After an hour of calling wrong numbers and dead ends, Celia had written “dead” by half the names. Four had question marks. They either had unlisted numbers, or no relatives who could vouch for them.
Finally she came to the end of the list. A woman answered the number listed in the phone book.
Celia said, “Is this Janet Travers?”
“Yes?”
“Are you the Janet Travers who worked as a lab tech at a place called the Leyden Industrial Park about fifty years ago?”
The phone line hissed and whispered during a pause. Then the woman said, “Yes.”
Celia whispered a prayer of thanks to the data gods. “I’m working with the DA’s office tracking down some information. Do you think I could ask you a few questions?”
Her voice was steady, but soft, whispering almost. “About what?”
“What kind of research was being conducted there? What experiments were going on? I haven’t been able to find any formal lab reports.”
“That was a very long time ago. I don’t really remember.”
“Nothing at all?”
“I was a bench tech. I processed samples, that’s all. I wasn’t privy to the overall results, Miss … What did you say your name was?”
Celia wanted very much to skip over that part. “Ms. Travers, Simon Sito worked at that lab. Can you tell me anything about—”
>
Janet Travers hung up.
Well. There was a thread that needed following.
* * *
At the end of the day, she collected her notes, and headed to the penthouse to find out if the museum had been robbed yet.
In the elevator, she ran the key card through the reader authorizing penthouse access. The ride up would take a good long time. Plenty of time to consider her chances on the job market. Maybe there was still time for the trial to produce another scandal that would boot her out of the headlines.
The only thing she had to look at was her reflection in the brushed steel wall across from her: red hair pushed back with a headband, baggy sweatshirt and sweats, sneakers, file folder hugged to her chest, the whole image blurred and warped. She might have been sixteen again, coming home from school. She was grown up now; she just didn’t feel like it.
The lights flashed to abrupt darkness and the elevator lurched to a stop. She braced against the wall; an emergency light came on, making the steel walls glow red. Her face looked sunburned in the reflection.
She stood still, frozen, waiting to hear something—a groan of gears restarting, someone forcing a door. Her blood pounded in her ears; all else was sickeningly silent.
The Stradivarius Brothers couldn’t possibly infiltrate West Plaza. Impossible. Not with West Corp security, not with the Olympiad’s sensors in place. Seconds ticked by, and every one of them dragged.
She was trapped, and they were coming for her.
The intercom crackled on. She flinched.
“Hi, is anyone in there?” A young man spoke. He sounded almost friendly. “If anyone’s there, could you pick up the phone behind the panel?”
Under the floor buttons, a panel had a sticker with an image of a phone on it. Celia opened the door and found the receiver.
“Yes? I’m in here.” She spoke ever so calmly. Her whole body was clenched tight with nerves, but she made her voice calm.
“Okay, ma’am. I’m Jeff, in maintenance. We were running some routine checks on this part of the building when the power accidentally cut off. We’re working on getting the elevators restarted. We should have you out of there real soon, just a few minutes. You okay?”
She almost laughed, but for Jeff’s sake, swallowed back the insane cackles. “Yes, I think so. Thanks for telling me.”