been sisters. Cousins, at least. “I thought we settled.” But she took the bag.

  “Tamales. I have a friend that makes them. Good ones.”

  Ardie’s eyes went soft. She opened the mouth of the bag and breathed in the scent of cooked corn.

  “Salomon got into the program.”

  Ardie crunched the bag closed. “He passed?” Her eyes turned to saucers. A flush rose in her cheeks.

  Rosalita nodded, her throat clogged and swollen.

  Ardie rushed around the desk to meet her, enveloped Rosalita in a hug, pulled her in tight, and kissed her forehead. Rosalita allowed this to happen because it took the edge off a craving inside of her. When Ardie pulled away, she was scooping a tear out from underneath her lower eyelid and Rosalita wore a silly doll-like frown, painted on, eyes sparkler-happy. “That’s the best news I’ve heard all week,” said Ardie. Growing up, the moments in which girls were genuinely happy for one another had been hard to find. Rosalita was grateful. “All month. Maybe even all year.”