Chapter Four

 

Keegan grabbed his book off the passenger seat, his gaze, or maybe it was his guilt, caught by the mess in the back. It was so unlike him. Not that he was a neat freak but he did like to know where stuff was and he was generally pretty good at putting things away. Or at least he had been. Until he’d met a certain someone on the stairs, who had been in a hurry and had sent his papers flying everywhere. He hadn’t had time to worry about sorting them, so they’d just gotten tossed in the back. Not that he could blame the woman for his total mess. The obsession to finish his latest book had kept him going at a crazy pace with little time to worry about how neat and organized things were. It was all fed by his need to deal with the real reason he was now living in Bentley. And now he was finally free of those commitments so he could focus on what he’d really come there to do, get answers. The question was would he get what he’d come there for? And if he did would it change anything?

After taking a minute to collect himself and strengthen his resolve that this was the right thing to do, he rolled his shoulders forward and climbed out of his car. A few cars passed by him on the main thoroughfare. He walked around to the sidewalk and the empty meter. He’d been tempted to pass by it but after watching the place for a few days, he knew that a guy came around fairly regularly to check them. Since he didn’t want to draw attention to himself, he needed to feed the hungry beast.

The bit of change he’d thrown in his pocket earlier seemed to have fallen to the far reaches, halfway down his leg. Each coin made a distinctive plunk as he dropped it in the machine. When he saw that he’d only bought himself forty minutes, he swore. It wouldn’t give him much time to snoop around. He’d have to get in and get out. Maybe he’d be lucky and it wouldn't matter as much because it was the end of the day. He hoped so because if the guy he was hoping to meet with talked anything like he did on the phone, he could ramble on for hours. Hopefully the devices his army friend had given him, really did work and were as easy to use as he’d said.

The scribbler was nothing more than a cheap notebook he’d picked up at the dollar store but it held very important information. He flipped it open, skimming his notes, which was more of an exercise to help him calm his nerves as he’d committed them all to memory. He knew them by heart, had known them for a long time. Somehow he had to get someone to shed some light on them as he had more questions than answers.

The guilt of not acting sooner had him closing the book with a snap. This was a few years overdue. Pushing away his thoughts he looked at the seven-story building. Sunlight shone off the glass-encased monstrosity – although he was probably the only person who saw it as such – like a light-house beam through a fog. It was almost blinding. He and his grandfather had argued about the design on many occasions. His grandfather had said it had been built that way on purpose and was nothing but elegant. In its day, forty years before, it had been the tallest building in town. It had been in a class of its own. Now it was just one of several.

Keegan took a long steadying breath as the thought of his grandfather, his mentor, his friend, left him feeling shaky. The man who’d meant the world to him was the reason he was doing this.

Stepping forward, he brushed his hand down the tailored suit, a size and a half too big for him but the price had been right for his budget - cheap. To him it made him stand out like a sparrow bird amongst hawks but knew his grandfather would tell him it was the other way around. He was now a hawk amongst the sparrows. When you knew what you were doing, you were the one in charge. Keegan just wasn’t sure that he really did know what he was doing, though.

He tugged at the neck of the shirt and tie feeling like he was choking, when in fact he had enough space to put his whole hand in there. His grandfather had taught him well though – ‘if people think you have money, they’re more likely to talk to you than if you look like a bum off the street’. Jeans and a t-shirt were his preference in clothing but wouldn’t have done anything to convince people he had money.

His grandfather had always told him, ‛if people think you’re rich and are kind of pathetic, they’ll be more likely to bend over backwards to help you.’ Play on their pity.

I guess I’ll find out.

His grandfather, a man he wasn’t even supposed to have met but who had turned out to be such a big part of his life, his big secret to keep. Keegan’s family had no idea that he’d spent twelve years getting to know his grandfather, a man that he wasn’t supposed to know existed. And now he was gone. As it always did when Keegan thought of him and all that he’d brought to his life, a deep sadness settled over him.

I miss you, Gramps. This is for you.

The smile he pasted on felt a bit weak and was one he sure didn’t feel. He hunched his shoulders as he reached for the large glass door. A middle-aged, stylishly dressed woman, with a huge smile on her ruby red lips, pushed brusquely past him. Once free of the door, she dropped all pretenses of decorum and raced to a sleek red car that had pulled up in front of his, in the no-parking zone. As she climbed in, tittering like a school girl, the man leaned across and gave her a hot kiss, running his hands openly over her breast and sliding south before she playfully slapped him, not really doing much to stop him. Whether it was because they became aware of him gawking or they were just too horny, they peeled out of there. Tires squealed as others slammed on their brakes and honked their horns, to avoid hitting the couple. Who were they?

Not something he had time for. He turned and stared through the smoky glass to see if he needed to wait before another person came bursting through. It seemed to be clear, so he reached for the handle. There was a loud bang from behind him. He glanced over his shoulder. A car of young guys drove by, the muffler making a horrible sound every few seconds. Just then two security guards pushed the door open, sending him stumbling backwards. If he hadn’t been holding on, he was sure he’d have ended up on his butt. One of them at least nodded at him before they strode away, splitting up, each going in a direction. Not sure if this was an omen that what he was about to do was absolutely nuts, he stepped through the open door.

His fingers scrubbed through his hair or his mop as his mom called it, messing it. He smoothed a hand down the slightly wrinkled, light grey suit. It was expensive material. No one would have guessed he’d gotten it at the thrift store. He pushed up the black plastic frame glasses sliding down his nose. The contrast of his expensive suit and his slightly dishevelled look he hoped would work to his advantage. His shiny patent shoes made a clicking sound as he crossed the lobby. It was a big expansive area but quite dark given the huge smoked glass that encased it. Dark brown mottled tiles covered the floor, while behind the receptionist a tasteful gold-brown with a deep maroon trim claimed the walls leading into the bowels of the building. The muted light gave it a dark almost mysterious feeling. He was sure they’d been aiming for inviting, warm and charismatic but they’d missed that mark. Whatever it was supposed to convey, it was not what Keegan thought the inside of a newspaper building should or would look like.

He frowned as he wondered again why they’d redone the inside of the building this way. It had been classy before with gold and brass trim and light colors. It had been bright, open. Now it was pretending it was a high rolling place in the big city. He knew there was a lot of psychology that went into the colors and setting but he didn’t understand why anyone would go from that to this. Why would a newspaper that was known for skewing information, but then weren’t they all - his opinion not necessarily that of others - want or need this kind of image?

What would you think, Gramps? He wouldn’t have liked it, that he was sure of.

The receptionist, who sat at a large, rounded mahogany desk, was looking at him with a questioning and slightly distrustful look.

Show time.