Page 39 of Things We Left Behind

Lucian

Rollins Consulting offices occupied the top floor of a postmodern building on G Street in DC’s central business district. The proximity to the White House meant that the street in front of the building was regularly closed for the motorcades of visiting dignitaries.

The elevator doors opened to sleek marble, stately gold lettering, and a dragon.

Petula “Thou Shalt Not Pass” Reubena took her role as gatekeeper seriously. No one got past her unless expressly authorized. I’d once found her performing a bag search on my own mother when she’d come to meet me for a rare lunch.

“Good afternoon, sir,” Petula said, rising from her chair to stand at attention. She’d had a long, decorated army career and after one month of retirement had decided she wasn’t cut out for a life of leisure.

She dressed like someone’s wealthy grandmother, and while she did indeed have three grandchildren of her own, Petula spent her spare time rock climbing. This informationwas gleaned from the extensive background check all employees were subject to. She had never once commented on her personal life and had a low tolerance for anyone else who did.

“Good afternoon, Petula. Any emergencies while I was gone?”

“Nothing I couldn’t handle,” she said briskly.

I held the glass door for her, and Petula marched ahead of me, rattling off the day’s schedule.

“You’re expected to sit in on a conference call at 2:15. You have Trip Armistead at 3:00 and Sheila Chandra scheduled for 3:15. I assume this is either another diabolical power move, or you finally made your first mistake.”

Trip was a Georgia congressman and a client who was not going to enjoy our fifteen minutes together. “I never make mistakes,” I said, nodding to the associate in the gray suit whose name I couldn’t remember.

Petula gave me a bland look. “I’ll alert security. The cleaners won’t be pleased if they have to get bloodstains out of the rug again.”

“I’ll do my best to keep the bloodshed to a minimum,” I promised.

We headed into the busy field of cubicles where phones rang and employees diligently did whatever it was I paid them to do. The starting salary at Rollins Consulting was $80,000 a year. It wasn’t that I was generous. It was that I didn’t want to waste time constantly filling low-­paying positions. The money also helped compensate for the fact that I was a demanding boss, an asshole as it was probably whispered around the watercooler. If I paid my team members less, I’d have to be nicer. And that didn’t interest me.

We strolled through the cubicles and past three occupied conference rooms. What had begun as a one-­man boutique political consulting firm that was willing to get dirty for its clients had evolved into a one-­hundred-­and-­fifteen-­person organization that put people into and took them out of office when necessary. And I still didn’t mind playing dirty when it suited my objectives.

A shrill whistle caught my attention and I spied ex-­U.S. Marshal Nolan Graham behind his desk in his glass-­walled office, a phone pinned to his ear. He’d come on board a few months ago after he’d taken a bullet for my friend. I’d made him an offer it would be stupid to refuse, and he’d kissed his government job goodbye.

“I’ll leave you to Prince Charming,” Petula said with what could almost have passed for a smile in Nolan’s direction. It seemed that the man’s charm had managed to put a few cracks in my no-­nonsense sentry’s armor.

I paused in Nolan’s doorway. “What?”

He hung up the phone and triumphantly riffed a few keys on his keyboard. “Cyber team got a few more suspicious money trails for you-­know-­who that we’re unraveling. Couple of fronts that look about right for laundering. Writing up the report now in case your Bureau buddies want to take a closer look.”

It was a fine line to walk. My cybersecurity analysts—­colloquially known as hackers—­worked their not-­technically-­legal magic to find threads to pull. Once we knew where to look, the rest of the team worked to confirm and pass along that information in ways that wouldn’t get the case bounced out of court.

Special Agent Idler was smart enough not to ask too many questions about how information fell into my lap.

“We need something bigger. A stash house. Distribution routes. A higher-­up with a grudge who can be turned.” Something that would dismantle the organization from the inside out.

“What can I say? The guy’s not as big a fucking idiot as his son. If you don’t mind me saying, why not let Lina take a crack at some of the intel? She’s in the office today. Maybe she can find an avenue we’re overlooking.”

“She has a personal bias,” I insisted. I was not a my-­door-­is-­always-­open, here’s-­the-­suggestion-­box kind of boss. I didn’t want feedback. I wanted to tell people what to do and then not have to worry about them doing it.

Besides, in addition to being royally pissed at the Hugo family for abducting her and nearly killing her fiancé, Lina also refused to fully commit to this job. At first, her part-­time dabbling power play had been amusing. Now I found it irritating.

Between Petula, Nolan, and Lina all being blatantly unafraid of me, I had concerns the rest of the employees would follow suit and start doing things like knocking on my office door for “a quick chat” or suggesting I host an office holiday party.

Nolan kicked back in his chair. “Let’s see. If Lina’s the kettle, that would make you the pot.”

“I don’t have time for your nonsensical bullshit this afternoon.”

“Just to be clear you’re the pot calling the kettle black in that metaphor,” he said.

“I don’t have a personal bias,” I lied.