Chapter 10: The Executive Floor
The security desk at the Hollis Foundation was essentially a fortress of brushed aluminum and black glass. Two guards in slate-gray uniforms stood between us and the elevator banks, their arms crossed over their chests, expressions carved from pure granite. David and I stood at the visitor's turnstile, the morning rain still damp on the shoulders of our coats, our breath pluming slightly in the overly chilled air of the ground-floor atrium.
"I told you, badge or no badge, you don't have an appointment," the taller guard said, his hand resting casually near his belt where a heavy ring of keys and a radio clinked. "Mr. Sterling's calendar is locked for the entire week. If you've got an issue with archive disposal, take it up with municipal waste management."
David didn't raise his voice. He stood with his hands tucked into the pockets of his dark trousers, his posture relaxed in that dangerous, coiled way that made the guard tighten his jaw. "We aren't here for waste management, officer. We're here to talk about what your commoditator threw into a hotel dumpster three nights ago. Or would you prefer I call the municipal inspectors down here to examine your loading dock logs?"
The guard's eyes flicked to David's lapels, noting the expensive cut of the black suit, then shifted to me. I stood slightly behind David, my fingers clutching the strap of my canvas bag where my old security logbooks were tucked. I wasn't wearing my uniform shirt anymore—I'd changed into a plain navy sweater in the car—but the panic that lived in the back of my throat felt exactly the same.
Before the guard could reach for his radio to summon building security for a full ejection, the chime of the center elevator bank echoed through the high-ceilinged lobby. The polished stainless-steel doors slid open with a soft pneumatic hiss, and a single man stepped out.
He was in his late sixties, wearing a charcoal wool suit that had seen better years, his silver hair neatly parted. He carried a heavy leather briefcase in one hand and a styrofoam cup of black coffee in the other. He stopped short when he saw us, his eyes locking onto David's face, then dropping to mine.
"David?" the older man said, his voice raspy and carrying the distinct cadence of someone who had spent decades smoking cigarettes in damp basements. "Good grief. I thought you were halfway across the country."
"Arthur," David said, his shoulders dropping a fraction of an inch as the tension in his frame eased. "I was. But I came back."
The taller guard blinked, looking between the older executive and us. "Mr. Pendelton, do you know these people? Because they're attempting to bypass—"
"Quiet down, Miller," Arthur Pendelton interrupted, cutting the guard off with a sharp wave of his hand. He took a slow sip of his coffee, his eyes lingering on my face with a mixture of recognition and profound exhaustion. "I know this young woman. Maya Vance. She worked the security desk at the spring gala. Her grandfather was Samuel Holloway."
The lobby seemed to grow colder. The guard stepped back, his hand falling away from his belt.
Arthur looked at David, then back to me, his jaw working as if he were chewing on words he didn't want to swallow. "Sterling is up on twelve. He's got the board of trustees in the east conference room going over the quarterly acquisitions. If you go up there looking for trouble, he'll have you thrown out on the street before you can say 'provenance.'"
"He already threw my grandfather's life in the trash," I said, my voice surprising me with its steadiness. I stepped past the turnstile, ignoring the guards. "We aren't leaving until we get the ledger."
Arthur looked at me for a long, heavy moment. He sighed, a sound that seemed to rattle deep in his chest, and glanced down at his leather briefcase. He was terrified; I could see it in the slight tremor of his fingers around the styrofoam cup. His pension, his desk, his entire quiet corner of this glass-and-steel monolith hung by a thread, and he knew it.
"The registry doesn't keep records of what they purge, Maya," Arthur said quietly, stepping closer so the guards couldn't hear. "Sterling made damn sure of that. But there's a backup database on the local server in the basement, and the physical receipts are kept in his personal office safe on twelve. If you want to stop him, you don't need the guards. You need an elevator."
Arthur turned back to the stainless-steel doors, tapped the call button with his knuckle, and held his corporate ID badge against the electronic reader. The doors slid open instantly, revealing a mirrored interior reflecting the gray morning light filtering down from the skylights.
"Well?" Arthur said, not looking back as he stepped inside. "Are you getting in, or are we going to stand down here arguing with children?"
May you like
David caught my eye, gave a single, sharp nod, and we followed Arthur into the car. As the doors closed, cutting off the lobby noise, Arthur punched the button for the top floor and looked at us through the glass reflection.
"Listen to me," Arthur whispered, his voice barely audible over the hum of the ascending cables. "Sterling has covered every legal base. He owns the lawyers, he owns the salvage contracts, and if we aren't careful, he'll claim you broke in. Whatever you're planning to say to him up there, make sure you have the compass out. It's the only piece of physical evidence he hasn't managed to sanitize yet."
