she’d somehow missed him. That mouth! What internal fear, grief, or hate kept it that shape, like a Ziploc fault line in hell’s outer shell? What poor slob had she eaten sliced up on her cereal that morning? A face like that sent Nick disconcerting vibes of cabals in ancient castles deciding the future of millions of serfs and soldiers–and he was no soldier.
Just when he thought he was getting a little carried away by his gothic imaginings, she addressed him.
“Mr. Herald?” she called out. “You are Mr. Herald, are you not?”
Caught. He poked his head out again. Sheepishly he answered, “Yes, that’s right. What can I do for you?”
“Invite me up. I’m here particularly to see you.”
“Natalie Armiger,” she said, extending a meticulously manicured, tastefully bejeweled hand. She sat down, draping one stockinged knee elegantly over the other. Nick, suddenly feeling out of place in his own office, sat in his chair behind his desk.
“I’ll get right to the point,” she said. “I am engaging you to commit a crime.”
“Hey, lady…uh, Mrs. Armiger, you’ve got the wrong office, maybe. I’m a genealogist. I do things like pedigree charts, family trees, inheritance traces, applications for lineage societies–”
“I know who you are. And what you’ve done. I have come to the right place, I am sure. My company is Artemis Holdings. I own this building.”
Sweat broke out on Nick’s forehead. She was here to draw-and-quarter him about Hawty’s architectural activism. Had to be. But what was this “crime” stuff? Artemis, Armiger…they had a familiar ring. Yes, of course . Una had spoken of Artemis the other day, at the Folio.
Artemis of Greek lore protected innocence and punished hubris. Mrs. Armiger’s darker incarnation of the mythological huntress seemed distinctly short in the empathy and justice departments. Nick suspected that this Artemis was wholly concerned with making the powerful even more powerful. He didn’t want to find out what it did to people like him.
“Oh, have no concern about your employee’s persistence in requesting the alterations to the structure. Hawty Latimer,” she said, referring to a small notepad in a plush-looking leather case. “I admire that young woman. We share a certain intellectual impatience. In fact, I offered her a position with my company. She turned me down; she was concerned the full-time job, flexible and lucrative as it was, would interfere with her schooling, and with her work for you. Admirable.
“These things–cosmetic, really–should have been done long ago by the former owners. We acquired the building only recently. Many such details have been on my list. I find that in business, as in life, the simple things, the easily solved minor problems, are often put off until circumstances demand action. What one must always keep in the forefront is survival.”
“I suppose that’s one way of looking at it,” Nick said, carefully noncommittal. At the moment, Nick was interested in his own survival. He knew he wasn’t exhibiting an exceptional amount of Hemingway’s grace under pressure. When the bull charged, Nick preferred to be behind the protective fence. Ernest would have thrown his drink on him in disgust. This woman intimidated the daylights out of him.
“You are currently employed by a man named Maximilian Corban. You are investigating the history and possible descendants of a man named Balazar. Max Corban is a liar. This is not his family. It is mine.”
“What? Sorry, you lost me. Are you two related?”
“Not remotely.”
“Why would Max pay me to do genealogical research on a family that isn’t even his own?” Though he wasn’t sure he believed her, her words seemed to explain that pebble of doubt he’d had in his boot about Corban. “And how do you know what I’m doing for him, anyway? That’s confidential.”
“A few innocent questions at the public library and the Plutarch. You see, I have been
Just when he thought he was getting a little carried away by his gothic imaginings, she addressed him.
“Mr. Herald?” she called out. “You are Mr. Herald, are you not?”
Caught. He poked his head out again. Sheepishly he answered, “Yes, that’s right. What can I do for you?”
“Invite me up. I’m here particularly to see you.”
“Natalie Armiger,” she said, extending a meticulously manicured, tastefully bejeweled hand. She sat down, draping one stockinged knee elegantly over the other. Nick, suddenly feeling out of place in his own office, sat in his chair behind his desk.
“I’ll get right to the point,” she said. “I am engaging you to commit a crime.”
“Hey, lady…uh, Mrs. Armiger, you’ve got the wrong office, maybe. I’m a genealogist. I do things like pedigree charts, family trees, inheritance traces, applications for lineage societies–”
“I know who you are. And what you’ve done. I have come to the right place, I am sure. My company is Artemis Holdings. I own this building.”
Sweat broke out on Nick’s forehead. She was here to draw-and-quarter him about Hawty’s architectural activism. Had to be. But what was this “crime” stuff? Artemis, Armiger…they had a familiar ring. Yes, of course . Una had spoken of Artemis the other day, at the Folio.
Artemis of Greek lore protected innocence and punished hubris. Mrs. Armiger’s darker incarnation of the mythological huntress seemed distinctly short in the empathy and justice departments. Nick suspected that this Artemis was wholly concerned with making the powerful even more powerful. He didn’t want to find out what it did to people like him.
“Oh, have no concern about your employee’s persistence in requesting the alterations to the structure. Hawty Latimer,” she said, referring to a small notepad in a plush-looking leather case. “I admire that young woman. We share a certain intellectual impatience. In fact, I offered her a position with my company. She turned me down; she was concerned the full-time job, flexible and lucrative as it was, would interfere with her schooling, and with her work for you. Admirable.
“These things–cosmetic, really–should have been done long ago by the former owners. We acquired the building only recently. Many such details have been on my list. I find that in business, as in life, the simple things, the easily solved minor problems, are often put off until circumstances demand action. What one must always keep in the forefront is survival.”
“I suppose that’s one way of looking at it,” Nick said, carefully noncommittal. At the moment, Nick was interested in his own survival. He knew he wasn’t exhibiting an exceptional amount of Hemingway’s grace under pressure. When the bull charged, Nick preferred to be behind the protective fence. Ernest would have thrown his drink on him in disgust. This woman intimidated the daylights out of him.
“You are currently employed by a man named Maximilian Corban. You are investigating the history and possible descendants of a man named Balazar. Max Corban is a liar. This is not his family. It is mine.”
“What? Sorry, you lost me. Are you two related?”
“Not remotely.”
“Why would Max pay me to do genealogical research on a family that isn’t even his own?” Though he wasn’t sure he believed her, her words seemed to explain that pebble of doubt he’d had in his boot about Corban. “And how do you know what I’m doing for him, anyway? That’s confidential.”
“A few innocent questions at the public library and the Plutarch. You see, I have been
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