I take a mint and we walk through the front door.
“Good evening, Mrs. Bliley,” the guards say in near-unison, standing.
I’m not entirely sure I want to know how they know her this well.
“Hey guys,” Wrigley says. “This is Tom Durant, he’s my new assistant, and I’m showing him what it’s like to work late. Is Phil in?”
“He’s out for the night,” one of the guards answers.
“That’s a shame,” she says. “Oh well, I guess it’s just the two of us, then. They haven’t locked up already, have they?”
“Nope, the floor’s open.”
“Great. You guys have a good night,” she says.
“You too, Miss Bliley,” the guards say, and we walk to the elevators.
Barely moving her mouth, Wrigley whispers, “Not a word until we’re on the elevator. Until we get where we’re going, you and I are simply professionals acting professionally, got it?”
I nod.
The elevator door opens and we get on. She presses the button for the 36th floor, and we stand quietly as we wait.
The doors open again and we get out. I trail half a step behind her because I haven’t the slightest clue where the hell we’re going.
We pass a man in a suit standing outside one of the bathrooms, and I try to figure out whether I’m walking “professionally” enough.
In a voice so soft I can barely hear it, she says, “Some companies like to keep exercise rooms and that sort of thing in the building so their employees spend more time in the office. I don’t know if it actually works or not, but that really doesn’t matter.”
“Do you work here?” I ask.
“No.” What?
“Then why do they know your name?” I ask.
“You know, it’s kind of disconcerting that even after knowing each other a couple of months, you still don’t know my last name.”
“You don’t know my last name, either.”
“Dane Paulson,” she says. “It helps if you pay attention. Quiet. We’re almost there.”
We pass another man, but he doesn’t give us a second look.
We turn a corner and there’s a glass door at the end of the hall. The lights are on, and I can see a few ripples in the water.
“I think someone’s in there,” I tell her.
“I know someone is,” she says. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Why not?” I ask. “Didn’t you say something about how we could get arrested?”
“We’re good,” she says.
“How do you know that?”
We stop at the door and she looks up at me. “Because Phil’s gone home for the night.”
She opens the door, and the sound of people laughing and splashing fills the hallway.