Nancy Warren - Aftershocks

It was the last thought she had before falling asleep.

When she woke up the next morning, a few minutes before the alarm was due to shrill, the answer was right there.

She’d been doing this since college, going to sleep pondering a problem and waking with the answer.

Yawning, she stretched and popped out of bed, anxious to get on with her plan. Patrick, as mayor, had access to computer files that were denied her. He had his access code written down in the Rolodex on his desk, cleverly hidden under his dentist’s phone number. She’d seen him flip to the number one day when he was checking the municipal budget. Since he hadn’t gone to the dentist, she was pretty sure that’s what the peculiar number and letter sequence was.

She was certain he didn’t think she’d clued in, or if he had, he believed he could trust her. She bit her lip at the thought of his trust and how she was betraying him. When she’d first seen the code, she’d thought nothing of it since she’d had no interest in snooping for information that was denied her at her level of clearance.

Now, as soon as her boss was out of the office for a time, she’d log in using his password and search the police files. She had no idea how much information she could access, but she was going to give it a shot.

“Morning,” she said cheerfully when Patrick rolled in a few minutes after her. Her computer was already humming, her e-mail box almost full. Patrick’s was probably overflowing. There were six messages piled up at her elbow, and a sheaf of faxes sat neatly stacked on the edge of her desk. She picked up both piles of paper and held them out to him.

“There are seventy-six messages here,” she told him. “One hundred percent of these citizens support you in making council vote to access the city’s bond.”

His face relaxed into a smile. “It’s going to be a good day.”

“And a busy one,” she agreed as both lines began to shrill.

“Mayor’s office, can you hold please?” she said to one caller, and picked up the next. “Mayor’s office.”

“I want to talk to Mayor O’Shea.”

“Certainly. Who’s calling, please?”

“It’s Bonita Alvarez. I voted for the mayor and I want to vote for him again to get the money he needs to do his job.”

“Certainly, Ms. Alvarez. I’ll put you through.”

She reached for the second line, and then noticed that Patrick was still standing by her desk. She’d expected him to go through to his own office. She raised her brows in a silent question.

“Dylan sent you this.” He handed her a white piece of paper, the kind used in home computers, rolled into a scroll and fastened with an elastic band, before heading in to his office.

Briana put the second caller on hold until Patrick could deal with Ms. Alvarez, then she pulled the elastic band off the scroll.

Dylan had drawn a picture of a dragon soaring over a castle where some kind of battle was taking place. She guessed Dylan was a kid who’d probably seen Lord of the Rings a few times and now lived part-time in a Tolkien universe. Under the picture was a note.

Thanks for the dinner. It was delicious. I hope you can come to our house again sometime.

It was signed simply, Dylan. Then, in smaller letters, obviously by the same hand, an addition had been made. And Fiona.

Briana loved her picture, and was certain it added a certain something to her decor when she pinned it to her bulletin board. She’d love to take Dylan up on his offer to visit, more than he could possibly imagine. But she had to figure out what his father had been up to first.

She put the second caller through and checked Patrick’s schedule. There was a luncheon speech at the CB Business Association, and then at three o’clock he had a meeting with Max Zirinsky. Okay, so she had two opportunities today. She rather thought lunchtime might be her best chance. Whenever she was out at the same time as the mayor, she locked the outer office.

Once that door was locked, it was unlikely anyone would clue in that she was still inside. Snooping on her employer.

The pang of guilt that hit her was almost painful, especially with Dylan’s picture hanging on the wall behind her, a constant reminder that if she hurt Patrick, she also hurt his children.

But whoever had hurt Uncle Cecil hadn’t worried about his family, she reminded herself.

No. As much as she hated to do it, she was going to have to sneak into files she had no business seeing.

There was no time for more soul-searching as the phone rang again. In a sort of counterpoint, the fax machine whirred with astonishing regularity, and the e-mails continued to pour in.

A small percentage of people thought that Patrick was a hothead and a troublemaker. But more than ninety percent of those who responded to his television appeal were offering their support.

Around ten-thirty there was a lull in the phone calls and Patrick came out of his office, stretching his arms.

“Briana,” he said, “I think we’re going to get the money we need to start serving this community properly.”

She smiled dutifully. In truth, she was delighted that the emergency forces were getting the funding they needed, but she also knew this was another blow politically and professionally to her uncle.

If there was anything she could do to help Uncle Cecil save face, she’d do it. He’d been so hurt when she’d tried to talk to him the other night, and still so angry.

“Do you think it would be worth calling Councilman Thomson and the other two who sided with them? Perhaps they’d be more willing to listen to your appeal now they know you have so much public support.”

“Oh, they’ll listen, all right,” he said with relish. “But I’m done crawling to them. Those three can come to me with their hats in their hand.”

So much for the olive branch.

They had no time to discuss the matter further because the phone started ringing again. With a comical expression of dismay, Patrick retreated back to his desk.

Briana worked steadily through the rest of the morning. By eleven forty-five, things were quieting down again and she was able to stand up for a stretch herself. Her neck was tight, her shoulders knotted. She’d like to think it was from a morning on the phone, but really, she suspected a lot of her tension was from the knowledge that she was about to spy on her boss.

Well, she comforted herself, he need never know anything about it.

Picking up his speech, she walked into his office. Patrick was already shrugging into his jacket.

“Have you got my speaking notes for this thing?” he asked her.

“Yes. Right here. Archie sent them up earlier.”

“Good.”

“You’ll probably have some questions thrown at you about the funding crisis.”

He nodded. Obviously, he’d thought of that, too.

“And I got a call from the Sentinel, checking on the time you’d be speaking. I imagine they’ll want an update on the results of your call-in show.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if all the media were there.”

She handed him another sheet. “I prepared these, just in case you need them.” As he glanced down at it, she explained, “I’ve totaled the numbers of calls, e-mails and faxes, and tallied the numbers of those who expressed support and those who were against you. The numbers and percentages are at the bottom. It’s not a hundred percent accurate, of course, but it’s pretty close. Do you want me to run off a couple of extra copies for any media reps that show up?”

He grinned. “Briana, you are one in a million.”

She tried to keep her expression pleasantly neutral, but she had to admit, the compliment thrilled her more than she liked to admit.

But this was the kind of work she loved. Sure, she was overqualified for photocopying and transcribing notes, but she was also helping Patrick with political strategy, which she thrived on. Her salary might be at a clerical level, but the actual work she was doing was challenging.