Mr. CEO(149)

There's a click on the intercom and then the door buzzes, and I yank at the handle, pulling it open before whoever's inside can change their mind. I step inside and take a deep breath, looking up the narrow, steep staircase. It switches back before reaching the second floor, and I start up, my steps echoing off the painted concrete walls. Ten steps, and then a mini-landing, where I turn and go up another ten, and then another five to reach the landing for the second floor. There's a single steel door with a pane of security glass in it. The glass has been painted over though, clearly a leftover from the days of the building being used by the military.

I see another intercom button and hit it, finding out that it's a buzzer as well. There's a click in the door and I try the handle, finding that it opens easily. Inside, the room is dark, and near the far wall, which has a window that looks like it leads to a fire escape and overlooks the river, is a tall, dark figure. “Hello?”

“Enter, Jackson DeLaCoeur. You have come to the right place,” the figure says, and I can tell right away that whoever it is, they're using some sort of voice distorter, there's a clear electronic hum to their voice.

“Who are you?” I ask, stepping in closer. It's so dark I can barely see anything, but there's enough light coming in that I can at least avoid running into anything. “I was given your address by... a friend.”

“Nathan Black is a friend, is he?” the figure asks, circling around to the side. I circle with it, and as we move, the light from the window illuminates the person a little more. They're wearing a floor length robe, or maybe some type of cloak with a hood, the kind that looks like it's definitely straight out of a Halloween getup.They're also wearing a Mardi Gras mask, one of the type that covers your entire face and has painted decorations over the eyes, the type normally worn by women. But, if this person is a woman, she's a very tall woman, with shoulders bringing her up to definitely a man's size. “I didn't think Nathan had many friends.”

“I don't know if he calls me a friend, but it's a convenient word to use,” I reply, not getting rattled. Less than seven hours ago I kicked my father in the stomach and unleashed enough hell to put him in jail for life. Somebody using some parlor tricks and lighting to try and hide themselves isn't going to rattle me, even if it is confusing. “I trusted him enough to come here when he gave me this address, if that's a better definition.”

“Better,” the figure says. “Have a seat. I have some questions.”

I look behind me and see a couch, although it's not much. It's probably been sitting here since this was a military building, and I sit down, carefully avoiding the small coffee table in front of it. I see there's some stuff on the table, but the light's too dim now in the early evening to figure out what it is. “Okay, I'm sitting. What are your questions?”

“First, are you going to use that gun?”

I reach into the waistband of my jeans and take the pistol out and set it on the table. “I don't think I'm going to need that here. I assume Nathan told you I had it?”

“He and I have talked. What brought you here?”

The figure's question stops me, and I think for a moment before answering. “Hope, I guess. Hope that there is a future for me.”

“You're Jackson DeLaCoeur. Even with your father in police custody, you should have plenty of money and the ability to get in with the right society people. What do you mean, hope for a future?”

I laugh harshly and roll my eyes. “Money? I've got sixty-three dollars in my pocket, a cell phone that I might be able to hock for twenty bucks, and that's it. To hell with those society people with their connections. And to hell with any money I could scrounge from Peter DeLaCoeur. It's blood money. I can't spend it anymore.”

“Who could? Hypothetically, who would be clean enough to spend it?”

“Who?” I ask with a laugh, shaking my head. “Well, I can think of two people. Andrea, my half-sister, and she got herself a share before we left that place... and if she were alive, Katrina. She deserved the whole damn pile.”

The figure nods, barely moving. “Tell me about Katrina Grammercy.”

I sit back, shaking my head in disbelief. “Are you nuts?”

“It’s important to your future,” the figure says, the voice emphatic even if it is distorted. “Tell me about Katrina Grammercy.”

“What can I say? She was tall, deadly, smart... and so beautiful. I miss her so much. For six years as children, she was my best friend, and in just over a few weeks as adults, I realized she was the one for me.”

“Do you love her?”