Chapter 2 - A Matter of Record
The dim overhead lighting of the service corridor cast long, jagged shadows against the exposed brick and gray-painted cinderblock. The distant bass of the orchestral music from the ballroom thudded through the walls like a slow, failing pulse. Against my back, the cool metal of a utility door offered no comfort. My fingers still tingled where I had gripped the black wool of his lapel, the coarse fabric burned into my memory alongside the scent of melting candlewax, gin, and cold rain.
The man in the tailored gray suit stood blocking the only clear path toward the exit stairs. His jacket was unbuttoned, revealing the slight, tactical bulge of a shoulder holster beneath his left arm. His expression was completely flat, devoid of the panic that had sent the ballroom guests scrambling toward the terrace doors just moments before.
"Two men are down," the investigator repeated, his voice dropping an octave, carrying the precise, clipped cadence of a federal investigator or a corporate fixer who had cleaned up too many messes to count. "The sniper is gone. Who are you?"
The man beside me shifted subtly, his shoulder pressing against mine. He didn't drop his gaze from the investigator. His short brown hair was slightly damp at the temples from the humidity of the crowded room, and his stubble caught the dim amber glow of a single recessed bulb overhead. Without looking at me, he stepped half an inch further to the left, placing his tall frame between my dark green slip dress and the investigator's direct line of sight. It was a protective movement, executed with practiced economy.
"You've got the wrong impression, friend," the man in the tuxedo said, his tone even and remarkably level given the circumstances. "We were looking for a quiet place to get a drink. We heard the shots just like everyone else."
"Quiet place," the investigator muttered, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the man's black bow tie, noting the slight fray at the edge where the silk had caught on my ring during the initial rush. "In the service wing? Behind the kitchens? People don't wander back here by accident, especially not in black tie and silk."
"My associate dropped her earring," the man replied smoothly, not missing a beat. "Down by the linen carts. We retraced our steps. Now, if you don't mind, we'd like to get back to the coat check."
The investigator didn't move. He reached inside his jacket, his hand hovering near the leather strap of his holster, though he didn't draw. Instead, he pulled out a small, encrypted tablet, tapped the screen with a gloved thumb, and flicked his wrist.
"The two men on the mezzanine didn't slip on champagne," the investigator said, his eyes flicking from the screen back to our faces. "Clean shots. Center mass. Both were active-status federal assets operating under deep cover within the foundation's oversight committee. And the only people caught on the security loop heading away from the catwalk within a forty-second window are the two of you."
My throat felt dry, constricted by a cold knot of dread. I wanted to look down at my hands, to check if any of the chaos clinging to the corridor had left a mark on my skin, but I forced my posture to remain straight. The silk of my slip dress felt too thin, too exposed against the drafty chill of the service corridor.
"Assets," the man in the tuxedo repeated, the word tasting sour on his tongue. "Sounds like they were playing a game they weren't equipped to finish."
"They were keeping an inventory," the investigator snapped, taking a half-step forward. "An inventory of who has been moving capital through shell companies registered to this charity gala. Which brings us back to the original question. If you aren't the cleanup crew, you're the targets. And either way, I need to know your names before the local police clear the perimeter."
Silence settled over the corridor, broken only by the distant, muffled wail of an approaching siren cutting through the city traffic outside.
The man in the tuxedo turned his head slightly toward me, his jaw tightening as he weighed the options. We had seconds before the service elevators chimed or the primary security team swept down from the main floor. He looked back at the investigator, his dark eyes hardening into a cold, transactional resolve.
"You want names, you'll have them in an hour," the man said, his voice dropping to a low, authoritative register that brooked no argument. "Right now, your perimeter is about to be swamped by city uniforms who won't know the difference between an asset and a civilian. If you want to keep those bodies on the mezzanine quiet, you let us walk out the service exit on forty-second street."
The investigator held his gaze for three long, agonizing seconds. The tension in his shoulders didn't ease, but his hand drifted away from his holster. He knew as well as we did that dragging two high-society guests into an impromptu station interrogation would draw the exact kind of media and federal attention he was trying to avoid.
"Forty-second street is hot," the investigator said quietly, stepping aside just enough to clear the narrow corridor leading toward the loading docks. "Take the laundry chute stairs down to the basement garage. There's a white sedan idling by bay four. Don't make me regret this."
May you like
Without waiting for a reply, the man in the tuxedo grabbed my hand, his grip firm, warm, and steady, and pulled me past the investigator into the deeper shadows of the service wing.
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