Chapter 5 - The Keycard Doesn't Work
Apex Touring and Production occupied the top three floors of the glass-and-steel monolith at 1200 Division Street. For four years, Grant had strutted through the marble lobby with his chest puffed out, flashing a designer smile at the front desk guards, handing out hundred-dollar bills at Christmas like an oil baron.
He believed the company was his monument. His name was on the frosted glass doors. His signature appeared on the promotional posters lining the corridor.
When I arrived at 9:30 AM, two private security guards in black tactical gear were stationed on either side of the turnstiles. Next to them stood Julian Vance, impeccably groomed in a three-piece charcoal suit, holding a leather folder.
"Julian," I greeted him.
"Mrs. Arden," he inclined his head, pointedly using my maiden name. "The transition team has been upstairs since six. The digital forensics division has cloned every terminal in the executive wing. Grant's private safe contained precisely what you anticipated: three undisclosed ledgers, duplicate invoices, and an offshore shell registered in the Cayman Islands under Miss Cross’s maiden name."
"He was always sloppy," I remarked, stepping through the VIP turnstile. "He thought charming people was a substitute for reading clauses."
Just as the elevator doors began to slide open, a commotion erupted outside the revolving glass doors.
A yellow taxi had pulled haphazardly onto the sidewalk, tires scraping the granite curb. Grant tumbled out of the passenger side, his tie undone, the collar of his custom Eton shirt crumpled and unbuttoned halfway down his chest. Behind him stumbled Sabrina, clutching her oversized sunglasses, looking disheveled and frantic.
"Natalie!" Grant roared, charging into the lobby. "Natalie, stop right there!"
The two tactical guards shifted smoothly, their shoulders forming a human barricade in front of the brass elevator bank.
Grant hit the wall of muscle and stumbled back, his face flushing crimson. "Do you know who I am? I own this building! I sign your paychecks, you rent-a-cop bastards! Get your hands off me!"
The taller guard didn't blink. "You have no active credentials for this facility, sir. Step back across the yellow line or you will be detained for criminal trespass."
"Trespass?" Grant laughed wildly, looking around the lobby where a crowd of junior agents, publicists, and visiting musicians had stopped to gawk. "This is Holloway Media! My name is on the damn lease!"
"Actually, Grant," I said, turning slowly around to face him from inside the security perimeter. "Your name isn't on the lease."
He stared at me, his eyes bloodshot, his jaw working convulsively. "What the hell are you talking about?"
"Tell him, Julian," I said softly.
Julian stepped forward, untying the black ribbon around his leather folder with infuriating slowness. "The commercial master lease for 1200 Division Street, Suites 1400 through 1600, is held by Stonebridge Commercial LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Arden Trust. Mr. Holloway is listed merely as an operating manager on an annual revocable license. The license was revoked at 12:01 AM this morning."
Grant's chest heaved. He looked at Julian, then at me, the arrogance in his posture beginning to fracture into jagged disbelief. "That's impossible. I signed the paperwork with the bank in 2021!"
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"You signed the personal guarantee, Grant," I corrected him, my smile razor-thin. "I signed the ownership deed. You never read the fine print because you were too busy taking selfies with the fountain pens."
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