Page 8 of The Deals We Make

The band around my chest tightens. He’s good, I’ll give him that. I’m assuming it’s a he. Only a man would use as many sexist insults as this number has sent me.

This is message seventeen. I laughed off the first message, thinking it was some kind of phishing scam, trying to get me to respond. It was vague, could have been meant for anybody. Recently, they’ve become more focused.

I’ve reported it to the police, but as with most cyber-crime, they have little to no interest in pursuit. Apparently, I have to be physically harmed for them to take it seriously.

After the last one, I made a snap decision. I flew here for the sake of this job. I checked into a hotel last night using my credit card because I didn’t take him seriously enough. But perhaps Ishould. Perhaps I should drop off the grid for a little while to give the private investigator time to find my harasser.

When this is over, I’ll get the town car to drive me to my hotel. I’ll pack up and use the subway to get to the train station. I’ll pay cash to get the train to Asbury Park.

And I’ll attempt to make some kind of peace with my mother so I can stay there. I’m not sure what made me do the huge detour last night to visit the exterior of my old house. I haven’t set foot in it since that horrific day and Mom’s ultimatum.

When the elevator doors open, I take a deep breath, forget about the text message, and walk confidently to the left, head held high. One of the tricks to making people believe you belong anywhere is to walk with purpose. Head up. Smile. Make eye contact. Unless you’re in an elevator with a captive audience. Then, look down.

But in the hallway of an open-plan office, no one is going to get out of their seat and chase you down, even if they could swear on a Bible that they never saw you before.

Now that I’m out of the elevator dead zone, I hit Send on the search engine for Allastrom and find they’re one of the last major American steel plants. The company is in all kinds of trouble and looking for an investor or buyer. Looks like they’re trying to avoid being sold to overseas investors.

Interesting.

Wouldn’t be hard to use the access I have to their bank systems to narrow down the likely list of purchasers from their client list and invest in some stock, if possible.

After all, it’s only insider trading if you’re actually on the inside.

In my head, I follow the path on my mental blueprint. Left out of the elevator. First left. Third left. Then, right.

The furnishings change. Practical utilitarian carpet tile turns plush. Whitewashed walls with pedestrian prints become wood-paneled with real art. I glance up at the peacock-blue modern art piece.

“Nice,” I mutter to myself.

A contemporary glass sculpture sits on a plinth. It reminds me of fulgurites made when lightning hits sand. Bet it costs thousands of dollars when you can make them for free with a length of rebar, a beach, and a lightning storm.

“I’ll be with you in a moment,” a woman says, walking through with two cups of coffee in her hands.

“You headed in there?” I tip my head to the wooden door of the CEO’s office. “Let me get the door for you.”

“Oh…no…I mean…okay, yes, thank you.”

I glance at my watch. Seven minutes from start to finish.

I’m getting slow.

I smile at that thought as I push the door open and follow her inside.

“Mr. Moore,” I say.

Shock graces both their faces when I sit on the chair opposite his fancy solid wooden desk. It’s one of those antiques, with dark green leather in the center. Bet it weighs a ton and had to be brought up here on the backs of hardworking men earning minimum wage. Or craned up, blocking the street outside while everyday New Yorkers went about their jobs.

“Have we met?” he asks.

“Should I call security?” his assistant asks.

“Feel free to call Korey Fuller, senior vice president of risk,” I say. “Oh, and Jane Galle, head of security. I happen to know that Gord Windcroft, your head of legal counsel, is on vacation skiing in Banff. Thank you, Liesel.”

Her eyes widen at the use of her name, but I glance back to Carl Moore. “I’m Calista Moray, CEO of Valentine Security. I’ve been having some issues getting your team to understand justhow wide open to risk you are. And despite me providing them advice, they’ve yet to implement any solutions or pay me.”

“I’m not sure this is the right way to make your point,” he says, but he shoos Liesel out of the room with his hand.

I’m mad for her.