After the Golden Age (Golden Age 1)

“I suppose … I hadn’t really considered … I can see you’re busy, Ms. West. I ought to leave you to it. Thanks for your time.” He retreated, backing out of the room as he stammered his excuses.

If she wanted to give the guy a heart attack, she could ask Arthur Mentis or Analise to give him a call.

She finally reached the first entry in Simon Sito’s medical file. This was a five-page report detailing a laboratory accident that had precipitated Sito’s nervous breakdown. At least, Celia assumed the report detailed the accident. Great swaths of it were blacked out, censored by government order. Sito had been working on government research. None of this was new information. She might be inclined to assume that Sito had been cared for by a go

vernment or military pension. But that wouldn’t have paid for a stay at a place like Greenbriar. He’d have been placed at Elroy or some other public or military hospital.

According to the report, or what was left of it, Sito hadn’t been physically injured. The project wasn’t of a kind that could cause physical injury. Instead, the failure of the project had unbalanced him. That was why he’d been placed in a psychiatric ward. The hospital bills had been paid by a trust fund set up on his behalf—the source of the fund wasn’t listed.

The information that had been blacked out involved the substance of the experiment—what exactly Sito and the research team had been trying to accomplish—and the other parties involved. There was another party involved. Sito was working for a private lab, and that lab was under contract to the government. That lab had probably provided Sito’s trust fund.

The censors had left her one scrap of information. They had been most concerned with people, with the research, anything that could be used to figure out what Sito had been working on. But they’d left her the name of the building where the lab had been located: Leyden Industrial Park. That was enough of a scrap to keep her moving.

In the meantime, she had a date to get ready for.

SEVEN

CELIA felt like the belle of the ball, strolling into the lobby of the symphony hall on the arm of Detective Paulson. He wore a dark suit with a band-collar silk shirt, smelled pleasantly of aftershave, and had not a hair out of place. He was slickly handsome, in an international spy kind of way.

She wore a strapless black cocktail dress accented with a silk shawl, beaded midnight blue and silver that shimmered and changed color when she moved, and carried a clutch too tiny for anything but a couple of condoms and cab fare home, because you just never knew. She wore her short hair fashionably ruffled, and had silver dangling earrings.

The two of them turned heads when they passed by. Celia wasn’t used to people paying attention to her for any other reason than her being at the center of some disaster. It was a nice change. Mark liberated a couple of glasses of champagne from the tray of a passing waiter and gave one to her with a slight bow. Grinning, Celia toasted him.

The evening had a theme: Italian villa at twilight. Fake marble pillars draped with ivy had been set up in the corners, and strings of white lights decorated lattice arches under which people could sit on carved benches next to neoclassical statues. The gathered company was a who’s-who of Commerce City’s elite, politicians and businesspeople, actors and sports figures, all eager to show themselves great patrons of the arts. They were a mass of designer gowns and tuxedos, expensive perfumes and jewelry. Mark had revealed that he’d gotten his tickets for the gala from his father.

A string quartet played Vivaldi. As part of the fund-raiser’s draw, the musicians played rare Stradivarius instruments, the best in the world, brought together for the first time to play in concert. They were worth millions. Celia honestly couldn’t tell the difference. Beautiful music was beautiful music.

She still felt like she didn’t belong. She could have, if she’d wanted to, once upon a time. This was the kind of thing her parents had done during their young socialite days.

“This is pretty swank, isn’t it?” Mark said.

“Sure is. I feel like a million bucks.”

“Wait a minute—aren’t you the heir to the West fortune? You are a million bucks.”

She masked her grimace by sipping her champagne. “Maybe, on paper. I kind of try to ignore that. I have a nice, normal job, and a nice, normal apartment.”

“And then some joker kidnaps you off the midtown bus.”

She shrugged. “I try to ignore that, too.”

He huffed, looking like he was about to counter with some pragmatic quip that might have come from her parents, when they were interrupted.

“Mark! You actually made it. There’s hope for you yet.”

Striding toward them, flanked by ever-present aides, reporters, and sycophants, was Mayor Anthony Paulson. He was tall—as tall as Mark, even—with a rugged, weathered face and thick salt-and-pepper hair. He was a charismatic force, his smile wide and genuine.

“Hi, Dad.” Father and son shook hands, firmly and warmly, clearly happy to see each other.

Mayor Paulson looked expectantly at her.

“Dad, this is Celia West. Celia, my father: Mayor Anthony Paulson.”

Celia braced for the wide-eyed flash of recognition that usually accompanied these introductions. Then the awe, the hesitation, and the impossibility of being treated normally.

It didn’t happen. Paulson offered his hand; she placed hers in it and they shook politely. “Ms. West, it’s a pleasure.”

“Likewise, sir.” She smiled, secretly relieved. She was going to have a good time this evening after all.