Elementary

Officer Chunk had been burning the midnight oil.

The off-hours of predawn, lunchtime, and coffee breaks—also known as "most of his free time"—he had case file Find Lily Harris's Boss. And, rec-room camera codes aside, Bernie had primarily discovered this: Venture Tower has too many employees.

Balancing working hours with this private eye stunt was no walk in the park. Research held him downtown late, which meant Bernie missed his favorite shows (didn't even have time for the Law & Order reruns), and usually a bus or two. Which meant he had to walk four blocks to an alternate stop, sweating through his armpits in this gelatin LA heat, or flag a taxi, and you know how cab meters eat up your mad money. The whole thing was a trial in exhaustion. When he closed up yesterday, the old Chunkster was dog-tired—tired enough to snore through three alarms the next evening, miss breakfast (or was that dinner?), and twist an ankle hurrying to punch in. Those were the drawbacks of having the conscience he did.

Conscience is a relative thing, though. Officer Chunk would have told you not to mind that distinguished, police-ish badge glistening handsomely at his left breastbone; he was just an Average Joe doing what any other upright, wholesome Average Joe would've. There's no calling in sick to good citizenship. If, for tonight, civic duty meant paper-hunting and a burrito-on-the-go, then this Joe was happy to board up in his office, mug in hand, and hunt paper until everything was resolved.

If he had an office, that is.

As it happened, Bernie was stuck using the crappy surveillance monitors tucked away in a discreet corner of Venture's public atrium, fighting with an overtaxed old keyboard. The shift key stuck every three sentences. And, though he couldn't imagine why, someone had apparently run off with the mouse ball. Must've been on a different patrolman's night. Krantz suspected the cleaning staff; What's-Her-Name-With-The-Mole always did look like she was up to no good.

But you can't follow every case. You have to prioritize. He popped his knuckles over the console, and the glow highlighted him—red palm heels, Bogart chin dimple, and the youth of eye whites that are hopeful, that reflect what they can see.

There were a couple details about this particular case Chunk ranked higher than others, things a trained officer oughtn't miss. The first of those being that Ms. Harris, as worried and carrot-topped and kid-faced as she was, apparently found out about Ms. Woeburne's government status from a credible source. He couldn't be sure if the missing-person herself clued the poor kid in before this fiasco, or if she'd just upturned some suspicious correspondence. But there was no doubt in the crime scene or the report. He had seen the bloodspots and broken mirror in that gray, swank suite. Looked as though someone's head had been grabbed from behind and smashed right into it. Lily stood nearby with hands glued to her face while Bernie picked up glass, tongue stuck from the side of his mouth, wielding a tweezer borrowed from the bathroom cabinet to drop each shard in its own plastic bag. He'd been painstakingly careful. They sat in a case on his dinner table—beneath a lamp, next to a fingerprint kit his brother sold him some years ago. Whoever broke in there must've used gloves.

Either that, or maybe Ms. CIA/FBI faked her disappearance. That was looking more and more likely to him. Might've been crazy to stick on like this, nosing into agency business—maybe dangerous, something regular folks ought to stay away from. But Chunk was a man accustomed to the concept of danger. He had principles. He had the tenacity not to let it go.

And he really couldn't just up and leave Ms. Harris hanging out in the breeze, could he? Anxious and scared as she was. Now, justice is blind, but Chunk had always been a sucker for damsels-in-distress. Besides, Lily really did seem like a sweet kid. Even if her instincts were wrong, her zeal was admirable; in two years of work, of triple-checking the main floor locks, Krantz never felt the same kind of concern for his own boss that she apparently did for Ms. Woeburne. That's not to say he didn't take his responsibilities seriously, because everyone who knew Bernie knew he was the most serious badge you could've been, but he stayed on his side of that tough blue line. Security never got personal with an experienced guard. It was heartwarming to see somebody else care like that, though, especially the next generation of cops, Samaritans, and service-people. He should really bring that girl some pamphlets from the recruitment desk. And to think everyone said that these millennials were all pot-smoking, shot-up, graffiti-scrawling hooligans.

He'd advised her not to spread this around, though. Chunk was a firm believer in trusting your government and tried to walk-the-walk that belief into others, but in certain times—at certain heights—politicians start turning on the people its soldiers protect. Getting involved in top-secrets isn't something you ought to do accidentally or rashly. He understood she was concerned, Bernie explained; who wouldn't see that? But there's a time to be emotional and a time to be cold, hard smart. No telling what kind of trouble knowing a spy might get innocent some bystanders into; hot-info like that could make you a target lickity-split, faster than one of those Italian super-squad-cars. She was lucky to have come to him first.

Emotion was up past its bedtime; tuck it away, he'd said, put it to rest. Officer Chunk could handle the cold and the smart.

Google hadn't been especially illuminating, though. He consulted his notes for another idea.

Mouse clicks and chair wheels clacked behind him. Bernie, aware of his environment in a way only warriors can be, took a backwards glance at Ms. Joelle where she worked the front desk. All was well in Venture tonight. She sat model-straight at her station across the empty, echoing lobby, the dark stone surrounding them, Lefevre's fingers tipping faster than seemed possible, red suit waiting for another black one to stride in.

That's the other thing about investigations: Don't assume you can't learn things from people outside the security circle. It's a personal tenet that had helped him out a thousand times before, or at least more than fifteen. In his early days on beat patrol, Bernie talked to everyone—helloed-at and good-morninged every grocery-shopper, teacher, crossing guard, backpacked teenager and his mom that went strolling on by. Wacco Taco, the charter school, the Junior Jumps Park and Playground, and The Stationarium. You could say the entire neighborhood knew him back then.

Life had taken Krantz other places since those days, but no matter what he guards—the caterpillar carousel or corporate sector lobbies full of diplomats and CEOs—he still believes, more than anything else, in still holding on to that friendly-faced, sharp-nosed set of blues on the sidewalk. He believes the best policeperson is a soldier you can confide in. The type that counsels DARE programs, only armed with a nightstick and a terrible knowledge of the monsters crawling out there, the ones just waiting for innocent eighth-graders to snatch up. You learn fast to keep your ear to the ground in this line of work. Once the package delivery lady even dropped a tip about where a pack of high-schoolers were popping wheelies behind The Station(arium)'s parking lot.

So he'd asked his partner, as he sometimes thought of her, working back-to-back across this skyscraper, for a little extra muscle. They were the first line of defense. They had to watch out, one for the other. Specifically, Bernie requested that she forward him any recent staff changes or failures to check-in, but… well, Ms. Joelle was always awful busy. She didn't have the opportunity to stop and chat mid-shift. Which was perfectly understandable. You could see how overworked that woman was in the way she sat right on the edge of her seat, there; crimson shawl and attentive posture; typing one-hundred miles an hour. Almost never tore her pretty eyes away from that computer screen. Didn't even hear you, sometimes… sometimes not even when you spoke to her directly. Scooted her swivel-chair away and snatched up the telephone when he'd approached the front desk a minute ago; Chunk hadn't exactly heard it ring, but LaCroix Foundation must keep you on your toes like that. He could certainly appreciate the work ethic. Personnel questions and company books would have to wait until later.

In the meantime, though, a search engine stared at him, waiting for input. Sleuths have to be versatile, and Officer Krantz could play it by ear with the best of them. The World Wide Web admittedly wasn't his most comfortable domain, though. In terms of detectives, Officer Krantz saw himself as less of a Munch and more of a Stabler: dogged, eagle-eyed and a family-first father to his impressionable kids.

If he had any kids, that is, or a family.

Besides his brothers. All law enforcers, best damn boys you'd ever hope to meet. Bernie liked to call them The Brothers in Arms.

Chunk re-folded his lunch, a sadly collapsing Bandito Burrito, taking a mighty bite of meat, garlic and soggy lettuce. He picked just the wrong moment to chew. Had the wilting wrap obscured his vision a little less in those next few seconds, Bernie might have seen Mr. Man Himself enter—Sebastian LaCroix, purveyor of business, executive commander, and far-off distributor of paychecks. Officer Krantz might also have noticed Mr. LaCroix's scowl, a crease in a sheet of loose-leaf. Possibly, he may even have spotted the staunch, sullen, serial-number woman with him—a familiar, unspectacularly feminine face with no name attached.

Unfortunately for Chunk, he didn't register either until both Ventrue had already passed him by. They walked right in and no one screened their cards. The metal detector was off. As you'd imagine, this little fact was a fantastic balm for Mr. LaCroix's current displeasure with life. He overlooked Lefevre entirely, ignoring her fulsome welcomes, to glower at the back of Bernie's chair.

Who had just dropped a slip of hamburger on the keyboard, and was trying to finger it up without leaving a stain.

When the forked-shouldered shadow didn't give its owner away, LaCroix announced himself with an indignant, loud 'AHEM.' His sound was less like congestion and more like a bark, a peeved Doberman Pinscher. Krantz jumped in place. The full burrito hit computer keys with a sodden 'thwup.'

Chunk thought Mr. LaCroix was usually a pretty nice person, so far as venture capitalists go. You met some interesting folks working for him, at any rate; eccentric upper-crusters were always filtering in and out. Strangely enough—even with all the odd traffic that swept by him night-after-night—Officer Krantz still had no real inkling as to what, exactly, his boss did. There were always people moving even when the foyer seemed silent as a grave. A lot of guests seemed to be of foreign descent, primarily European, which led him to suppose they must've run some kind of multinational. A couple of said guests were really jaw-dropping women, too, Bernie had noticed, which wasn't a huge surprise. Mr. LaCroix was a handsome guy. (Come to think of it: A lot of said guests were good-looking guys, too, if that was more his thing. Can't be presuming about people's business these days. Love is love, don't you know it.)

Point being: Boss was a decent sort. Particularly decent for the amount of stress he was probably under—holding meetings at ungodly hours, dashing overseas at the drop of a pin. A man couldn't settle like that. Chunk thought the white-collar lifestyle was overrated.

Which was why he didn't blame Mr. LaCroix for hollering at Ms. Joelle, "What in the hell is it I am paying the security for?" and jerking a thumb in his direction.

Lefevre's scarlet shoulders gave an uninterested shrug. She had gone back to her computer and her tip-tip-tip.

"You don't know. Color me surprised. I am, in no way, shocked to discover that no one at my front desk can tell me a damned thing about what is going on in this building." LaCroix was acerbic and unforgiving, an overwrought bowstring. His glare turned from shrinking Bernie to sear a neat little hole through Joelle's candy-red indifference. She grimaced, her impervious air barely flaking.

"I apologize; so sorry," she said, sweet and effortless as a summer breeze. There was nothing and everything respectful about her practiced good-evening. Lefevre swooped up to pinprick heels and picked up the telephone. She wore a slick red ribbon in the coppery topknot today. She oozed a sugary, tropical, ripe fruit perfume. "I didn't hear your question, monsieur. I am already dialing HR."

LaCroix scoffed, and it sounded disgusted, or like maybe he had to sneeze. "Don't bother. I don't have the time or patience. Consider yourselves lucky for that—both of you," he added. Joelle didn't quite seem to hear that, either, judging from the low-lidded mildness of her face. Bernie heard it, though. He followed her lead and said nothing, but started feeling pale. "I would be very grateful if you'd see to it that, when someone enters this building, they are actually seen. Do not let me come downstairs to find either of you idling again."

"Bien sûr, Mr. LaCroix. It won't happen again. Shall I update you on the changes to your agenda?"

Either Sebastian LaCroix was easily distracted, or Ms. Joelle had a special way of distracting everyone. "What changes?" he demanded, a dent twisting between the arc of his brows. The nameless lady behind him stood unsmiling, unmoving, her arms rifler-still.

"Why, yours, of course. You left, monsieur, on urgent business. I have shuffled the rest of your plans to make room."

"Oh. Yes. Of course." There was something disingenuous (and a touch confused) about the way he parroted her. There was a frowning pause. LaCroix tightened and untightened the knot of his dismal blue tie. "I don't want to deal with it. I have more waiting; I need to make a few calls. You should know I am going to be occupied. I am always occupied when I come back from Hollywood. Twenty minutes, at minimum."

"As you like, sir, always. It is done. I am sending a copy of the schedule upstairs, n'est-ce pas?"

"Good," he said, like a period point. "Yes. Do."

She did. Bernie took up a napkin, and he dabbed a single speck of sauce off the leg of his slacks.

That was almost the curtain call for everyone's night.

But here is where the funny thing you won't believe happened.

Lefevre was finished and on to the next task beeping for her attention, but there was a little more to be said, he guessed, between the two execs who just strode in. They were still standing about when Krantz looked up from the spicy smear his burrito made. Something eerie, and there was no explaining what, prickled through the man's spine then, to see them both there. They didn't look well. Gave him willies. Willies, to watch the bodies—which was an insensitive way of putting it, but the word that fell out—stiff and compact and fearfully intense at idle, without doing much at all. The ceiling lights must have been washing them out. Even so, Bernie knew it was important, and rude as it was, he couldn't stop staring. Mr. LaCroix about-faced upon the dark-haired lurk of a woman. His temper dropped, but the rigidness of his joints was unnatural. She blinked back at him, a patient prefect. Maybe they were related. There weren't many physical similarities. But he had never seen a pair of people look so somehow alike.

"Now, Ms. Woeburne," he told her, and that was the gut feeling, that was the zing! "Wait there one moment. Joelle will arrange for a driver take you home."

Chunk choked on a mouthful of nothing.

"'Ms. Woeburne?" he coughed, a strangled sound, wheeling around in the lopsided desk chair to stare wildly at her. Woeburne blinked another time. Lefevre skittered out from her spotless counter to flag down a car. The ribbon went fluttering in that hot gust of wind through the cracked door.

"Yes? Yes, I am." A wince passed through her, swollen nose to olive eyes. The lady looked like she'd recently been in a fight. But the expression was irritation, not fear, like she had better things to do. LaCroix was already en route to the elevators at a fast clip. "Wait," she told Bernie, the same thing someone more important just told her. "Whatever it is. Wait right there."

"OK," he told her back, because what else?

"Sir. Thank you," Woeburne called Mr. LaCroix, then, weak accent sagging awkwardly in the resonance of this lobby, vacant at midnight, much too tall. "It's appreciated. As was everything. Is everything. Thank you for that. I'll be in tomorrow. I'll manage the job."

Mr. LaCroix brushed her gratitude away, poking a dismissive wave through the automated doors. He did not stop or turn around again. You could only glimpse his hand inside its neat, pressed sleeve.

"Good-night!" she tried, but the lift cut her off.

Chunk was flabbergasted. One large hand pawed shredded cheese off his desk while the other fumbled for a cellular phone. He must've seen this same woman walk by Joelle's post at least a dozen times in the past month, but never bothered to learn her name. Press people and representatives from Such-and-Such, Inc. came flittering in and out of Mr. LaCroix's life weekly, hawk-profiled and moving with a classist, big cat stalk. Woeburne wasn't much different—made of unsmiles, goth-kid lipstick, seamed stockings and bad-tempered shoes. It was an ordinary appearance around this place. She looked like a cross between a marketing ball-buster and a porno librarian. Not that a watchdog on-call would be caught dead watching pornography.

Pieces whirled into place. Sure she was. He should've inferred it was too convenient to be a coincidence, shouldn't have needed a third-party appeal to detect a dangerous person. The woman in front of him, fast-talking new arrival, was all rocky corners because her actual job had little to do with number-crunching. The clues were all there: stout English, somber clothing, aloof, prickly demeanor. Some kind of twist on a Bond black-and-white. Lily confirmed it, but the signs glared at him now. She screamed spy. Maybe investigating Corporate America for bank frauds or long-forgotten records of communist funding. Maybe she was here to protect or shadow Mr. LaCroix. Bernie wondered if Mr. LaCroix knew, but wouldn't jeopardize the mission by asking such a barefaced question. Her identity might have already been compromised.

More importantly: what do you imagine was in that sleek black portfolio bag? You'd think it was full of paper, from the way she was holding it, but could just as easily be slinging an automatic.

Bernie tugged at the snaps on his collar. This was probably not even the first time he'd had a spy pass his desk.

"Hold on," he asked, flipping open his cell. She'd forgotten about him. Woeburne stopped three feet from Venture's exit to slice him with a sub-zero look. "Hang on a minute there, ma'am. Sorry to detain you, but this is important. Kid around here—Lily Harris—says you're missing persons. She's been looking for you. Since I found you—" That bottle-green stare dropped in temperature. There was a single bony pea on her bridge, as though it had been knocked awry weeks ago, trying to heal itself smooth. Chunk corrected himself. "Now that you're here, I mean. You really ought to give the girl a call. If that's OK with you. It being, uh, technically none of my business, after all."

"Correct," she granted, leaving Bernie no room to recover. He was oddly put-off. "Absolutely none of your business. Put that phone down. Anyway, I've already spoken to her. You know what about this, exactly?"

"Don't worry, ma'am," Chunk promised, clapping the hinge shut. He tucked it back into his button-down. "Miss Harris was real discreet. She told me everything was just on a need-to-know basis. And I sure didn't pry. Because, you know." The man flashed her an unspoken, important look. Sparse eyebrows curved inches from his glossy crown. "Your line of work."

Ms. Woeburne stared hard without quite making eye contact, as one might to a man speaking in tongues.

"I see," she said narrowly. Bernie nodded.

"No trouble, ma'am. I'll keep my nose clean. These matters can get very sticky, I understand. We've been briefed on protocol for things like this. Just wanted to let you know you've got someone out here watching your back."

"Right," she snapped. Then there was a car horn, a call from Ms. Joelle, and their five-minute secret meeting had come to a close. Bernie watched Woeburne turn around—a skewed, distasteful look tacked to her face—and push through those black double-doors.

"Be safe!" Chunk hollered after her, waving a happy arm. "I mean, have a good night."

Ms. Woeburne would never understand why, every shift from then on out, Officer Krantz always seemed to toss her a special little wink.