Total pages in book: 66
Estimated words: 62262 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 311(@200wpm)___ 249(@250wpm)___ 208(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 62262 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 311(@200wpm)___ 249(@250wpm)___ 208(@300wpm)
After an elevator ride to the top floor, we found ourselves in an office that made that grand lobby look shabby by comparison. It felt like a museum with its showy artwork, and it had an unbelievable view of San Francisco through every floor-to-ceiling window.
A man in his mid-thirties was pacing while wearing a Bluetooth headset and talking to someone in fluent Japanese. Everything about him exuded wealth, from his immaculate dark suit to his haircut. He gave us an apologetic smile when we entered, and raised a finger to indicate he’d be a minute. Meanwhile, Harvey hurried to him and handed over the pages.
Surprise registered on the man’s features for a split-second, before he pulled up a neutral expression. Then he quickly ended the call, came over to us, and extended a hand. “Edward Rosselin.” We introduced ourselves, and he shook our hands in turn. “Please, take a seat. Can we get you anything? Coffee? Bottled water?” When Sam and I declined, he turned to his assistant and said, “That’ll be all for now, Harvey.” The young man left immediately.
He sat down at his desk while we settled into the pair of chairs before it. “You’ve brought me something quite remarkable,” he said, as he spread out the photocopies on his desk. “Everyone had assumed all of my father’s work was lost in the fire that also claimed his life. Now it appears something survived after all. May I ask how it came into your possession?”
“It was sent to SPAM’s archives and lost in the backlog created by my predecessor.” When I spoke, Rosselin turned his full attention to me. He had piercing green eyes, and his gaze was so intense that it was slightly unnerving. “Can you verify that it’s your father’s handwriting?”
“Yes, it is. Where was the journal found?”
“In a safe, when the lab was being cleaned out after the fire.”
For a moment, a muscle worked in his jaw, suggesting he was grinding his teeth. He smoothed the pages as he told us, “It’s extremely important to me that I see the rest of this journal.”
“Why?”
That was from Sam, who sat up a little straighter when Rosselin shifted his gaze to him. “Because this is all that remains of my father’s life’s work. It’s his legacy, and it’s a part of our family history. It deserves better than to be buried in some random archives.” Somehow, none of that rang true.
“I’d suggest contacting SPAM and filing a request,” I said. “As it stands, the journal is their property, and accessing anything in the archives requires a security clearance.”
He smiled at me and tried to turn on the charm. “You know how difficult it can be to get bureaucracies to bend their rules, but surely there’s something you can do to help me. I understand if you can’t part with the original, but if you provide me with photocopies of the rest of the journal, I’ll make it worth your while.”
Wait, did he just offer me a bribe?
“I’m sorry, I can’t help you,” I said as I stood up.
There was a subtle shift in his demeanor, as if his genteel mask was slipping and giving us a glimpse of something else—something frightening. “Did you read it? Does it contain his formulas?” He directed his gaze to me, then to Sam. “You did, didn’t you?”
“No, we didn’t,” Sam said as he got to his feet. “Even if we wanted to, we’re not rocket scientists and could never understand any of that stuff.” He grasped my elbow and steered me toward the exit. “We need to get back to work, but feel free to follow up with SPAM’s community liaison.”
It sounded ominous when Rosselin called, “Until next time, gentlemen.”
On our way back down in the elevator, I asked, “What the hell just happened?”
“I have no idea, but that guy gave me the creeps. All my senses told me to get the hell out of there.”
“He still has the photocopies.”
Sam glanced at me. “Do you want to go back and get them?”
“I guess not. They don’t contain anything of a sensitive nature anyway, or I wouldn’t have removed them from the archives in the first place.” That made Sam grin, so I asked, “What?”
“The way you word things is funny. ‘Anything of a sensitive nature.’ But you’re right, those first few pages don’t matter much.”
Once we were outside, Sam turned to me with a hopeful expression. “Now can we get iced coffees? You promised.”
“Fine. But let’s not take too much time with it.”
On the way to his favorite coffee spot, Sam asked me, “Did you buy that stuff Rosselin said about wanting to preserve his family legacy?”
“No. It sounded like BS.”
“That’s what I thought, too. Which begs the question—what’s the real reason he wants that journal?”
Sam pulled his phone from his pocket and started tapping the screen, so I asked, “What are you looking up?”