At ten this morning it was fairly quiet on the streets, as everyone had gone inside the air conditioned buildings. Fairly quiet—if we’d seen this much traffic in Magellan or Flat Mesa we’d wonder what emergency had occurred.
Mick led me at a stroll across Central and into the avenues, seeming to know his way around perfectly. No one gave him much of a second glance—Mick with his crazy black hair in a short ponytail, a silver earring glinting in one lobe, and tatts showing from under his T-shirt sleeves, wasn’t that unusual here. Lots of bikers made this city home, and though people downtown wore suits, the constant heat made dress a little more casual. The guys running around in shirts and ties, pressed slacks, and shiny shoes, though, shot Mick looks of envy.
A glass and steel building rose among many on the corner of Second Avenue and Adams. Mick walked right in, politely holding the door for a couple of women in silk shirts and skirts who gave him interested smiles.
Whatever they did in this building, security was pretty tight. A security guard on one side of a walk-through metal detector handed out baskets for keys and cell phones then gave them to the guard on the other side. Mick relinquished his keys and phone and walked through without a beep. Since I had neither phone nor keys, I showed my open hands and walked in after him.
The metal detector found nothing, and Mick was his usual friendly self as he retrieved his belongings. Mick never saw a need to carry tangible weapons.
The next hurdle was a reception desk near the elevators, behind which sat a pleasant young woman with dark hair and a desert tan flanked by yet another security guard.
The young woman’s smile deepened when Mick approached, and even the security guard gave him a cordial nod.
“Are you back, Mr. Burns?” the woman asked. “I’m afraid Mr. Smith hasn’t returned.”
“Yes, he has,” Mick said. “I saw him.”
Mick hadn’t seen him—I knew that—but I too sensed Emmett here. He’d passed through this lobby recently. The dark gray aura he’d left behind was unmistakable.
The young woman flushed. “All right, you caught me. But he doesn’t want to see anyone. You have to book an appointment a year in advance with his personal assistant to get in with Mr. Smith.”
Mick leaned on the tall counter and looked down at her, his half smile affable. “Call upstairs. Give his assistant my name, and also tell him his friend Janet Begay is here. If he sends us away, then …” Mick lifted himself from the counter and shrugged. “We’ll stop bothering you.”
The young woman flushed again. She so wanted to help Mick, but I saw a touch a fear in her eyes. I didn’t blame her. If I were her, I’d be intimidated by Emmett too.
Mick deepened his smile. He rested his fingers on the counter again, and I saw a spark of magic move from them down to the telephone on the desk. The guard and the receptionist noticed nothing.
Mick gave the woman a nod, said, “All right,” and gestured for me to turn away with him. At that very moment, the receptionist’s phone rang.
“Oh, wait.” She held up one slender finger as she pressed a button on the phone and spoke through her headset. “Yes?” A pause, and then she looked relieved and delighted at the same time. “I will. Thanks.”
She hung up and beamed at Mick. “It seems Mr. Smith is expecting you, Mr. Burns. Take the second elevator straight up. It only goes to his floor.”
Mick thanked her as though she’d done him an amazing favor, and he ushered me with his hand on the small of my back to the elevator. I felt the woman watching Mick all the way—he does have a nice back view.
As the nearly silent elevator doors slid closed on us, the chill in my bones returned. I was never meant to be inside a concrete and steel building, sailing upward in a box that confined me like a coffin.
Mick saw me shiver and slid his arm around me. “He can’t do a lot to us in front of other people,” he said.
I wasn’t so sure. “It’s not Emmett that bugs me. It’s this place.” The decor of the lobby, the elevator, even the doors, was cold and industrial—white, black, gray, steel. “It’s like death.”
“True, it’s not inviting,” Mick agreed. “Emmett’s probably going for chill to intimidate his clients.”
“His clients.” I pondered the word. “What does he actually do?”
“On the surface, he runs a private bank. Below the surface, he hires himself out to help others make money, for a hefty percentage. Like what he did with the hotel Cassandra used to work for.”
Cassandra had been the manager of a boutique hotel called the “C” in Los Angeles. Her boss had used Emmett to help fulfill the wealthy clientele’s more bizarre requests.