Behind her was the door to an antique bank vault, a shining sphere of burnished steel. An attractive young woman in a sparkling dress stood at a receptionist’s podium.
Twenty seconds later, the elevator doors opened to an elegantly decorated foyer. At the elevators, the man swiped his key card and pressed the button for the 59th Floor. The man headed toward the elevator bank, leaving the security guard to sink nervously back into his chair. “Let me know if you need anything, anything at all.” “The elevators are to your left,” the security guard said, gesturing helpfully in the indicated direction. I wasn’t expecting anyone from Beacon Capital this late.” “Not for me, it isn’t.” The man replied, flashing a key card that read, “Beacon Capital Partners.” “The building is closed for a private event.” A security guard rose awkwardly from behind the lobby desk. From these excursions, he had acquired his expressionless face. The analogy was particularly apt, for the man had spent the better part of his youth in casinos and other dens of vice and iniquity. The man strode across the lobby with the firm resolution of one who had just laid his cards upon the table in a game of chance. The AON Center was brightly illuminated with the kind of penetrating, after-hours lighting that makes tenants feel secure.
#SUPPORTING YOUR QUEEN OF SPADES WIFE DRIVER#
The driver attempted to thank the man, but the man moved so fluidly and with such ambition that he had already exited the limousine before the driver realized how generous the tip was. The passenger handed the driver a gratuity. If I am not back by then, you may leave.” The man finished in a quieter tone, as if he were speaking more to himself than to the driver. “There is a quarter chance I will be back in five minutes a quarter chance I will be back in two hours and a half chance I will not return at all. The man scanned the towering glass and steel structure, studying the skyscraper the way an ancient gladiator might have surveyed the Colosseum. At the sound of the driver’s voice, the passenger briefly cast his unsettling, blue eyes on the driver before stirring into action. The driver announced their destination in as casual a tone as he could muster given his discomfort. He had tried to make conversation, but each time he spoke to the passenger, he felt as if his every word and inflection was being recorded, analyzed, and processed for purposes the driver did not understand. It was evident the man was lost in thought, but the nature of those thoughts was inscrutable. The entire ride, the man had sat quietly in the backseat with a briefcase perched on his lap, staring directly ahead with steely, unblinking eyes on an expressionless face. The passenger made the driver feel inexplicably nervous. Although the drive from the hotel hadn’t taken long, the driver was relieved to have reached their destination. It was nearly midnight, and the driver carried a single passenger, a well-dressed man in his mid-thirties. A limousine pulled up in front of a Los Angeles skyscraper.
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