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“He’s likely to ignore my needs and wishes?”
Saxon thinks about it. “Let me rephrase it. He likes to get his own way.”
“Is that supposed to be a better way of putting it?”
“Maybe not. Can I take the fifth?”
“Your poor mother, having to cope with bringing you two up together.”
“We were no trouble at all. Damon was the miscreant.”
“Really?”
“Absolutely. He was constantly in trouble. We were positively angelic compared to him.”
“Oddly, I don’t find that reassuring.”
He laughs, slows the car, and pulls into a parking space in front of a building that bears the sign out the front that says, ‘Kingpinz Robotics.’
“Pretty cool having your own company,” I tell him as I unbuckle myself.
“I think so. I’ll drop your case off at his house, by the way. He wants to Uber into town so he can have a drink.”
“Okay, thank you.”
We get out, he gestures with his head for me to follow him, and together we walk up the path and into the building.
The foyer is large and cool. A young woman sits behind a long reception desk and smiles at us as we enter. To the right, a waiting area includes a group of armchairs, a water cooler, and a rubber plant that brings a splash of green to the otherwise white and light-gray decor. There’s also an intriguing painting on the wall made up of rectangles and squares that I assume is abstract, but when I get closer, I can see it’s actually a zoomed-in picture of a motherboard.
“I like this,” I say, pausing in front of it.
“We’ve got a friend in Auckland who knows the Maori artist,” Saxon explains. “I saw one of the paintings in his office and asked for the artist’s name.”
“You’re talking about Mack Hart?” I ask. “The one who invented the supercomputer?”
Saxon smiles. “Is there anything Kip hasn’t told you?”
“We talk a lot.”
“I’m beginning to get that.” He pushes open one of the swing doors, and we walk into the offices.
We’re in a long corridor, with individual offices to our left and a large workroom to our right. The place is busy, filled with people at computers, or walking across the floor carrying files, coffee cups, on the phone, or talking in groups.
I follow Saxon along the corridor, feeling a little out of place. I’ve never worked in an office, and I’m unused to the dynamics, the atmosphere, and all the people. I love my job, but it must be fun sometimes to be around others during the day.
“That’s my office,” he says, gesturing to the left, but continues along the corridor. “Kip’s is down here.” He turns left, and I follow him into a large room with a desk behind which sits a woman who looks to be in her fifties. She’s wearing a smart, light-gray suit, and her wavy salt-and-pepper hair is neatly clipped back.
“Hey Marion,” he says, “I found her.” He smiles at me. “This is Marion, Kip’s PA.”
“You must be Alice,” she says, standing and holding out her hand. “How lovely to meet you at last.”
I walk over and shake her hand. “So you’re the one who keeps him in check?”
“She’s the only one who can,” Saxon states.
“Hardly,” she says wryly. “The Chevalier boys are a wild bunch.”
“Boys,” he repeats. “We’re nearly thirty.”
