The Drifter (Peter Ash #1)(39)

A twin row of twenty-foot-tall trees in giant marble planters led to escalators running to the second-floor lobby, with more big plants and wide glass window panels and long views on three sides. The white-clad structure was visible as he passed from the exterior to the interior, which added to the feeling of transparency. It was enough to make you want to believe in something.

He watched the constant flow of men and women in suits and business casual, with access badges on cords around their necks or clipped to lapels. Peter automatically checked for the exits, but the feeling of openness, the remains of the daylight, and the outside views kept the white static down for the moment.

There were placards for the building’s bigger tenants, including U.S. Bank and several big national financial companies and a large law firm. But nothing for Lake Capital.

Peter walked up to the security desk. “What floor is Lake Capital on?”

The security man in his neat blue uniform checked his computer. “Fifth floor,” he said, and pointed Peter to a bank of elevators.

The static didn’t like elevators.

“Are there any stairs?” The static didn’t like stairs, either, but they were better than an elevator. Peter could run up and down.

The security man shook his head. “Fire stairs only. Not for the public.”

Shit.

But it was just three floors up, and the elevator was nearly empty. Peter closed his eyes and focused on his breathing to keep the static down. It took only a minute, but by the time the doors opened, his neck was tight and his shoulders were starting to clamp up.

Lake Capital was smaller than Peter expected, sharing the floor with three other companies. Its reception area was all glass and stainless steel done in sleek, streamlined curves, but no windows. Expensive conceptual art on the walls, bright plastic machined into corporate abstraction.

Sort of like what high finance had turned out to be, thought Peter, after the bubble burst in 2008. An expensive abstraction that made other people’s money disappear.

The woman at the desk wore a severe gray suit of some synthetic fiber that fit snugly over sculpted curves, her long fingernails polished to a high gloss. Her makeup was a thin sheen over flawless skin, her hair a lacquered black helmet. She looked so sleek that reality would slide right off her.

She kept her access badge on the desk to avoid ruining the effect of the suit, Peter was sure. The room smelled of acetone, hair spray, and carpet-cleaning chemicals. The white static climbed higher, began to fizz and pop. He could feel his heart beating faster, and he was starting to sweat. He wouldn’t last long at this rate.

“Can I help you?”

There was no rising inflection in her voice, as if the question were rhetorical. As if she knew in advance that the man standing before her with the purple bruise on his face and sawdust on his work clothes was in a category beyond her ability to help, and she was making no secret of it.

“I’d like to see Jonathan Skinner,” he said. The CEO, and the only name that was on the website.

She scanned him with an appraiser’s eye. A hint of what she might be like without the severe gray suit to constrain her. There was a quick gleam of interest, maybe from the width of his shoulders or the size of his hands. But not enough to be transactional, not with his substandard wardrobe and clearly inadequate income. She would sleep only above her level.

“You lack,” she said, “an appointment.”

“Well,” said Peter, breathing slow and deep to dampen his heart rate, “I’d like to make an appointment.”

“Hm,” she said. “And what is this regarding?” She made no move to write anything down.

“I’d like to engage the services of this firm.”

“Who referred you?”

The door opened silently behind her, pushed by a man walking out. Peter caught a glimpse of plush carpet, vacant cubicles, and empty chairs. There was no sound of conversation or business being done.

The man appeared to be near Peter’s age, with an aristocrat’s bloodless good looks and white-blond hair spilling carelessly down to his shoulders. He wore an elegant suit in a pale green that was the exact color of money. It fit like it was made for him, and it probably had been. He wore it with an elegant disregard, as if he didn’t particularly care for it, or someone else had paid for it, or he had a dozen more like it in his closet. Or all of the above.

Peter found himself disliking the man intensely. The white static flared higher. Peter pushed it down again. Breathe in, breathe out.

The man in the pale green suit didn’t appear to realize that anyone else was in the room. He walked past the desk without looking at Peter or the lacquered receptionist. He carried no briefcase or other evidence that he’d done any work that day. He pushed open the door to the elevator lobby, then half turned, as if just noticing Peter, a cocky, handsome grin showing brilliant white teeth.

“Gretchen, do we have an unscheduled repair?”

The receptionist opened her lips in a smile, and Peter knew she was sleeping with the man in the money-colored suit.

“Not at all,” she said. “Nothing to concern you. Remember, you have a squash date at seven tomorrow.”

The man nodded and turned, lifting a hand in a wave, and walked toward the elevator, the lobby door easing silently shut behind him.

Peter looked at the receptionist, who still looked at the closed lobby door. There was a slackness on her face as she reviewed a memory of the man or imagined something yet to come. Then Peter knew.