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“Is that where the jewelry place is located?”
“The design, testing, and marketing departments, yes. The manufacturing facility and storefront are on opposite sides of the city in a more industrial area.”
“So, what can you tell me about it?” I ask innocently, trying to keep the conversation going. I know whatever is said will be boss-approved. Collins is too aware of who he answers to for him to slip up and reveal too much.
I watch as he swallows. His Adam’s apple is distinct in the reflection of the rearview mirror. I can tell he is uncomfortable only because his ears turn a rosy shade, while the rest of his skin stays a perfectly even tan. His throat clears, and he meets my eyes in the rearview mirror again.
What in the world is he trying to hide?
“Mr. Hoffman is the CEO of his own company which involves the buying and designing of jewelry. The headquarters harbors the research facility that tests and experiments with various minerals and ingredients. In addition, Mr. Hoffman has part of his building allocated to the use of marketing his chain of stores. Modeling, online advertisements, and social events planning are some of the departments that take up floors in the building.”
“Wow. That’s pretty impressive.” His monologue seems very rehearsed, but impressive, nonetheless. “How can someone so young acquire so much capital to start their own company?”
Collins twitches, barely. If I wasn’t concentrating on his reactions to my questions so much, I might have missed it. “Jealousy is the name of the jewelry line,” he responds, ignoring my question.
“He didn’t go and rob a bank or something equivalently illegal, right?”
“No, ma’am.”
Something seems off. The more I am around Graham, the more I want to figure out what he is hiding. Why is he trying to buy me out of the agency? What does he not want me to find out?
I watch Collins maneuver the vehicle throughout the heart of the city, trying to share my attention between the scenery and watching for subtle changes in Collins’s facial features.
“You mentioned that he has a chain of stores?”
“He plans to open a bunch in the next six months,” he volunteers. “Some are already up and running.”
Collins is very attractive for someone so taciturn. I imagine that his script does not waver into small-talk niceties. I could easily make it my mission to derail him into untouched conversational territory. Could be fun.
Before I can torment him, Collins pulls up under a walkway where two buildings are linked. I look up at the reflective glass exterior and am in awe of the rectangular prism structures joined together to form a capital H. How fitting. I marvel at the sheer size of the construction. I am intimidated, definitely.
The parking garage attendant scans Collins’s identification badge as he hands him a folder from the passenger seat. The pop sound of the trunk opening resonates against the concrete pillars.
“Mr. Hoffman is expecting Miss McFee at half past eleven.”
The attendant takes the file and peruses it, using a portable device to scan the document that I am unable to see. I crane my neck to see what is happening, my curiosity working overtime. Collins places his hand on some type of electronic screen. What is that? A palm reader? Seriously? We need to enter a parking garage, not the White House. Next up, strip search? I refrain from adding my snark to the mix.
Suddenly the window on my side slides down, and the attendant takes a good look at me and looks back at the file. The female worker manning the booth walks out to me and hands me my own magnetic badge on a lanyard that has the same picture that I used on my driver’s license. I mumble a “thank you.”
“Can I have your palm, Miss McFee?” the attendant asks politely. I watch intently as he presses my palm to the reading device that was used on Collins just minutes before.
Once done, he walks to the trunk and then shuts it. His nod to Collins is stiff. The metal gate rises to allow us access. Whatever happened to the little wooden barriers that looked like railroad crossing arms? Or the classically cool spikes for the tires?
“Do you typically smuggle illegal immigrants into the garage via the trunk?” I am being a smartass, but I can’t resist the urge.
My window rolls up by the push of a button from the front seat. I look at Collins in the mirror, and he answers my unspoken question. “Mr. Hoffman is very diligent when it comes to security. He doesn’t put up with any breach. His concern of leaking trade secrets drives his handling of everyone entering the facility.”
“Still seems a bit”—I struggle to find the right word—“excessive.”
“One of those workers you just saw is new.”
“So you were testing them?”
A single nod. “Mr. Hoffman is always testing his employees. You don’t get to be as successful as he is by being careless.”
“But you should be on a free-fly list,” I comment softly. Surely, Graham trusts Collins.
“In case I am being compromised through threats and blackmail, all security detail for the building must treat everyone the same. All employees undergo a scan search upon arrival each day. All cellular phones and picture taking devices of any kind must be left in the vehicle or checked in at the front lobby each day. You have a badge now, so you’ll be able to enter the front of the building without me.”
