Save Me from Dangerous Men (Nikki Griffin #1)(82)

On the twelfth floor, the overhead lights were off and the hallway was almost pitch black. No one working late up here. I set my box down in a stairwell next to the elevator and pulled a bright LED flashlight from my purse. The offices all had little brass name plaques screwed into the hardwood doors. The doors were set apart at lengthy intervals. Spacious offices, up here on the partners’ floor. I moved quickly. I didn’t want to be in the building all night. I found Silas Johnson’s office and used the key his wife had given me. Inside I kept the overhead light off and used my flashlight, turning it this way and that so that the room came into view. It was a large, comfortable office furnished principally with a black leather couch and a hulking mahogany desk. A bookshelf held the same sort of legal texts I’d seen at the Johnson house, all leather and gilt titles that gleamed like treasure as I shined the light along the spines. There was a steel file cabinet against the far wall. Five drawers, all locked. I didn’t bother trying my key. I could tell by sight it was too big.

Busy lawyers needed quick access to documents. And in a locked office in a security-conscious building, people didn’t think much about theft. I shined my light over toward the large desk. There was a vertical column of closed drawers on the left side and a narrow horizontal front drawer. I wasn’t surprised to find the front drawer unlocked. The thin beam of the light illuminated standard office paraphernalia: paper clips, rubber bands, staples, pens. In a corner of the drawer there were two small silver keys. One fit the file cabinet.

I spent an hour going through the file cabinet drawers one by one. Judging by the dates, the cases seemed to be current. The firm would have archives of some kind where they stored the work of past years or decades. I worked as fast as I could, looking for any mention of Care4 or Gregg Gunn or In Retentis.

Nothing.

The desk was messy, covered in papers. Unlikely that any sensitive material would be left out in the open, but I went through everything anyway.

Nothing.

I checked the trash can, digging through a browned apple core and several empty Diet Coke cans, a copy of The Wall Street Journal.

The three vertical drawers of the desk were also locked. I tried the second key from the desk. It worked. I started at the bottommost drawer. It held a nearly empty bottle of Macallan eighteen-year single malt. Not a cheap bottle. Two unopened bottles of the same stuff lay behind it. Like a one-man supply chain. Two lowball crystal glasses were tucked neatly into the drawer next to several Penthouse and Playboy issues. The tanned, airbrushed girls on the cover looked about the same age as the scotch, and the same color.

The middle and top drawers held more files. I worked my way through them as fast as I could. Understanding anything about the nature of the cases would have been a far longer job, but it was easy enough to tell which people and companies were involved where.

I found the Care4 file in the top drawer. Three folders, rubber-banded together.

I had just opened the first folder when the office door opened.

I threw myself under the desk and clicked my light off as the overhead light turned on. I narrowed my eyes in the brightness and huddled under the desk. The front panel meant that I was invisible as long as no one came around to the back.

It also meant I didn’t know who was in the office with me.

An unsettling feeling.

Footsteps moved closer and I caught a glimpse of an old white sneaker under a slice of loose jeans. I relaxed a little. Lawyers who drove Mercedes S-Class sedans didn’t wear beat-up Nikes. If they wore sneakers, they’d be brand-new. I tried to figure out where these sneakers were likely to step next. The trash can. The cleaners would go office to office, emptying the trash cans. No one wanted to sit down in the morning and smell decomposing apple cores. I stayed very still. The cleaner’s feet came closer. I heard a grunt as he bent down. The trash can lay less than a foot away from my head, separated only by the side of the desk. I held my breath and stayed absolutely still. I heard the trash can empty into a bag. Heard the rustle of papers and the more solid thump of an object. The apple core. I could hear plastic crinkling. A new bag, being shaken open.

Then silence. I couldn’t see the sneakers anymore.

Five or six seconds stretched on forever. Finally, I heard footsteps again. Moving away from me. The custodian hit the light switch and the room was dark again. The office door closed. I let out my breath. Slowly getting to my feet, I switched the flashlight on again and sat at the leather desk chair, file in front of me.

It was time for some reading.



* * *



Gilbert, Frazier & Mann had been involved with Care4 for several years and appeared to have done a variety of legitimate work. As the partner who oversaw the Care4 account, Silas Johnson had been involved in much of this work. It was clear that the folders I was looking through were far from complete. There were probably thousands or tens of thousands of additional documents, filed somewhere on the firm’s three floors. These folders offered only an overview. I learned that he had helped guide the company through equity financing in its early stages. I reached the second folder, which involved litigation and HR. One case, involving trade secrets with a rival company, had gone to court. Several contract disputes had been settled in arbitration. When it came to its employees, Care4 didn’t hesitate to use its lawyers aggressively. The next folder was thinner and pertained mostly to financial and tax matters. Other lawyers were referenced. Silas Johnson didn’t directly handle tax law. A different department.