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“Unicycles, employee graffiti—when we get upstairs, is everyone going to be dressed like clowns?”

  “No, of course not,” he scoffed. “The makeup plays havoc with the headsets.” He caught her look and grinned. “Just kidding. We like people to enjoy themselves while they work—happy people on the end of the phone line translates to happy customers, don’t you think?”

  The elevator arrived and they stepped on board. The walls were painted with exotic jungle flowers and papered with employee notices: bowling, fishing trips, a wine and cheese gathering, community theatre auditions for Pippin, and a more official-appearing schedule of events.

  “Oh, good, candling today at lunch. My ears have been feeling a bit blocked.” He punched the button for the top floor.

  She had no idea what he was talking about. “Where to? Human resources? Paperwork?”

  “I am HR. And I hate paperwork.” He slouched against the corner walls. “You see,” he continued as the elevator carried them to the fifth floor, “Mr. Kagan, he believes that a company is like a family. We all play our role in making things work, but we also all need to have fun.”

  “Thus the unicycle.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Is that also why my job interview was over the phone instead of coming here in person?”

  “No. That’s so we can get a read on your speaking voice and how you handle yourself under pressure. It wasn’t your typical job interview, was it?”

  “I haven’t had that many to compare.”

  “How about the question about the goldfish at the north pole—did you like that one? It’s one of mine.”

  Morgan honestly didn’t even remember the actual questions—she’d simply focused on answering in any way that might ensure she got the job. It was either work here or break in one night to try to access the data. This way she also had time to observe the people of All American, to see if anyone took an inordinate interest in clients or had left a cybertrail of breadcrumbs.

  Of course she hadn’t counted on her fellow employees being so…colorful.

  The elevator doors opened onto a spacious area with walls more reminiscent of an art gallery than a corporate office. The walls formed a maze of small rooms, each furnished in a variety of eclectic styles. In the first “gallery” she spied a woman sitting on a couch shaped like a giant’s hand, her legs curled around its fingers, typing at a computer on a desk resembling a miniature grand piano. Behind her one wall played a video of flowers unfurling in slow motion while the other sported a Gauguin. When the woman, a thin blonde of indeterminate age, spotted Gavin waving at her, she climbed free of the couch, smoothed her pencil skirt, and approached.

  “This must be the new girl. Hildy, right? Spencer’s waiting for you.” Before Morgan could respond, the woman pivoted sharply on her heel and led the way through the maze, her sensible pumps clicking against the marble floor.

  “This is Trish Mendoza,” Gavin told Morgan in a sotto voice—well, as sotto as he seemed able to achieve. “She runs everything. Without her, the whole place would fall apart.”

  They arrived at a corner office. A trim, fiftyish man sitting at a traditional desk—one crafted of rare woods that Morgan was certain cost more than her car—stood to greet them. His chair was a bright green exercise balance ball. He kicked the ball out of the way and leaned over the desk to offer his hand.

  “Spencer Kagan. CEO of All American. You must be Hildy.” He pumped Morgan’s hand as she took in his yellow golf shirt and pink and green plaid slacks. “I must say, we were mighty impressed with your performance during the interview, Hildy. Weren’t we, Trish?”

  “Yes, sir. Mighty impressed.” Trish’s face was a blank mask, and Morgan wasn’t sure if she was making fun of Kagan or not. Gavin was beaming so hard he was practically bouncing out of his Teva sandals.

  “I’m excited to see how you fit into our little family, Hildy,” Kagan continued. “Things move fast around here—and I’m not just talking call volume. Chances for advancement, new opportunities, they’re all here waiting for the right person.” He stood back, palms flat on the desk, and appraised Morgan, scanning her from head to toe. “That person might be you. If you have the right attitude.”

  “Work hard, play hard, that’s what I told her,” Gavin said, stepping back as if also assessing Morgan.

  All three of their gazes rested on her, and she had the feeling they were searching for something more than someone good on the phone. While Morgan tried to interpret their body language, she remained in character, shifting her weight and blushing. “I’m excited to get started,” she said. “I really need the job, and I appreciate the opportunity, Mr. Kagan.”

  “Spencer, please. Gavin will show you around but I hope you’ll join us after work at the Lighthouse.”

  “It’s a pub down the road where we all get together,” Gavin supplied.

  “Tonight we’re sponsoring a dart tournament—employees drink and eat free. See you there.”

  Gavin and Trish ushered Morgan out.

  “That went well. I think he likes you,” Gavin gushed, as if it were his own personal achievement.

  Trish didn’t even bother smiling. Instead she handed Morgan a temporary ID badge. “By the time you finish the tour, I’ll have your paperwork waiting at your station. You need to sign the non-disclosure and waiver before you touch a phone. After orientation we’ll get you your official ID.”

  Gavin headed back to the elevator, almost toppling a Rodin reproduction on the way. But Morgan lingered with Trish. She pitched her voice loud enough for Gavin to hear without effort. “I—uh—would it be possible, I mean, when can I get my first pay check, do you think?”

  “Yes, when I checked the address you gave, they said you’d left.”

  “That was my boyfriend—my ex-boyfriend’s fault. He stole all my money, including what I’d saved for rent. But now I need first and last months’ to get a new place.” She trailed off uncertainly. Trish’s expression never changed, neither sympathetic nor judgmental. Just totally neutral.

  “Where are you living now?”

  “Uh, in my car. It’s okay. I can wait until pay day.” She stared at her shoes, twisting the toes of one foot against the marble. “I just thought maybe I could work a few extra shifts? I don’t mind working nights or graveyard shift. Really, anything would be fine.”

  “Let’s see how you do. Get you past orientation first.”

  “Yes ma’am. Thank you.” Morgan turned and sped off to join Gavin at the elevator. She hoped Trish bought her act—if she had some time here in the building when it was quieter during the overnight shift, then she could access the mainframe without rushing, so she’d leave no trail.

  Otherwise things might get a bit sloppy. The last thing she needed was to scare off her guy—or worse, warn him that she was getting close.

  Chapter Three

  Morgan stood with Gavin for a few moments before she realized he hadn’t pressed the call button.

  “Where to next?” she asked.

  “I couldn’t help but overhear.” His expression was one of sympathy. Given Gavin’s gift of gab, she bet that before lunch the entire building would know her as Hildy the homeless purple wigged cancer girl with lousy taste in men. “I’ve got a spare room if you don’t mind cats. Or there’s plenty of folks who’d let you borrow their couch for a night.”

  “Thanks, but I’ll be fine. As long as I get through orientation so I can start earning a paycheck.”

  “If you say so. But the offer stands. Any time.” He patted her shoulder, and she stayed in character; didn’t flinch. Morgan did not like being touched—especially uninvited.

  “I appreciate it,” she told him in an earnest tone. “Thanks.”

  They continued their tour, starting with the rest of the top floor. Gavin guided her past more “offices”—the open rooms festooned with works of art along with work spaces—as well as the break room, which included a ping-pong table, foosball, and a row of dartboards.

&nbs
p; “Spencer is serious about his darts,” he told her. “We’ve won the pub league six years running. Fair warning—he’ll be watching you tonight, to see if you’re team material.”

  Morgan was well practiced at knife throwing—not that she’d ever use the technique in a real fight. After all, who in their right mind would throw away a weapon? Even if you hit your target with enough force to injure, it was damned difficult to guarantee they wouldn’t be able to take your knife and use it against you. But she’d never tried darts. Although how hard could it be?

  They ended up back at the elevators, but instead he pushed open the door to the stairs. “Faster this way,” he said, as he cantered down a flight. They passed the fourth floor landing.

  “What’s in there?” she asked, as he began down to the third floor.

  “Computer stuff. Servers. The wires that keep the phones all working.” He waved a hand as if the technical elements that allowed All American to function were some kind of magic. “Boring stuff.”

  She followed his gesture, noting the keypad, ID card reader, and electronic lock on the door, as well as the cameras monitoring it. A lot of security for “boring” stuff. Which made the fourth floor especially interesting to her.

  Exactly like how “boring” stuff like noticing the pattern in victims’ phone records had gotten her here in the first place. In fact, the whole thing had begun as an exercise in hacking—she’d targeted the Palatine secure database code that many law enforcement agencies used and had stumbled across several intriguing cold cases scattered across several jurisdictions.

  And she’d been bored. So bored that she’d delved deeper and finally, maybe, found herself a serial killer.

  “First floor houses our nonprofit arm,” Gavin continued. “Second is the sales center—or the lion’s den, as I like to call it. Testosterone heaven. Those guys are like sharks.”

  “Always be closing,” she suggested.

  Gavin turned a puzzled glance her way.

  “Like the movie? Glengarry Glen Ross?” Now that was a movie she had understood. Unlike the so-called comedies that Micah enjoyed. Although they both appreciated a good shoot-em-up action flick—Micah for the vicarious thrills and Morgan for the chance to critique the ridiculous tactics.

  Gavin shrugged. They reached the third floor landing. “Here we are: home sweet home. Our customer care center.”

  The door opened to a large space divided by cubicles, the air filled with a cacophony of voices—exactly as Morgan had expected. No fine art here, although at the far end was a wall covered with scrawled graffiti resembling the walls of a truck stop men’s room more than the affirmations painted downstairs in the lobby. Hanging in front of the wall was a punching bag patched with duct-tape. In the corner beside it were two dart boards; only instead of the regulation target, one held an anonymous man’s face and the other a woman’s.

  “Sometimes people need to vent,” Gavin said when he saw her take in the set up. “How do you think we got to be the pub league champions?”

  A few workers finally noticed their presence and waved. There didn’t seem to be a dress code—Morgan spotted everything from tees and shorts to a sari to a formal suit. Some people stood at their desks, others sat, and there was a row with treadmills built into the desks and another with exercise bikes.

  “Those go fast—it pays to come early for your shift if you want to grab one,” Gavin told her, as they strolled down the room lengthwise. Each worker had noise-canceling headsets on and a computer in front of them. And they were all talking; constantly talking in low, soothing voices to their invisible callers.

  For the first time, Morgan had second thoughts about her plan. Maybe breaking in would be better. She wasn’t exactly a people person—although Hildy was—and she never talked much; her conversations with Micah were her mostly listening. Could she even do this? Talk all day to strangers, care enough—or pretend to care—to solve their problems, all the while trying to figure out who might be a serial killer using All American to find their victims?

  Lucy and Jenna made the actual ‘finding the killer’ part seem so easy. But this was going to be work—hard work.

  Maybe this was all a mistake.

  Chapter Four

  Somehow Morgan made it through the day without killing anyone and without fleeing. She’d never before felt so totally outside her comfort zone.

  Gavin shepherded her every step of the way—even taking her to the candling session over lunch. Turned out that Hope, one of her fellow workers, was studying to be a holistic healer and periodically used her call center co-workers to practice on. Today Morgan watched as people lined up to have her insert wax cones in their ears and light them on fire.

  That’s when she decided that these people were insane. Who in their right mind would let a stranger set them on fire?

  Morgan had almost died twice in fires—once saving Jenna’s life, or trying to before Andre saved them both, and once saving Micah. She forced herself not to shy away from fire, but she also wasn’t stupid enough to invite it close to her. Certainly not in the form of a stranger lighting a candle in her ear.

  But to the All American staff, they weren’t strangers. They were family.

  Gavin was the silly uncle who could make everyone laugh and who gave good advice and solved problems.

  Hope, for all her new age mumbo-jumbo—including offering to cast a star chart and do a tarot reading for Morgan—was the crazy aunt with all the cats.

  Toby, the oldest of the male workers—the man who wore the formal business suit—herded the group, reminded them when their break was over, and sat at the best seat in the break room while people stopped in to visit him like a patriarch. Morgan was half surprised he didn’t raise his hand to have his ring kissed like the Godfather—now those movies she got. Although proud and solemn, he didn’t seem mean, and everyone was smiling when they left his side.

  The maternal figure, though, surprised her. It was a girl not much older than she was pretending to be, who sat quietly in the far corner—both during the lunch break and also in the call center. In fact, her station in the call center was the most isolated; although as Morgan and Gavin had listened in to calls throughout the morning, she noticed that everyone glanced at the girl in the corner when they got a difficult call.

  She’d catch their gaze and give them an encouraging smile, then message them with an estimate of how long the call she was on would last. Sometimes they’d message back with their problem and she’d answer with advice; other times they’d transfer their call to her. Most of the time, though, just her smile and nod seemed to be reassurance enough, and they’d handle the call on their own.

  “That’s Zoe,” Gavin told her. “She’s amazing—only been here a few months, but she’s like you, a natural.”

  Morgan doubted that the girl was anything like her. But she kept an eye on Zoe. If anyone could help her survive this job long enough to target the killer, it would be her. “Can I work with her?”

  “Sure. I think that would be great. I’ll set it up. You couldn’t ask for a better mentor than Zoe.”

  Morgan learned how the system worked; how to pick up calls, transfer them, and put them on hold without disconnecting; how to bring up the caller’s data on the network; and most importantly, the Three Rules of the Care Center:

  Never be rude, including interrupting or keeping a caller on hold too long.

  Never promise something you can’t do.

  And never, ever hang up on the caller. Stay on the line until they are satisfied and end the call.

  “Live by those and you’ll do fine,” Gavin assured her. “We used to use quotas and measure call times and wait times, then dock people’s pay or give them bonuses based on the numbers, but we found those just created an unhappy workforce and unhappy customers. I know this new customer-centric system seems a bit touchy-feely,” he used finger quotes for the last—somehow with Gavin, finger-quotes didn’t seem as stupid as they did with most people, “but it
works. Our stats on the number of calls handled is better than ever, probably because we have fewer repeat callers, and our customer satisfaction ratings have considerably improved.”

  A thirty-something man approached the station she and Gavin were using. He had the kind of tan that looked fake even though here, so close to the beach, there was no reason for it to be.

  “Fresh blood. Sweet,” he said by way of introduction, eyeing Morgan while inserting himself between her and Gavin. “Want me to show her the ropes?” He spoke like he was in charge.

  Gavin rolled his chair to the side so he could maintain eye contact with Morgan. “Thanks, but that won’t be necessary, Allen.”

  “Sure? No problem. I could take this sweet little thing under my wing, teach her everything she needs to know.”

  “I think I’ve got it handled.” Gavin’s voice turned firm as he slid his chair next to Morgan’s, both of them now facing Allen.

  “Okay, then. See you tonight at the pub.” He pursed his lips as he glanced down Morgan’s blouse and then sidled off.

  “That was Allen,” Gavin said with a sigh.

  “I take it he’s probably responsible for most of your sexual harassment claims.”

  Gavin laughed. “Every office has one. He’s harmless—once you get to know him, he’s actually a good guy. Lives with his dad who has Alzheimer’s, and spends all his free time taking care of him. Coming here everyday and the occasional office outing like the pub tonight are his only life.”

  He sighed, all merriment vanished. “We’re his only family, in a way. In fact, when he can’t get caretakers for his dad, we usually take turns if he has to work or needs a night off. You’d like his father—he’s a retired firefighter from Atlanta. Has a million stories.”

  “I thought he has Alzheimer’s?”

  “Yeah, he won’t remember who you are or even who Allen is, but boy, he remembers his stories. Get him talking and he’ll go on for hours. I go over there for a few hours most weekends, and I know Zoe is there a few days a week. Helps him to see other people than just Allen and the nurse, I guess.”