CHAPTER 010
OBJECTION!
I lurched after Matteo, scattering liberal handfuls of apologies at the pearl-clutchers caught up in his wake.
“Excuse me, pardon me. Ma’am, if you could just—”
My sole saving grace was that his chemically-altered state rendered him incapable of navigating the crowd and drawing his EDG at the same time. Not for lack of trying, though. He still had one arm tucked under his jacket, fumbling with the safety release on his concealed holster.
Under happier circumstances I would have found humor in his struggle. He looked for all the world like a soused life-of-the-party type who’d decided now was the perfect time to treat the captive audience to a rousing chorus of armpit farts. I worried I was the only one in the room aware of the dire situation unfolding.
By all appearances, Wilder remained oblivious. He’d been corralled by an acquaintance, a stately older woman draped in unending strands of pearls. Her slender hand rested delicately on the sleeve of his bottle green crushed velvet smoking jacket while she spoke. He nodded along impatiently, barely disguising frequent glances in my direction. Chances of me getting to him before Matteo did were getting slimmer. I doubted his new friend would be of much use to him as a human shield.
I sidestepped a portly gentleman with cocktail sauce dribbling down the pleated bib of his tuxedo shirt and found Matteo stopped dead in his tracks at a wall of burgundy coats. Four security guards stood shoulder to shoulder between him at Wilder, showing no signs of relenting to his foulmouthed orders to get out of his way.
“Don’t pretend you don’t know who I am, you rent-a-cop pieces of shit! Mr. Denaro put me in charge of security on this rig. If you don’t let me through, I’m not gonna fire you, I’m gonna stomp you into the toilet and flush you out into space.”
With Matteo concentrating his ire at the bored-looking guard in the center, one on the end slowly reached for the stun baton hanging from his uniform belt. I caught his eye and waved him off, employing a string of improvised sign language that roughly translated to ‘Don’t hurt him, give me a second, I’ll take care of it. Yes, he’s an idiot, I’m so terribly sorry.’ The guard acknowledged my request by halting his progress but kept his hand resting on the butt of his weapon all the same.
I took hold of the arm Matteo still had chicken-winged inside his sports jacket, applying a firm grip to his triceps. I clamped my other hand down on his shoulder to keep him in place. Ignoring his attempts to shrug me off, I addressed the main target of his invective.
“Gentlemen, thank you for your help. I was just about to escort Matteo here back to his room. I can take it from here.”
The other guards, uncertain, deferred to the one in the middle. He was a stump of a man, his rounded features suggesting stoutness rather than softness. He tilted the brim of his peaked cap up to get a better look at me. Probably so he’d know who to blame when things went south.
“Good, because we ain’t getting paid to deal with his shit. We’re here to cut off the drunks and keep grab-ass to a minimum, not square off with one of the boss’s attack dogs.”
Despite his aloof demeanor, there was a hint of fear in the guard’s voice. What he knew about the Russos was more than enough to get him to pass the buck back to me.
“All right boys, the tea party’s over.” He lingered while the other guards headed back to their posts. “Make sure you keep him on a tight leash.”
Matteo started to respond. I cut him off by digging the fingertips of my hand on his shoulder into the sensitive nerves of the brachial plexus, located right beneath the collarbone. To the guard it looked like an affectionate squeeze. To Matteo it was a promise of further pain to come if he didn’t keep his dumb mouth shut.
“You bet,” I replied cheerily, tacking on a cheesy smile for effect.
Satisfied, the head guard took his leave. I waited until he was out of earshot for me to release my grip.
“What the fuck are you thinking, Matteo? Are you trying to get us both killed?”
“Who said anything about killing anyone?” He sounded like a man emerging from a trance. The jolt of adrenaline from my compliance tactics had sobered him up a touch. “I’m just trying to get paid.”
“By Wilder?” I wanted to ask him what business they could possibly have together, but could not think of a polite enough way to phrase the question. Offending him ran the risk of rekindling his temper, and it was a miracle I’d been able to calm him down once already.
“What, you think I can’t make deals of my own? That I’m not smart enough?” I’d been so worried about pissing him off that I hadn’t even considered insulting him. He must have been drunker than I thought.
“Of course not. But I guess from the whole”—I repeated his obscene gesture from the tarmac, albeit much less flamboyantly—“that I didn’t realize you two were on such good terms.”
Matteo chuckled glumly. “You know how I am. I like keeping things light. It was a joke, no disrespect intended.”
Over his shoulder, I saw Wilder break free from his companion. Once again he was headed our way. I had to act fast.
“Definitely, definitely.” Under the guise of straightening Matteo’s jacket, I turned him around so my back was between him and Wilder. “Tell you what. Wilder blew me off today too. Why don’t you head back to your room and hang tight. I’ll give him a piece of my mind, figure out what the hell is going on, and then report back. That way when he does get in touch, you’ll have all the leverage.” It wasn’t much, but without a better idea of what exactly their deal entailed, it was the best I could do.
“Leverage,” Matteo mused. “I like the sound of that.”
“You should,” I agreed, guiding him in the direction of the nearest exit as subtly as possible. “Very important in business.” I sent him off into the sea of humanity with a final nudge. “And physics.” Fortunately, by that point, he was too far away to hear me.
“If I’d known they had you working a second job I would have negotiated a better rate.” Wilder’s posh accent cut through the crowd noise as if we were the only two people in the room. When I turned to face him I was confronted with the saffron ascot pluming from the shirt at his throat. It was somehow even more obnoxious than his jacket.
“I’m sorry?” I wasn’t sure how much of our conversation he’d heard or how he’d managed to piece it together.
“Well, from the looks of it they’ve got you on security detail as well. And here I thought I’d paid for the pleasure of your undivided attention.”
“Actually, that was—”
“Matteo Russo. I’m familiar, nasty piece of work.” Wilder reached up and gestured at no one in particular with two fingers. A keen-eyed server balancing a tray of drinks appeared from thin air. She stayed long enough for us to exchange our empties for fresh glasses then melted back into the crowd.
“So then you’re acquainted?”
“Personally? Heavens no. You know how once someone reaches a certain station in life, they have people whose whole job is dealing with the common rabble so they don’t have to?”
No matter how much I resented the sentiment, I followed his logic, so I nodded.
Wilder smirked. “My people have their own people for dealing with the likes of him.”
I was grateful I’d managed to get rid of Matteo when I did. If he hadn’t shot Wilder, I would have. Lacking that option, I probed further.
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“No business deals between you two on the horizon. Got it.”
Wilder’s body spasmed mid-sip. I stepped back to dodge the potential spit take. He regained control, swallowed, and took a second to collect himself.
“Between me and him? A Russo? You do realize that one of them’s so stupid their brain hasn’t told their body to stop growing yet? Fuck me, Miller, I didn’t realize you were a comedian as well. Is there anything you can’t do?”
Stand talking to you for much longer?
“I suppose we’ll find out.” It was in my best interest to change subjects, and fast. “By the way, you missed our meeting earlier. Anything I should know?”
Wilder shook his head. “I decided to take a little extra time getting settled in. I trust Captain Cox filled you in on everything.”
“Fox.”
“Where?” Wilder’s head whipped around to where I was facing, shamelessly scouring every figure in a dress.
“The captain’s name is Fox. Dillon Fox.”
He turned back, disappointed. “Cox, Fox. Doesn’t really matter, does it? I can’t imagine it takes much of a pilot to drive something connected to a string.”
Wilder waited for me to return his shit-eating grin. When I didn’t, he checked his watch. “Ah, would you look at the time. Please excuse me, this networking never ends.”
I wasn’t particularly interested in explaining the intricacies of a carbon nanotube tether to him anyway. Still, I needed to at least keep up the appearances of investigating on his behalf.
“Did you want me to shadow you, or…”
“No, I’ll keep in touch. If you don’t hear anything, stop by my room later for a sweep. You can check for bugs or whatever it is I’m paying you to do. Here.” Wilder handed me his glass. It was still half full. “I’ll grab a fresh one on my way out.” He winked.
Before I could respond, he was gone. I wasn’t sure what I hated more—the fact that he treated me like a bus pan or the fact that on some level I was okay with it, since it would save me a trip to the bar. Now with both hands full, I looked for an appropriate place to deposit my extra glass. In search of a flat surface, I instead encountered a perfectly rounded one in the bald head of the man staring intently at me from scant inches away.
Startled by the sudden violation of my personal space, I took stock of the intruder to assess any potential threat. He was about a hand shorter than me, svelte, and if his impeccably drawn-on eyebrows were any indication, totally hairless. His age was inscrutable. I would have wagered he’d chosen the square frames of his glasses for fashion rather than necessity for how well they complemented his tailored suit. His lips, slightly tinted, curled in a smile I could only describe as flirtatious.
“Look like you could use a hand. Trina?” The stranger’s voice was high-pitched but not shrill, confident without being overbearing. He hadn’t raised it above speaking volume but the crowd parted and the server from before stepped through.
I downed the remnants of Wilder’s drink, set the empties on her tray, and grabbed two new ones to replace them, not noticing my error until she’d already left. I sheepishly attempted to offer my new companion one but he held up his own glass in refusal.
“If you plan on spending the next three days dealing with Matteo Russo and Vance Wilder, you’re going to need both. Trust me. My only question is how you’ve managed to make so many powerful friends without me meeting you along the way.” He tilted his champagne flute toward mine. “Archie Tamsworth, social gadfly.”
“Max Miller.” Our glasses clinked.
“As in the Max Miller, formerly of the Sol Detective Agency?” I hesitated, unsure where he was going with that information. “Don’t mind me, I have a thing for names and faces. I’ve been working in HR since…well, let’s just say long enough.”
“For Madison Defense?” Perhaps Tamsworth was with that nameless division that had cut my expense check.
He looked surprised by my guess. “Until recently. I jumped ship to Stellar Engines last year.”
“After Harvey died.”
Tamsworth narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “Are you sure we haven’t met?”
It wasn’t exactly a Holmesian deduction on my part. A change in a company’s leadership tends to coincide with the same for its rank-and-file. Loyalists and sycophants are shed to make way for standard bearers of the new regime. By the time longtime CEO Harvey Wilder finally succumbed to cancer, leaving the company in the hands of Vance, his eldest, he’d been at the helm of Madison Defense for so long that there were multiple generations of supporters clinging like barnacles to its venerable hull.
“We haven’t,” I told him. “I’m positive.”
“Well, how about we fix that? Join me for dinner. Unless, of course, you’ve got other plans.”
I didn’t, and Tamsworth seemed like an excellent source of information. With firsthand knowledge of personnel at both Madison Defense and Stellar Engines, not to mention at least passing familiarity with Russo and Wilder, he was bound to have insight into any wronged parties with axes to grind. In my experience, gossips made for great witnesses.
“Dinner sounds great, Archie. What time is it served?”
“On the Lunar Express?” He passed his free hand over his head in a grandiose flourish, barely missing the rings of a low-hanging Saturn. “Whenever we say it is.”
Throughout our delectable three-course meal, Tamsworth laid out a verbal blueprint of the major players involved in his recent occupational transition, and unbeknownst to him, my current one. According to the HR savant, Madison Defense’s succession from father to son had been anything but seamless. Similar in name only, Vance lacked the blue collar bona fides that endeared Harvey to his employees. Harvey had practically grown up on the assembly line, rising from the graveyard shift to the front office by virtue of his tireless work ethic and meticulous eye for detail.
Vance, on the other hand, had been born with a silver spoon in his mouth and came of age while making rounds on the socialite circuit. It was rumored that what he lacked in practical knowledge of the industry he made up for with an acute business sense and killer instincts. Vance knew what it took to make a company tick, and he knew what it took to bury one in the dirt.
Before I’d finished sopping up the last of my velvety French onion soup—every bit as richly aromatic as I remembered it—with the heel of a crusty baguette, Tamsworth confirmed part of my suspicions: in his experience, as in my own, the younger Wilder’s renowned social skills were greatly exaggerated. Whereas I chalked it up to the fact that I was far from Vance’s target audience, Tamsworth had witnessed myriad failures of his erstwhile boss’s charms up close and personal. Quite simply, he rubbed people the wrong way. It hardly came as a shock, but hearing it from a former Madison Defense lifer put it into perspective.
Next up was an herb-crusted rack of lamb, accompanied by potatoes boulangère and courgettes provençal. Were it not for the retro touch of a printed menu, I’d have been able to identify the lamb, potatoes, and zucchini but nothing about their preparation. As I wolfed it all down, I couldn’t help but notice Tamsworth sliding his side dishes around his plate, thinning their ranks to give the illusion they had been consumed rather than simply redeployed. I recognized the tactic from Fiona’s war on broccoli, a bitter feud she’d kept up until…well, she’d kept it up.
I blinked it off and honed in on Tamsworth, relying on my strength of concentration to stanch the flood of unbidden memories.
“It’s the garlic,” he grieved. “I love it but it does not love me back. Another mouthful of this and I’ll be in the room for the rest of my trip with heartburn. Chaz wants me to have a Nissen device implanted but I can’t bear the thought.” He took his glasses and gaped at me wide-eyed but unseeing. “I won’t even get LASIK. I’m definitely not having anything wrapped around my esophagus. I brought my pills but I must have misplaced them in my room. I couldn’t find them anywhere. “
“Chaz?”
“My partner. They’re not much for travel so I’m meeting them at the convention. You two are going to get along famously.”
If Chaz disliked travel enough to decline a free trip on one of the most luxurious vehicles in human history, then we at least had that in common.
Our server stopped by to collect our plates. He looked down at Tamsworth’s remaining portion with dismay.
“A problem with the dish, sir?”
“Not at all, garçon. My compliments to the chef. But please, take it away or else it will be the death of me.”
The waiter nodded gravely and left with our dishes. In addition to being an excellent source of information, Tamsworth was turning out to be an equally adept entertainer. Conversation continued down the course of our personal lives. I received an adoring elocution of all things Chaz, though toward the end I could tell Tamsworth seemed reluctant to shift the focus back to me. For all the joy he’d taken in bending my ear so far, he should have been chomping at the bit to pick up new material to barter with others.
As it turned out, he already knew my story. He remembered my name from the media reports of the shuttle craft disaster. He was still with Madison Defense at the time, and early rumors that an explosive device had been used predictably put the renowned weapons manufacturer in the crosshairs. No link was ever proven, but the investigation remained in the forefront of employees’ minds as the case unfolded.
After passing along his condolences, Tamsworth attempted to lighten the mood by sharing the most embarrassing and apparently well-known secrets of half a dozen diners present in the room. He followed every salacious morsel, each one more ridiculous than the last, with a stone-faced assessment of their truthfulness. According to his finely-tuned scales, they all passed.
Dessert consisted of lemon meringue tarts served alongside a steaming shot of industrial-strength espresso. I tapped my spoon against a browned peak of torched sugar as I weighed my options. Tamsworth struck me as trustworthy, but his loose lips were a liability in such close quarters. If Frankie Denaro had ears in O’Sullivan’s, he sure as shit had them in his personal space elevator. Then again, word getting back to Denaro wasn’t what I was worried about. Tamsworth seemed no fan of Wilder’s, but that didn’t necessarily speak for the company he kept. He’d gone out of his way to strike up a conversation with me, which did not demonstrate a sense of discerning taste. Without the time to dig into his background any further, I chose to go with my gut.
“You’ve worked for both Wilder and Denaro and you’ve got a good sense of what’s going on in those circles, both at a professional and a personal level. Tell me, what do you make of all these incidents at the big tech firms?”
Tamsworth shoveled the spoonful of chartreuse confection he’d been admiring into his mouth and swallowed it whole.
“I thought you’d never ask.”