SURVEILLANCE OVERRIDE ALERT: PORTE-COCHÈRE CAMERA 02 MANUALLY RE-INDEXED BY USER #001 (GM_VANCE) AT 11:04 AM. ASSOCIATED VIDEO CLIP #8842 MARKED FOR DELETION UPON SESSION CLOSE.
The tablet wasn't locked. Vance had left it authenticated to the property management system while he ran the presentation.
On the open browser window, behind the alert, was the dispatch log for Room 412. The digital ledger showed our keycards hadn't been surrendered on a dressing table. They had been manually deactivated by the general manager’s terminal at 10:58 AM with the internal status code: FORCE LOCKOUT – SQUATTER REMOVAL – NO POLICE RECORD.
Directly underneath was the audit transaction Vance had executed three minutes later: a transfer of seventy-two thousand dollars from the Mercer Heritage Pension Escrow into the General Manager's Deferred Incentive Ledger, flagged to execute the second the lease proxy was signed on floor five.
If I walked into that room with the paper from the basement, Vance would call security, claim I had stolen the function sheet from an employee locker, and have the private guards drag us out through the freight dock before Richard could read the header. In three minutes, the proxy would be signed, the corporate seal would drop onto the parchment, and the transaction would clear into the New York clearinghouse beyond anyone's power to recall.
I looked at Maya. Her little fingers were tracing the printed name on the blue sheet—Thomas Mercer, Scullery Head, 31 Years.
"Maya," I whispered, kneeling until my face was level with hers, my cold feet gripping the bare floor. "Give me your rosin block."
She reached into the case without a word, pulled out the small rectangular wooden block of dark pine resin, and handed it to me.
I took Vance's open tablet from the counter, slid it into the violin case right beside the horsehair bow, and snapped the brass latches shut. Then I reached into the service warming cart, grabbed the heavy, scalding-hot stainless steel cloche covering the board's prime rib platter, and turned toward the swinging louvered door.
CHAPTER 3: The Boardroom Audit Door
The louvered door swung inward with a dry hinge scrape that cut straight through Arthur Vance’s sentence.
I didn't stop in the threshold. I kept my stocking feet flat on the polished parquet, stepped past the service sideboard, and set the heavy stainless steel cloche down in the center of the mahogany table with an echoing brass clang. It landed right across the corner of the blue proxy agreement, an inch from Richard’s resting fountain pen.
Seven pairs of eyes snapped up. Councilman Driscoll froze with his water goblet suspended halfway to his mouth. Mrs. Althaus pulled her legal pad against her chest as if someone had tracked gravel across her skirt.
Arthur Vance did not shout. His face went gray along the jawline, but his hands stayed flat on his manila folder. He stood up smoothly, his chair rolling back four inches on the deep pile carpet, his voice settling into the crisp, calibrated tone he used for drunk convention guests.
"Claire," he said, turning just enough to shield his open folder from Richard’s view. "This is an executive session closed under municipal charter. You were informed at check-out that non-credentialed former staff are restricted to the ground-level HR office. Step back into the service pantry while I call building security to escort you down."
He reached for the black console phone beside his elbow.
I didn't back up. I reached down, took Maya’s hand, and pulled her through the doorway into the room. She was holding her small black violin case against her ribs with both arms, her hair still dark and matted from the drizzle on Commonwealth Avenue, the frayed cuffs of her windbreaker dripping water directly onto the twenty-foot boardroom carpet.
"Look at her shoes, Richard," I said. My voice wasn't loud, but the acoustic ceiling caught it and held it. "Look at the soles."
Richard pushed his spectacles down his nose. He looked at Maya’s wet socks, looked at my bare feet resting on the parquet, and then looked at Vance’s outstretched hand on the telephone console. "Claire? What is this? Arthur just showed us the departure log from the fourth floor. He said you vacated at nine."