Greg Rucka - Critical Space

"Nope."

"Rai, Ravi. Also Munez, Roberto? Called Gomez…"

"You mean from The Addams Family?"

She looked up from the sheet at me. "What?"

"Nothing, sorry," I said. "That's a nope."

"Pallios, Andreas or Ben Havar, Simon? Known sometimes as Lawrence."

"No."

She frowned at Marietta, then replaced the sheet tidily in her attache case. I thought about asking Interpol where they came up with these code names, and if she really thought that The Ten used them amongst themselves. Somehow I couldn't see Drama picking up a phone and, say, giving Lilith a ring to swap tips about neck-snapping and checking the going rate for a car bombing. The code names are used by law enforcement and intelligence, just a way to label people who had lost their true names long ago and now went through aliases the way water passes through coffee grounds.

Everyone at the far end of the table now had their heads together, and were speaking intently. I looked over at where Scott was seated, and he shrugged, so I cleared my throat. The conversation continued, so I did it again, louder. Marietta raised his head.

"Yes?"

"It's been fun," I said. "But I have somewhere to be."

"Of course," he said, getting to his feet. "Thank you for coming in and taking the time to speak with us."

"My pleasure," I fibbed.

Scott rose, and we headed for the door. Just before we exited, I heard Interpol asking Marietta if it was true that I was dating Skye Van Brandt.

Scott was kind enough to drive me back uptown, to the office. The clear morning sky had vanished, replaced with a low-hanging gray that seemed to drip water.

"That wasn't so bad," he said, as he turned the car onto Canal Street.

"Not for you," I said. "But you got to catch up on some sleep."

"I was never actually asleep. I just didn't want to strain my eyes."

"Who were the two in the back?"

Scott shrugged. "Pick three letters of the alphabet, mix them together, there's your answer."

We turned off Canal before we hit the traffic battling to get through the Holland Tunnel, and Scott circled the block until we were on Hudson, parking opposite the building where KTMH had its offices. The building took up the entirety of the small block, and once had been the home of some serious printing, with the presses right on the premises. Now the printing industry in Manhattan was dead, and as a result the building was in the process of major renovation. Seventeen stories tall, the property was owned by Trinity Church, and they were doing their best to turn the location upscale. Construction had begun on an additional two floors at the top, and scaffolding surrounded the building on three sides.

Scott let me out and told me he'd try to call in the next few days, and I crossed the street and got pelted by drops from the air conditioners working in the windows above me. A new coat of paint had been put down on the walls in the lobby since I'd left for El Paso, and the smell of it was still rich. I waited at the elevator with a small cluster of people, mostly students from the New York Restaurant School, which was located on the sixteenth floor. There seemed to be a lot of people about for midday, and then I looked at my watch and saw that it was six past one, and realized that this was the lunch crowd returning from their meal.

The car came and I rode up in a mass of students, mostly black and Latino, listening as they talked to one another about their "mad skills with the bearnaise." I left them at fifteen and made my way to the solid wooden door at the end of the hall. There was a plaque mounted on it, brass, that read, "KTMH Executive Protection." The door was unlocked, and no one was in the reception area, not even a receptionist, but that didn't surprise me. We'd been having bad luck finding someone who could master the intricacies of answering the phone, taking messages, handling light typing, and greeting visitors to our offices. More often than not the receptionist's desk was vacant.

For a moment I stood still, listening for voices from down the hall, and then I heard the front door click behind me. Corry Herrera came in, carrying a box of doughnuts from Krispy Kreme, one in his mouth.

"Why aren't you in L.A.?" I asked him.

His response was lost in the doughnut, and he gestured with his head to indicate that I should follow him as he went down the hall, so I did. We've got a lot of space, enough so that each of us has our own office with windows and nobody had to fight for a good one. We also have a coffee room, a file room, a conference room, an equipment and storage room, two bathrooms – one with a shower – and three more rooms that are empty until we decide what to do with them. The walls are off-white and most of the floor is a fake wood laminate from Sweden that looks like the real thing but doesn't get scratched. It's a pretty nice space, and I like to think that when you enter it for the first time, it's comfortable rather than officious.

Corry made for the coffee room, and after he'd set down the box and finished his doughnut, said, "We got back this morning."

"Obviously. But you were supposed to be in L.A. until next week." Both Corry and Dale had gone out on a consulting job shortly before I'd left for El Paso, contracted by one of the major studios to act as technical advisors on some sort of production. As they'd explained it to me, this meant teaching young actors how to hold fake guns in a realistic manner. "Did something happen?"

"No, they just finished with us early, said we could leave." Corry opened the cupboard and got down a plate and three mugs. The coffeemaker on the counter had a full pot, and it smelled freshly brewed. "Dale couldn't get out of there fast enough. He's at home now, but I thought I'd come in, just check things out around the office."

"And bring doughnuts and make coffee," I said.

"These aren't for me. Will you grab the pot? My hands are full."

I took the pot and followed him out of the coffee room and back down the hallway, which I thought meant we were heading for Natalie's office.

"What happened to your forehead?" he asked, over his shoulder.

"Nonsmoking incentive program."

"Natalie said you and Skye Van Brandt had a falling out."

"Skye Van Brandt and I never had a falling in. Where's Nat?"

"Your office. We're entertaining, in case you hadn't guessed."

"I guessed. Who is it this time? Some spoiled rock star who wants someone to help him trash a hotel room? Or maybe another movie celebrity who needs an extra pair of hands for stroking his ego?"

My door was on the opposite side of the hall from Natalie's, and Corry stopped in front of it, adjusting the balance of the plate on his hand. He's five inches shorter than I am, with a wrestler's body and black hair, and one of those smiles that makes you think he doesn't have an enemy in the world. He didn't show me the smile, though; he showed me his frown, looking up at me with his eyes rather than by moving his head.

"Get the door," Corry said.

I opened it, still looking at him. "Just tell me the principal isn't another totally insufferable brat."

"Not unless vomiting in the backseat of automobiles counts," Lady Antonia Ainsley-Hunter said.

"So how long are you in town?" I asked.

"Just the day," Moore said. "We're flying back tonight."

"Quick trip."

"Her Ladyship had an appointment at the UN."

Natalie, Corry, and I all looked at Lady Ainsley-Hunter, who was sitting in the chair beside Moore, and who had just put a rather large piece of an old-fashioned chocolate in her mouth. We caught her with her cheeks puffed out, and she raised one hand to hide her face while she hastily chewed and swallowed, and with the other gestured generally that we should find something else to look at for the time being.