The Inner Circle

36

I’m sorry for your loss. I’m sorry this happened. I’m just… I’m so sorry, I say to myself, practicing the words in my head. But as the tired African-American woman with the outdated clear plastic glasses and the faded red overcoat leaves the Security Office and heads toward me in the hallway, I can’t muster a single syllable.

She doesn’t notice I’m there. She’s too focused on the person behind her-her son-who looks about my age as he carries a cardboard box, hugging it to his chest. He’s got a deep dimple in his chin.

Just like his father.

I know them from the pictures on his desk: Orlando’s wife and his oldest son. From the cardboard box, they came to clear out his desk.

As they trudge toward me at the elevators, it’s like they’re walking underwater while carrying a bag of bricks. But it’s not the box that’s weighing them down.

For a moment, the three of us just stand there in the silence of the hallway. Even now, his son offers up a we’re-waiting-for-the-same-elevator smile.

I should say something.

I need to say something.

My brain slingshots to the very best advice someone gave me when they heard my dad was dead: Our fathers never leave us. Ever.

I could even say something about how nice Orlando was to everyone.

I can give them that one final memory.

But as the elevator rumbles, its doors slide open, and Orlando’s wife and son step inside…

I just stand there in the hallway. Paralyzed.

They both stare at the floor, in no mood for eye contact.

The doors bite shut, consuming them whole.

And I’m still standing there, once again reminded that the only feeling more painful than loss is the feeling of guilt.

I reach for the elevator call button, but as my finger ignites the up arrow, I can’t help but notice the sudden burst of voices coming from the open door of the Security Office. Following the sound, I lean back and take a fast peek into the wide room of cubicles, where small clusters of coworkers are talking-just whispering, gossiping.

It makes sense. With Orlando’s wife and son gone, there’s no need for whatever self-imposed silence the office had been carrying while his family went through his desk.

“You see them?” the receptionist asks me. “Just heartbreaking, right?”

She says something else, but I’m too busy looking at Orlando’s cubicle on the left side of the office. All the photos… the holiday cards… the clutter of life… even his Wisconsin Badgers pencil cup… it’s all gone. I search for his computer, but that’s gone too (which probably means there’s no chance the videotape is here either). I still need to check. With me and Clementine on it, that video holds our fate. But except for a few stray pens and a single pink photocopy that’s push-pinned to the wall (the instructions for how to use voicemail), the only remaining proof that someone worked here is the big telephone, with the long cord and two blinking lights, that floats like an island at the center of the otherwise empty desk.

Orlando’s desk phone.

According to Khazei, I’m the last person Orlando called. But that doesn’t mean I’m the last one who called him.

I rush toward his desk-and just as quickly stop myself. This isn’t the time, especially with half the staff still standing around and watching. But as I think about Orlando’s wife and son… about everything I should’ve said to them just now… this is exactly the time. Forget the Culper Ring and the dictionary and all of Nico’s ramblings. If I can find out what really happened to Orlando-I owe his family at least that much.

Sliding into his chair, I take a final glance around to see who’s looking. But to my surprise, the only one watching is the person who just stepped into the office. I turn toward her just as she peeks inside. Rina.

I lock eyes with the Mona Lisa, but by the time the chair fully swivels around, she’s already gone.

I saw her, though. I know she was there.

But right now, I need to stay focused on the current problem.

My fingers dive for the phone’s keypad, tapping the button for caller ID. The first one reads Security-ext. 75020. Those’re the guys from the front desk, probably wondering when Orlando was coming to do his shift. The next one’s from someone in Exhibits. Then a call from Westman, Aristotle-ext. 73041.

Tot? Why’s Tot calling him?

But as I scroll down to make sure I have it right, a brand-new name pops up. Then pops up again. It only gets worse.

Forget the slipknot around my stomach. My whole chest tightens like it’s squeezed by a noose.

My fingers attack caller ID like a woodpecker. Of the last dozen calls made to Orlando… seven of them… eight of them… nine of them… my Lord, ten of them…

… are all from Rina.

I spin back toward reception.

“Get off me!” a woman’s voice yells.

I know that voice. I’ve known it since junior high. It sure as hell ain’t Rina.

By the time I see what’s going on, sure enough, Rina’s not there. But in her place-

“I said, get… off!” Clementine barks, fighting to get free.

Just behind her, Khazei grips her by the biceps. I almost forgot. I’m in his territory.

The deputy chief of security isn’t letting go.