Good days are rare in this line of work. I should have paid more attention when I got one. My train was actually on time, and the building's lift had even given up its stupid, personal grudge against me. I was between client work at the moment, but I still dragged myself to the office just to be safe.
I had just managed to bargain with the temperamental old brewer for a cup of non-synthetic coffee. It liked to sulk for a good ten minutes before agreeing to anything. Then she walked in. I recognised her immediately. It was hard not to when her face had been plastered across every holographic billboard in the city for the last three months, the kind that used to glitch every time it rained, before someone clearly paid to have that fixed. Even in person she looked strangely manufactured, every silver hair sitting precisely where it had been told to.
She slowly turned her head, casting a bored, aristocratic gaze over my framed knick-knacks. I’ll admit framing a paper napkin is unusual, but that place made the best hotdogs in the city, and I took its corporate buyout personally. Besides, I've always had a habit of keeping things.
Eventually, her eyes settled on me. I could see the pure disinterest in them.
“You are Mara Quinn?” she asked.
My throat tightened. I brought the mug to my lips to buy a second and look composed, but the machine had scalded it. It was far too hot to drink.
“Y... yes. I am Mara Quinn. Mara Quinn is me. That is... my name,” I stammered, absolutely nailing my introduction.
A sneer flickered across her face.
“I was told you were discreet,” she said, her voice dripping with a practiced, chilling authority. “And that you don't ask the kind of questions that end up on the evening feed.”
By the window, her bodyguard stopped scanning the street below and turned to look straight at me.
“A delicate situation has arisen regarding my husband,” she continued, brushing a speck of dust off her sleeve. “Our current standing is... highly sensitive. I intend to keep it that way. Unfortunately, he has developed a sudden interest in private, late-night charity. I do not care what he does with his nights, but I care very much about who she is. If she has the leverage to disrupt our position, she is a liability.”
She stepped closer to my desk, her eyes locking onto mine.
“I want to know who she is, what she wants, and how much she is worth. You will report only to me.”
I stared at her, my brain completely short-circuiting. Under the pressure of her gaze, the only logical thought my mind could muster slipped out of my mouth before I could stop it.
“Umm. Right. Yes. And... what about... payment?”
Her expression didn’t even change. She simply reached into her coat and placed a heavy, brown paper envelope on my messy desk. On top of it, she laid a plain plastic card with nothing but a single phone number printed on the back.
“Half now. The other half when you bring me proof.”
She gave a slight nod to her bodyguard. He opened the door, and she swept out of the room. I could feel the guard's glare lingering on the back of my neck until the door finally clicked shut.
I stood there for a full sixty seconds. When the adrenaline finally cleared, all the energy drained out of my legs and I collapsed into my chair, and it gave its usual dying-groan protest, the one I'd been meaning to fix for about two years. I stared at the desk, debating it briefly, before pulling out my pocket flask to help the scalding brew go down.
It didn’t feel real. Nobody prepares you for the Mayor’s wife walking into your dingy office.
I sat there for a few more minutes before reaching carefully for the envelope. It was heavier than I expected. I opened it, and inside was a thick stack of notes. I started counting: ten, twenty, thirty, forty, fifty...
Nobody walks into my office with that much money unless they are either desperate or dangerous. I decided to count all of it. In that envelope was ten grand in notes, and squirrelled away at the very bottom was a scrap of paper with an address. It meant nothing for a second, and then it clicked.
Next, I reached for the card. I turned it over in my hands a few times, considering calling the number. But before I could make my mind up, my stomach began to growl. It was nearing midday, and my breakfast had been somewhat lacking. After searching the cupboards for anything still in date, I managed to scrounge together a somewhat unappealing sandwich.
A knuckles-on-wood rap shattered the memory.
“Wait. Go back,” Sam says, leaning across the table. “Did you say paper cash?”
“Really?” I ask, blinking as the dingy walls of my office dissolve back into the dim booth.
“What?”
“That is the part you are stuck on?”
“I have seen politicians, Mara. I have seen affairs. I have even seen politicians having affairs. I haven’t seen paper money in years.”
Slowly, I reach into my pocket, pull out the address, and slide it along the table toward him.
“We’ll come back to that,” I say.
“Mara,” he protests.
“What can you tell me about this address?”
“The Aurelius? Why are you asking me this? You know the answer.”
“I want to hear you say it.”
“Mara, we are currently sitting in the Aurelius hotel bar.”
I take a slow sip of my drink, letting the silence stretch just long enough to watch him squirm before a wicked grin spreads across my face.
“Right, yes. I knew that. I mostly asked you here to get free drinks. Unless you want me to make it public.”
“It was just karaoke, Mara.”
“Yet you still don’t want the world to know.”
Sam sighs, checking his watch and rubbing the back of his neck as he prepares to start his shift.
I slowly stand up and shift toward the door of the booth.
“I will probably be at the bar for a bit. And don’t worry, I left the notes in the safe at the office. You won’t be caught in the crossfire, I promise,” I say, before stepping out of the booth.
The air of the place hits me immediately. It feels like money, from the gentle piano music playing in the background to the faint smell of pine cones. I walk over to the bar and find the most comfortable-looking stool. I kill four glasses of water before Sam clocks in. He shoots me a dirty glance, but he is still good to his word, and I soon move onto the cheapest whisky on the shelf.
The place had been engineered to make people lower their voices. Nobody had put up a sign asking for silence. They didn't need to. The carpets swallowed footsteps, the piano filled every gap in conversation, and every surface looked expensive enough that you instinctively worried about leaving fingerprints.
To fill the time, I decide to people-watch. If you're looking for the rich and powerful, this is where they come when they don't want to be seen.
Boredom kicks in after the first glass, so I start properly looking.
The couple in the corner have been arguing. The way they are sitting makes me think it wasn’t properly resolved; the smiles on their faces feel far too rehearsed. It almost feels performative. After a while, they stop being interesting.
To keep myself from staring at the door, I reach into my coat pocket and pull out my current distraction: a brass, three-dial mechanical combination lock from the late nineties I found in a junk bin last week. My fingers work the stiff dials entirely by muscle memory, trying to feel for the slight catch in the internal gears that means the tumbler is aligned.
A cocktail glass clinks onto the polished surface near my elbow. I look up. Sam is staring at the brass lock in my hand, then at my glass of cheap whisky.
"I wish you picked a hobby that felt less illegal, Mara," he mutters under his breath, wiping down the immaculate marble counter.
"I'm keeping my hands busy," I whisper back, not stopping. "Otherwise, I might start stealing the real crystal glassware. Do you know how much a set of these goes for on the scrap boards?"
A soft click sounds, and the lock swings open. I quickly bury it back in my pocket as there is movement by the entrance.
It is clear he doesn’t want attention. His suit looks as though someone had spent a fortune making sure nobody remembered it. He has even removed his wedding ring. He starts looking around the room, searching for someone. Suddenly the bottom of my whisky glass is the most interesting thing in the room.
Eventually, he sees what he was looking for and heads for one of the private booths. I can barely hear a woman’s voice before the door closes and the smart-glass frosts over.
An hour later, he walks out, alone. Twenty minutes after that, she follows suit.
I barely recognise her. When she steps into the light, it clicks: she is the wife of the Blue Arc CEO. I’ve only ever seen her smiling from magazine covers. She looks tired. I feel a cold pit forming in my stomach.
I look out of the window, watching the rain hammer at the pane. Suddenly, the whisky seems much more enticing, but I came here for a job. I slowly pry myself from the barstool and stumble out of the bar. Outside, the rain has turned the street into a smear of colour: a noodle bar's sign stuttering red, then nothing, then red again, like it hadn't decided if it wanted to be seen.
I watch her step into her car; a beautiful, sleek model that absolutely costs more than I do. I squeeze into my own slightly battered ride. It still smells of synthetic garlic, but it feels comfortable.
I have the name. I know exactly who she is. Under normal circumstances, I could go home, come back another night. Stake out properly.
Sensible keeps you alive. But curiosity has always paid much better.
Besides, the Mayor's wife didn't ask for a name. She asked for proof. And in this city, a name is just a rumour until you have the receipts.
I glance at the card still sitting in my coat pocket, the one with nothing on it but a single phone number. The rain gets heavier, drumming against the windshield loud enough that I can barely hear myself think. Her car is already indicating, about to pull onto the main road.
I have maybe five seconds left before this decision makes itself.
