Read Online Parker 05 - The Darkness by Jason Pinter - Free Book Online

cameras or news
    crew? I don't want my son to see me on the Internet."
    "We'll see how things go upstairs," Jack said. "Come on."
    The Darkness
    63
    I followed him to a bank of metal turnstiles, manned
    by another security guard, this one looking much less
    awake on the job than the guys at the front desk. We
    showed him our badges, and he pressed a button that
    swung the turnstiles. We passed through, made our way
    to the elevator bank and headed up to the fourth floor.
    Jack hummed a tune I couldn't recognize as we ascended,
    and I felt slightly anxious, wondering just how far this
    would take us. I was also somewhat concerned about
    pulling my weight on this story. As much as I wanted to
    find out just what the hell was going on with this shadow
    corporation, earning the respect of Jack O'Donnell was
    a close second.
    The doors opened, and we followed a sterile beige
    hallway to a pair of double glass doors with the words
    Orchid Realty stenciled on them. I opened the door for
    Jack, the glass swinging out effortlessly and without a
    sound. A heavyset woman with curly reddish hair sat
    behind an oak desk, a pair of old-fashioned headphones
    resting on her ears that looked less Bluetooth than long
    in the tooth. The nameplate read Iris Mahoney.
    Iris was filing her nails, pausing every few moments
    to blow nail dust from her hands and onto the floor.
    As we approached, her eyes rose and a wide smile
    crossed her lips. "You must be those boys from the newspaper," she said. "Welcome to Orchid."
    "Hi," I said before Jack could open his mouth. "Miss
    Mahoney, if it's not too much trouble we'd like to speak
    to one of your property managers."
    "Certainly, sir. Which of our managers would you like
    to speak with?"
    "Whoever handles the building which until recently
    leased space to a company called 718 Enterprises."
    64
    Jason Pinter
    The receptionist pursed her lips, sucked in air and
    squinted. "Hmm...that doesn't ring a bell. Let me check
    our database."
    She put down the nail file and began typing. Two
    fingered. One finger at a time. Slow enough that I could
    hear Jack breathing heavier as his frustration grew. Every
    few moments the lady would mutter a pleasant "no"
    under her breath and continue typing. After several minutes she looked up at us and said, "I'm sorry, sir, we
    don't have any records for a 718 Enterprises. Are you sure
    you have the right realty corporation?"
    "You do manage the building leases at sixteen-twenty
    Avenue of the Americas, right?"
    "Now that sounds familiar. If my memory serves me,
    they have a wonderful tantric yoga studio." She blushed
    slightly. I pretended not to have heard anything.
    "That's the building," Jack said. "Listen, hon," he continued, approaching the desk, a warm smile on his face.
    It was shocking to compare this to his countenance
    downstairs. Different folks responded to different temperaments. Jack didn't get his reputation by assuming
    everyone reacted the same way to everything. "We're not
    here to cause trouble. We're investigating a story for our
    newspapers, it's our job, really, and we just have a few
    questions about the building. If you could just let us know
    who manages that property, we'll be out of your hair in
    no time. What do you say?"
    The apple-cheeked receptionist smiled, and if I didn't
    know any better, it looked like she might have suddenly
    developed a small crush on the elder newsman. "Hold on
    one second. If you'll have a seat, I'll have somebody out
    here to assist you right away."
    "You've made my day, darlin'." Her smile widened.
    The Darkness
    65
    We took seats in two leather chairs. I shuffled through
    a pile of uninteresting magazines before putting them
    back. Jack just sat there. He didn't need any distractions.
    After thumbing through the pile of outdated magazines
    for a second time--in case Victorian Homes had magically been replaced by Sports Illustrated --a middle-aged
    man with a short haircut and mustache entered the waiting room. His