I've Got Your Number

A crowd of people has arrived at the entrance and I stand aside to let them go in, my thoughts skittering wildly. Should I hurry down the street and try to find a pay phone? Should I try to get in again? Should I make a run for it into the lobby and see how far I get before I’m tackled to the ground? Sam’s standing in front of the lifts now, still talking to the guy with the leather briefcase. He’ll be gone in a few moments. It’s torture. If I could only attract his attention …

“No luck?” says the window cleaner sympathetically from the top of his ladder. He’s covered an entire massive pane of glass with suds and is about to wipe them off with his scraper thing.

And then it comes to me.

“Wait!” I call urgently up to him. “Don’t wipe! Please!”

I’ve never written in soap suds in my life before, but luckily I’m not aiming for anything very ambitious. Just MAS. In six-foot-high letters. A bit wobbly—but who’s fussing?

“Nice job,” says the window cleaner approvingly from where he’s sitting. “You could come into business with me.”

“Thanks,” I say modestly, and wipe my brow, my arm aching.

If Sam doesn’t see that, if someone doesn’t notice it and poke him on the shoulder and say, “Hey, look at that—”

“Poppy?”

I turn and look down from my perch on the window cleaner’s ladder. Sam’s standing there on the pavement, looking up at me incredulously.

“Is that addressed to me?”

We travel upstairs in silence. Vicks is waiting in Sam’s office, and as she sees me she bangs her forehead with the heel of her hand.

“This had better be good,” says Sam tersely, closing the glass door behind us. “I have five minutes. There’s a bit of an emergency going on—”

I feel a flash of anger. Does he think I don’t realize that? Does he think I wrote SAM in six-foot sudsy letters on a whim?

“I appreciate that,” I say, matching his curt tone. “I just thought you might be interested in these messages, which came in to Violet’s phone last week. This phone.” I reach for the phone, still lying on his desk.

“Whose phone is that?” says Vicks, eyeing me with suspicion.

“Violet’s,” replies Sam. “My PA? Clive’s daughter? Shot off to be a model?”

“Oh, her.” Vicks frowns again and jerks a thumb at me. “Well, what was she doing with Violet’s phone?”

Sam and I exchange glances.

“Long story,” says Sam at last. “Violet threw it away. Poppy was … babysitting it.”

“I got a couple of messages, which I wrote down.” I put the Lion King program down between them and read the messages out for good measure, as I know my writing isn’t that clear. “Scottie has a contact, keyhole surgery, no trace, be fucking careful.” I point at the program. “This second message was a few days later, from Scottie himself. It’s done. Surgical strike. No trace. Genius stuff. Adiós, Santa Claus.” I let the words sink in a moment before I add, “The first message was from Justin Cole.”

“Justin?” Sam looks alert.

“I didn’t recognize his voice at the time, but I do now. It was him talking about keyhole surgery and no trace.”

“Vicks.” Sam is looking at her. “Come on. You’ve got to see now—”

“I see nothing! Just a few random words. How can we even be sure it was Justin?”

Sam turns to me. “Are these voice mails? Can we still listen to them?”

“No. They were just … you know. Phone messages. They left them and I wrote them down.”

Vicks looks perplexed. “OK, this makes no sense. Did you introduce yourself? Why would Justin have left a message with you?” She exhales angrily. “Sam, I don’t have time for this.”

“He didn’t realize I was a person,” I explain, flushing. “I pretended to be an answering machine.”

“What?” She stares at me, uncomprehending.

“You know.” I put on my voice-mail-lady voice. “I’m afraid the person you’ve called is not available. Please leave a message. And then he left the message and I wrote them down.”

Sam gives a muffled snort of laughter, but Vicks looks speechless. She picks up the Lion King program, frowning at the words, then flicking through to the inside pages, although the only information she’ll find there is the actors’ biographies. At last she puts it back down on the table. “Sam, this means nothing. It changes nothing.”

“It does not mean nothing.” He shakes his head adamantly. “This is it! Right here.” He jabs a thumb at the program. “This is what’s been going on.”

“But what’s been going on?” Her voice rises in exasperation. “Who’s Scottie, for fuck’s sake?”

“He called Sir Nicholas ‘Santa Claus.’ ” Sam’s face is screwed up with thought. “Which means it’s likely to be someone in the company. But where? In IT?”

“Is Violet anything to do with it?” I venture. “It was her phone, after all.”

There’s silence for a moment—then Sam shakes his head, almost regretfully.