The elevator arrived and Novarro stood in the lobby of DataSĀF; hues of pinks and grays with a receptionist arena at the far end. A young woman with a severe look and hair sat within the granite-topped semicircle holding a clipboard. She wore a phone headset and was feverishly inputting data into a computer. “There’s a sign-in sheet,” the woman said, not looking up.
“I’m the heat,” Novarro said, holding up the badge. “I need to talk to someone about accessing a client account.”
The woman didn’t blink. “Take a seat and I’ll tell someone you’re out here.”
The chairs were designed to afford hipness before comfort and Novarro found sitting in one of the wobbly rail-and-canvas monstrosities was like trying to stand in a hammock. She leaned against the wall and read DataSĀF’s annual report, the only reading material in the room. It seemed DataSĀF was the largest cloud-based business data storage firm in the Southwest. They were growing at an average of 16 percent a year. They stored about a zillion wiga-diga-gigabytes or something like that. Their motto was “Putting Security Above All.”
Novarro fought the yawn and tossed the report back on a low table.
After ten minutes she returned to the receptionist, who seemed to have moved nothing but her fingers during that time.
“Excuse me,” Novarro said. “I need to—”
“Someone will be out momentarily,” the young woman said, not looking up from her keyboarding. “We’re quite busy here.”
Five more minutes passed. Novarro re-approached the recepti-robot. “Excuse me … could you direct me to the ladies’ room?”
“Down the hall to the left,” the woman said. “But it’s not a ladies’ room. It’s unisex.”
“Wonderful,” Novarro smiled as she turned for the door, “that means I can use my penis if I want.”
A perplexed receptionist staring at her back, Novarro went left, passing the bathroom and finding the hall opened into a dozen cubicles with tech types perched over keyboards. The décor was stark and soulless: gray walls, white floor, macro photos of color-enhanced computer chips on the wall, artsy in a way that could only appeal to computer geeks.
She saw several young men and women pow-wowing at a long table in a glass-walled meeting room. Standing at the end of the table was a tall and slender man wearing khakis and a pink shirt with wide red suspenders, his sockless feet tucked into what appeared to be suede loafers with running-shoe soles. He appeared in his late thirties, which made him the elder of the tribe. His head was shaved above with a short neat beard below, a contemporary look Novarro thought made men look like their hair had slipped. She pushed open the glass door and leaned into the room.
Mr Shiny-head frowned at her. “Excuse me,” he said, his voice a mix of question and irritation, “but who the hell are you?”
Novarro fully entered the room, beamed, and held up the shield. “I need to talk to someone somewhere about an account with whoever.”
The man blew out a breath, like Novarro had made him forget something important he was about to say.
“Talk to our-our office manager. Turn right and head down to—”
“You’re important, right,” Novarro interrupted.
A raised eyebrow. He still had those. “I’m Kenneth Larkin. The CEO.” He said each letter like it was an individual word.
Novarro kept the smile but did a come-hither with her index finger. “Then you’re just the guy to walk me back and introduce me around.”
Larkin turned to the assembled intelligentsia with rolled eyes and exasperation in his voice. “Excuse me, folks. Back in a minute.”
He led Novarro to an office around the corner, the nameplate reading Candace Klebbin – Director, Administrative Services. A woman at a desk looked up, in her early forties or thereabouts, solid but not overweight, her face handsome in a raw and Western way, with piercing violet eyes, square jaw, high and angular cheekbones. She wore a businesslike dark blue pantsuit, almost masculine in cut.
“Candace can get you started,” Larkin said, spinning back toward the meeting room where Novarro figured there was currently a self-importance deficit.
“I need to look at files belonging to a late client of yours,” Novarro said.
“You have an instrument?” Klebbin asked.
It was one of the few times Novarro had heard a non-legal type refer to a court order as “instrument,” meaning an instrument of the law. She pulled the writ from the inside pocket of her gray jacket. “It’s right here.”
Klebbin gave it a cursory glance. “The legal folks need to take a look. It’s mandat—”
“Pardon my abruptness,” Novarro interrupted. “I know this is an important office, and everyone’s busy boxing up data or whatever, but I’m kind of in a rush and already got chilled in the lobby for a half hour.”
Klebbin absorbed the information and shook her head. “Sometimes they’re so busy being busy nothing gets done. Let me see if I can’t speed things up.” She picked up her desk phone and dialed, cupping her hand over the phone as it rang. “Arthur Lazelle.” She winked. “A law degree from Loyola and I don’t think he’s ever set foot in a courtroo— Hello, Art? It’s Candace. There’s a Phoenix detective in my office with a CO allowing her to access— I know it’s your workout time, Art, but …” She listened and rolled her eyes. “Be that as it may, Arthur, the detective seems a personal friend of Kenneth’s and he said to – OK, see you in a few.”
“Thanks,” Novarro said. “I hope that doesn’t get you in trouble.”
“No problem,” Klebbin smiled. “I don’t expect to be here much longer.”
Three minutes later a wet-haired man in his early thirties bounded into the room. He wore a blue workout suit and a toothy smile. “Sorry, detective,” he said, “we have a corporate gym and I like to get in some CrossFit and take a steam.” The eyes scanned Novarro. “You look like you work out. Got a routine?”
“I like to run the trails at South Mountain Park. I bike some. A little tennis.” Not a trendy or branded workout.
“Sounds, uh, fun,” Lazelle said, suddenly disinterested. “What can I do for you?”
She handed him the writ. “We need to access the records of Dr Leslie Meridien, recently deceased via murder.”
The lawyer read for several seconds. “The writ only covers—”
Novarro nodded. “Names of patients, dates of appointments. No interviews or session files can be viewed. I just need a copy of the aforementioned.”
“No prob,” he said. “Let’s go see Chaz. He’ll pull up everything you need.”
Novarro’s hallway pilgrimage continued around another corner, the nameplate this time saying Charles V. Hinton, Director, Tech Services.
“Knock, knock, buddy,” the lawyer called through the door.
“Busy here,” said the body hunched over the computer, a major-league monitor before him. “Come back later.”
“Got a Phoenix detective with me, bud,” Lazelle said.
“I don’t care if you—”
“She’s a friend of Art’s.”
Chaz Hinton spun to Novarro, the lawyer, and Klebbin, who had followed. The