She strolled into the lobby of the Winfield
Building, an ultra-sleek glass and steel structure that took up half of one
block and had absolutely no redeeming architectural features. Martin probably
thought the gleam and polish and imposing façade bespoke power, which she
suspected was the only thing that really mattered to him. When she thought of
all the incredibly beautiful buildings she had seen throughout the world, unforgettable
testaments to human creativity and art, she was reminded again how shallow his
vision really was.
She didn’t know the guard at the desk
commanding the center of the foyer, placed there to disrupt the flow toward the
elevators on either side of the marble-floored lobby beyond and facilitate more
intense surveillance. He watched her with bored disregard as employees with
badges prominently displayed passed by. He was probably forty, well on his way
to middle-aged seed from too many hours sitting behind that desk, his thick,
ruddy neck bulging slightly over his buttoned collar. His tie appeared on the
verge of strangling him. He wore a faux-military type uniform as would befit
Martin’s vision of his company having the importance of a small country, making
him the king.
“Help you?”
“I’m on my way to see Mr. Winfield. I know
the way.”
“Just a minute.” The guard turned to a
computer, pulled up a screen she couldn’t see, and said, “Name?”
“Derian Winfield.”
He typed, scanned the monitor for a long moment,
and slowly turned back to look at her. “You’re not on the list,” he said, a
little uncertainty in his flat voice now.
“No, I’m not. Martin’s offices still on
sixty-five?”
“Look, I’m not supposed to let anyone up
who’s not on the admit list or daily appointment schedule.”
“I’m his daughter,” Derian said, the words
sounding foreign and ill-fitting.
“Uh, I better call up.”
“I’ll just go up and speak directly to his
secretary. If anyone mentions it, you can just tell them I didn’t give you a
choice.”
“Right, well, I’m sure there won’t be any
problem.”
She smiled. “Absolutely not.”
He pointed to the left. “Last elevator.”
“Have a nice day.”
As she turned away, she heard him mutter,
“Yeah, you too.”
Maybe she would. Nothing like starting the
day with unpleasantries. At least then it could only get better.
The elevator opened onto an expansive
maroon-carpeted foyer as big as some hotel lobbies, filled with comfortable
seating areas and an unobstructed view of midtown Manhattan through the
floor-to-ceiling windows on the opposite wall. She wondered how many buildings
Martin had had to buy and demolish in order to maintain that view. A
thirtysomething blonde sat behind a black U-shaped desk, her hair drawn back in
a sleek French braid, her dove-gray suit jacket doing nothing to conceal her
voluptuous figure. She smiled at Derian in a practiced, wholly impersonal way.