“That’s my Q. Working the simple methods to create a reaction.”
I suspected he referred to something other than the smoke. He stood next to the door as I exited my cubicle.
“There’s no stopping chemistry.” He leaned into me as I passed, his whisper just inches from my ear. I bit my lower lip and watched him as he glanced over his shoulder, leaving the lab.
Chapter 4
The Fortune You Seek Is in Another Cookie
The rest of the workweek passed in a blur of activity. Getting the distraction coins ready took some time, and no one else seemed to have the motivation to meet the deadline. In the metals lab, where the component parts needed to be laser cut from a sheet of stainless steel, the engineers ignored my pleas for action. By Wednesday I felt antsy.
Although the head of Properties, I represented the only double-X chromosome on the floor, which meant I sometimes had to push the guys to do tasks they didn’t relish doing. The guys in metal engineering, for instance, believed a Y chromosome gave them the right to ask that question whenever I gave them a task to complete.
If metals would cooperate, I could nail this project down. For Jackson.
Part of the engineering group, the metals guys fell under my management, but they still often dodged my repeated requests and deadlines, hiding behind their immediate supervisors. It didn’t look like they’d accomplish anything, so production of the distraction coins had stalled.
I had kept copies of all the schematics sent to the metal shop, and I could run the machines, although metals discouraged it. Office politics could get messy if I went into the cutting lab without an engineer, but I couldn’t see leaving Jackson without all the tools he needed for his job. Somehow, I would get this done on time.
My cubicle, located along the side of the experimenting area of the lab, made up the largest of the compartmented offices in Properties. Along one wall sat a small sofa, a throwaway I claimed from Mom’s house, upholstered in plush, rose velvet. On the gray wall behind, I had pinned a poster print of Le Jardin de Monet a Giverny by Monet. Its delicate rows of purple and pink flowers showed femininity—a trait lacking at COP. A few knick-knacks and a comfy, white, leather desk chair rounded out the space. Small but mine.
My cell phone, in its charger on my desk, rang. It was my sister, Courtney.
“Hello, Courtney. What do you need?”
“What makes you think I need anything? Can’t a girl check in with her sister?”
Just wait for it.
“Maybe I am concerned about something. I thought I might be able to help.” She sounded defensive.
“What have you heard?” I sighed into the phone.
“Is it true you are going to the art show at the Von Briesen Mansion on Saturday?”
The von Briesens, known for their generous charitable contributions and for their occasional scrapes in criminal and family court, moved in the higher levels of society. The Von Briesen Mansion rated as a well-known landmark in town.
“I’m going to an art show, but I’m not sure…”
“Grace, I heard you’re Robert von Briesen’s date,” Courtney pressed.
“No, I’m going out with Bob…” Suddenly a few pieces of information came together. Bob, the Killer-B who I agreed to go with, had mentioned his grandmother’s money. I scanned the staff directory on the wall. Under “Properties” I found the Killer-Bs. Barry Meyer, Bill Patterson, and Bob von Briesen.
Bob von Briesen.
“Oh shit, I’m going to an art show with Lydia von Briesen’s grandson.”
“Not just any art show, Grace. This is Nebulas and Novas, the most sought-after ticket in the art world. Dr. Faust himself is premiering his latest holographic art creation.”
I had heard of Dr. Faust, but I knew nothing about his art show. He drew huge crowds to his shows, a mixture of holograms and magic, but I had written his work off as smoke and mirrors, not innovative but entertaining.
If Courtney’s fuss had any basis at all, escorting Bob seemed to be a much bigger deal than the pity date I thought I’d agreed to. “Oh hell,” I moaned. “I’m going to have to wear heels, aren’t I?”
“Shoes are the least of your worries.” She laughed as if amused by a young child. “You’re going to be on the arm of one of the most eligible bachelors in town.”
“You mean Bob? He’s not a bachelor—I mean, he is—but he’s a computer nerd with an inhaler…”
“Who is on the Forbes list of the world’s richest people.”
Stunned into silence, I could have used Bob’s inhaler.
“You can see why I worry.” Courtney tutted, and I could visualize her shaking her head, bewildered by my detachment from society. “Do you even know what people are paying for tickets to the show?”
I shook my head no, a pause which Courtney interpreted on the other end.
“Mhmm. Have you at least given thought to what you might wear?”
“I’m sure there’s something in my closet I can use.”
“If you’re using it, you’re not wearing it well,” she scolded.
Unlike my sister, the fashion plate, I rotated the same five outfits for my workweek. Courtney relished the fashion scene, wearing clothes sporting labels with Italian names embroidered in fourteen-carat gold.
“I have a couple nice dresses, Courtney.” I didn’t tell her I only pulled them out for Christmas mass or the occasional funeral. “I could wear the dress I wore to Aunt CiCi’s wake.”
On the other end of the line, Courtney swore and asked Jesus for personal favors. “You have tonight, Thursday, and Friday to pull something appropriate together. If you want my help, you’ll have to promise to listen to me and do what I say.”
I could almost hear my brother Carter saying not to trust her, but in truth, I didn’t know where to begin, and I didn’t want to embarrass myself on the front of the society pages. I’d have to fit in time to come in and cut the distraction coins after Courtney finished with me each night.
“Okay,” I conceded. “What do I need to do?”
She gave me an address where she would meet me at six o’clock sharp. Until then, she instructed me not to eat anything but green, leafy vegetables and not to drink anything but water.
This appeared to be a lot of work for a date with a mouth-breathing Killer-B, who happened to be an heir to a fortune.
****
At six, I arrived at the address Courtney gave me, although I feared my GPS had steered me in the wrong direction. In the middle of the non-tourist side of Chinatown, the address sat between a questionable noodle house and an acupuncturist. I parked my car under a street light across the two lanes of traffic and set the alarm, unsure of what would be left of my car when I returned.
Taking a deep breath, I ran against the traffic light to cross the road. When I reached the sidewalk, I checked the addresses again. Next to the walkway leading to the mysterious basement unit sat an old man with long white hair and beard. Wrapped in a blue silk kimono, he sat on a folding chair sipping from a reusable cup from Starbucks and eating noodles. I took several tentative steps past him, and he began laughing. Puzzled, I glanced around to see what he found funny, but nothing else of interest appeared.