They’d waited until I’d closed my confirmations. Seven total. They could’ve canned me an hour ago when the detective first called. They could’ve even done it last night—based on what scant justification they were giving me now—but, no, they knew what I’d accomplish for them if they simply dragged their feet for sixty smart minutes before taking any action. I’d called two-thirds of my top-ten clients and booked seven out of seven. Monster numbers in a business of monsters.
“Thank you, Adam,” said the COO, turning to leave before I could conjure up a single worthwhile thing to say back to him.
I sat there at the desk, unsure how to move. I had almost nothing to carry out the door. I forced myself to get up and begin the march out of the building, passing Trevor, who stood in his temp cubicle, holding himself back from approaching me as if I were covered in contagion. You could hardly blame the guy. Within minutes I was out on the sidewalk. On the streets. In Paris. I tried Jenn again. I called and texted her. Left a message. Basic words. I had to say something without putting her in a tricky position. On a company phone, who knows how many people hear these messages? “Hey, it’s Adam. Are you good? Send me some sort of rant so I know you’re good. Miss your rants.” I crossed the street, then turned around to stare at the building I’d just left. It looked impenetrable. For most people, a job is a job. But me? No. I didn’t have a healthy psychological distance from a career. I had an obsession. There was still soot in my hair, and these clothes smelled atrocious. I got talked to last night by a foreign cop. This was a bad time to be overseas for a job and not have that job. I tried to envision Jenn in my same position. What would she do? I trusted her, admired her, envied how well she handled anything thrown her way. I dug into my pants pocket and found a clump of my own business cards, next to a pen, next to my designer sunglasses, which I put over my bloodshot eyes. That girl from last night could definitely tell the police I wasn’t part of this mess. That was my thought process: the girl helps me. The girl, the girl. There was a city map posted on the Metro entrance across the street. I took out my phone and headed over to the map. I called the US embassy.
“Thank you for calling the American embassy in France,” said the automated machine. “Bonjour, vous avez appelé le numéro . . .” After pressing a ton of buttons, I got a human being named Charles.
“This is Charles.”
“Hi. My name is Adam Macias. I’m an American here in Paris and I’ve just been wrongfully terminated by my employer while being wrongfully listed as a suspect by the Paris police for a crime.”
“Oh, uh, there’s no—”
“I know you can’t officially advise me but I need to ask you about something.” I started to trace a route on the big map in front of me, the fastest route to his embassy. “My company somehow saw whatever list of persons of interest the police have and took premature action against me. Can we urge the police to downgrade me? Downgrade? Does that make sense?”
“Uh, does—?”
“Whatever it is they’re investigating has my name on it and my company made its decision about me based on this naming.”
“As a representative of the embassy, I can’t really—”
“Yes, I fully understand, but when I get thrown into a dark cell and can’t talk to a lawyer, I want at least one American to have heard me out. That’s you. That’s wise, right?”
“Adam, is it? That’s not how France works, Adam. They use a structured legal syst—”
“Just hear me out. This is a recorded line? There was a girl, likely from Latvia or Russia, approximately twenty-five years of age, five-ten, fair skin, possibly a sex worker. That’s the entire reason I’m calling you. If we can find this girl, we can track her history, because I’m sure she’s a pro. She had a bottle of sex oil, this girl, in a fancy bag, from, uh . . . from, uh . . .”
I couldn’t remember the name.
“What the embassy can provide is a list of attorneys who speak English,” said Charles. “We can also contact various fam—”
“I’m telling you—she can speak on my behalf.” If I’d actually seen our CEO with her, it’d be one thing but I had no idea what kind of connection they had. What I did know was there was sex oil in the bag, which I barely noticed at the time but, flashing back, I was now sure of what I saw. “And if you don’t believe me, I have someone who can vouch for where I was each minute of the night last night. That person’s name is Jennifer Graham—”
“Adam—”
“I’m meeting Ms. Graham for lunch in about one hour—”
“We can’t interfere.”
“I know you can’t interfere. Radiance! The name of the store is Radiance.”
“Adam—”
“I know this sounds like fourteen wrong things coming at you at once but a girl I never met before is at odds with people high above me, people involved in what could be a cover-up.” I was building the airplane in midair, not even knowing where it should fly, praying the authorities would find relevant info if I could tell them where to look. “I don’t know the extent of it but our top brass has a history of illicit behavior and now they’re using me as a scapegoat because last night their behavior got messy.”
“Adam—”
That call would be over within the next minute. He was a nice enough guy who insisted he couldn’t help and I had no rebuttal to his rebuttal. The conversation was sloppy on my part. A knee-jerk reaction. I looked on the map at how far away his embassy was from me—fifteen minutes’ walk. Should I just show up at his gate? At least I’d be inside some kind of green zone, right? I had a lunch scheduled with Jenn, that wasn’t a lie, but would that be doing enough? I looked around for the nearest knowledgeable individual. Somebody who knew . . .
“Excuse me.” I went up to a clerk at a magazine stand.
“Oui, Monsieur?”
“Have you heard of a store called . . . uh . . . uh . . . Radiance?”
“Radiance . . . ?” The guy shrugged.
“Maybe La Radiance? With a La in front?”
“It is a bar?”
“It’s probably a sex shop.”
“Sex shop?”
“Yeah.” The time had come for me to chase down the girl.