"I'm outside the building. Please watch for my text."
Amber Bell hung up her phone and adjusted her glasses as she looked up at the strange building before her. It was a collection of large glass cylinders and spheres combined in an avant-garde design. Highly inefficient, incredibly expensive, and an eyesore if Amber were to be asked. Especially considering every other building in the immediate area was constructed in the mid-century modern design typical for this area—no doubt the vanity project of a mayor or other local politician hoping to make a name for themselves. A large piece of the building jutted off the side with a sign attached to it: Christoph Jarden Correctional and Rehabilitation Facility.
"Hm," Amber said, her lips tightening as she stared at the sign. Hardly a prison, Christoph Jarden was more of an involuntary 'Club Med' for the wealthy, powerful, and influential who just so happened to get caught one too many times for the public's liking. It had squash courts, comfortable beds, indoor butterfly gardens, and Michelin-quality cuisine. It was a chance for the wealthy to enjoy the finer things while appearing to pay the incurred debt for their crimes while padding the pockets of other wealthy individuals who invested in these facilities.
As she ascended the stairs, Amber approached the front door just as a police officer emerged and held the door open. "Ma'am," he said, smiling at her.
The reaction was expected. Amber would never grace the cover of a lingerie magazine, but she was not unattractive. Her long, shimmering copper hair was one of her best physical features, and she wore it long, hanging straight down to the middle of her back. It was parted to the side, with long bangs tucked behind her ear. She wore a blouse that plunged just enough to tease a bit of cleavage—it was her second-best asset. Hip-hugging khaki pants were a final touch to show off the ripe curves of a middle-aged woman without breaking the image of professionalism. It was unfortunate that physical traits carried so much influence in modern society, but at the same time, they afforded Amber natural tools that man did not possess. She would never have men falling all over themselves for her, but occasionally bending over to allow a neckline to droop or wearing something form-fitting to show off a well-formed buttock had made for an occasional interesting outcome, and she wasn't above using whatever tools she had to work with. It was practical, after all.
"Thank you, officer," Amber said without looking at the man. She never entirely understood why so many people were so free with eye contact. Amber found such prolonged ocular intimacy… off-putting.
The sound of her heels clacking on the floor echoed through the halls as she approached the metal detector and scanner standing between her and her quarry. A male officer was manning the scanner while a female and another male were waiting for her to approach. They both gave her tight-lipped smiles and nods.
"Morning," the uniformed female said. "If you would, just place your bag on the belt. Place any keys, phone, rings… all that goes in one of those trays."
"Of course," Amber said, complying. After emptying her pockets, she waited for someone to tell her to step through the metal detector. The female guard waved and said, "Ma'am, if you'd just step through here."
Amber did so without setting off any alarms. The officer gave her a nod and stepped aside, gesturing at the tray holding her keys, phone, glasses, expensive-looking pen, and roughly two dollars in change. Amber scooped them up and slid her glasses back where they belonged; she was practically blind without them.
"And what's your business here?" The male officer asked.
"Gwen Bartlet here to see Phillip Castor as his defense attorney."
The man picked up a tablet and skimmed through it. "Ah. Got it. One o'clock appointment." He handed the tablet to the female officer and said, "Ma'am, if you'll follow me, I'll take you to the visitor's center.
"Of course, officer," Amber repeated as she hefted her leather business bag off the table and followed the man as he led her through the double doors and to a set of elevators. Neither spoke as they waited for their ride nor exchanged pleasantries as the lift's doors closed behind them, and they began to ascend. It would have been labeled an uncomfortable silence if Amber had been able to feel such a thing. Instead, she pulled out her phone and texted: I'm in the elevator. Please begin.
Apparently, her escort didn't feel the same way about uncomfortable silences.
"These are some of the slowest elevators I've ever been on," the guard finally said.
"Yes, well… this used to be a hospital, you see," Amber said, staring at the floor indicator above the door. "I believe it went bankrupt about ten years ago and was bought out by another company. They refurbished it as a prison."
The man's eyebrows climbed up his head as he looked at her. "What does that have to do with the elevators being slow?"
"At the time, in the state of Colorado, there was a local ordinance that required slow elevator speeds in hospitals due to health issues. The law was repealed twelve years ago, but the hospital was constructed eleven years prior to the removal." Amber's eyes hadn't once drifted away from the floor indicator.
Before the officer could reply, the doors slid open, and the pair left the elevator, took a right, and headed down a corridor well-lit in a warm, incandescent glow. It was much different than the cold florescent lights of regular prisons, and the hallways of those didn't have pleasant classical music piped through speakers in the walls. If one must go to prison, this was the way to do it.
The guard stopped in front of a door and opened it. "Officer Estes should be here in a few minutes with Mr. Castor.
Nodding her head once, Amber walked into the room and looked around, unbothered as the door shut behind her. The spacious lounge would have been impressive if such things had impressed Amber. As she stood there, she took in the sight of cucumber water, lounge chairs, a large-screen television, a comfortable-looking full-sized bed, and a bar filled with snacks and drinks. It was hardly a drab place where people went to think about their crimes in remorse and sorrow.
Instead of enjoying one of the loungers, Amber went to the small square table and sat in one of the seats. She pulled out her pen and notepad, set it on the table, folded her hands on the paper, and simply waited as she stared around the room.
Almost fifteen minutes had passed before the door she'd walked through opened, and in walked a man who appeared to be in his early to mid-fifties. He had short salt-and-pepper hair and a five-o'clock shadow. He was wearing cargo pants and a button-down short-sleeve shirt, making it look more like he was on a beach vacation than serving a sentence in prison.
"You're not Bianca," he said, stopping short as he looked at her in confusion. The prison door swung shut behind him.
"No," Amber said, rising out of her chair. "I certainly am not."
The man's easy manner was replaced by a look of nervousness; his dark eyes darted around the room as if looking for someone else. He suddenly looked like a man being hunted for sport.
"Please," the lawyer said, gesturing to one of the other chairs at the table. "Have a seat. You're not in any danger. Your name is Phillip Castor, correct?"
The man eyed the seat warily but didn't move. "Who sent you? What do you want?"
Turning back to the table, she reached into her bag, pulled out several sheets of paper, and laid them on the surface. "My name is Amber Bell, and I represent Brantwood Holdings. They've expressed an interest in filling the void left by your partner's… ehm… demise."
"Thanks," Castor said, still not moving. "I'm good."
"Nonsense," Amber said. "Everyone can always be made better."
"Not me. Everything I need's taken care of."
"You... did hear that Colin Gerrard died, yes?" Amber said.
"Yes, but my deal still holds."
Amber gave him a doubtful look. "For now, but Gerrard's grandson has inherited his estate and has a different set of principles that guide his actions. He's already begun the first steps of reforming his flagship company."
Castor's eyes wandered across her features uncertainly. "That… shouldn't matter, right?"
"Normally, no," Amber said. "However, in your case, the legality of your agreement with the late Colin Gerrard is… tenuous at best. I'm afraid if you were to challenge any change or discontinuation of the deal you made, it would attract untoward attention. I'm sure your family would not appreciate having their income or security ripped from them, and I wonder how long you would last in a prison…" She looked around the room as if trying to grasp the right words, then leveled her gaze back at Castor. "With less amenities."
Phillip visibly tensed, approached the woman, and sat at the table to her right. "Are you threatening my family?"
Amber retook her seat, trying to puzzle out how best to respond to the man. "Not at all, Mr. Castor. My firm is interested in continuing the relationship between you and Mr. Gerrard. Your deal would continue as-is with no difference."
"First, how does your firm know about the deal, and why would they be interested in continuing it?"
"Because you have something they want," Amber said, pushing the papers toward the man along with the pen. "The ledger you stole from Mr. Gerrard."
"Christ," Castor guffawed. "You're not asking for much."
"It's the payment Brantwood requires for their… generous offer," Amber said.
Phillip leaned forward, his hands pressed together as he gestured at Amber. "You know it's the only thing that's kept me alive and my family fed for all these years, right?"
"Mm." Amber adjusted her glasses and said, "I'm aware. However, with Mr. Gerrard's passing, it is no longer a threat to him. Its only value to my company is in its acquisition. Despite the artifact's diminished value to you, Brantwood is willing to double the original financial offer Mr. Gerrard gave you and sponsor efforts to have you exonerated."
That made Castor sit back in his chair, his eyebrows raised in disbelief. "Seriously?"
"Yes," Amber said. All we would require is your signature for the new contract and information on where the ledger is. Of course, verification would be needed before we could honor the agreement in its entirety."
Phillip brought a finger to his mouth and chewed on it worriedly as he stared at the contract. He looked like a man completely torn. It was understandable; the information he held had been his lifeline for so long that the possibility of giving it up had to seem tantamount to suicide. It was an emotional decision. However, the idea of being free had to be just as tempting. Especially considering the amount of money Brantwood was offering him.
"I can tell you where it is," Phillip finally said, "But it won't do you any good."
Amber folded her hands in front of her. "May I ask why?"
"I have to be there to get it," Phillip said. "It's a Swiss bank."
"I see," Amber said. "And I assume you have the key somewhere safe?"
He nodded and said, "Yes. There's a key card, but that won't be enough. I have to be there in person. They do a retinal and fingerprint scan."
"Unfortunate but not impossible," Amber said, picking up her phone. She opened the browser. "What bank is it?"
Phillip hesitated.
"I understand your need for caution. Please understand that this deal won't be honored without the ledger. Once you're released, you can work with us to retrieve the artifact. However, I need to verify your story to protect my client's interests. If you wish to be a free man with more money than you could ever hope to spend, please sign the forms. They're tabbed and highlighted for your convenience."
With a long sigh, Castor began skimming through the documents. "How do I know you'll keep your end of the deal?"
"As you'll notice, there are two copies. You can keep one and pursue prosecution if you choose. You'll find that this deal is much less clandestine than Mr. Gerrard's and more legally actionable."
Without another word, Castor began filling out the forms. "The ledger's stored in a safe deposit box at Montreaux Heritage Bank. They're in Bern, Switzerland."
Amber started a search for the bank on her phone. "And the key?"
"It's a card, so it's thin. I put it in the lining of a photo of me and my wife in my office."
"And where is the photo now?"
"Still in my office, I assume," Castor said. "I paid to keep it." He provided the address.
"Very good," Amber said as she skimmed through some information about the bank on her phone. "And the box number?"
Philip hesitated, and Amber looked up from her phone when she didn't receive a response.
"I think I'd rather wait until I'm free to give you that information. It's kept me alive for so long," he said.
Amber stared at him for a long moment and decided that she had reached the limits of his ability to trust. She didn't understand why this was going to be the hill he chose to die on. Given enough time, they could determine the identity of the deposit box without his help. Besides, access to the box required two forms of identity that were not easily replicable. Even if he did divulge the exact location, a Swiss bank was notorious for honoring privacy and wouldn't allow just anyone near Castor's box.
"I… understand," Amber said, relatively sure she wouldn't get any more information from the man. She glanced at the sheet he was currently signing and saw he was on one that would require the signature of a notary. "I should sign that before you move on."
Phillip seemed relieved she wasn't pushing for the box number as he handed Amber her pen.
"Thank you," Amber said, giving him a small smile.
Then she promptly buried half of it into the side of Castor's neck as hard as she could. A spray of bright blood spattered across her face and clothes. The man immediately grabbed for his throat, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water as he pushed away from the table. The sound of the chair scraping across the floor barely covered the ragged gurgle of Phillip Castor's attempts to breathe. Viscous scarlet spilled from his fingers like oil from a punctured drum, thick and warm as it cascaded down his neck and soaked his shirt. Attempting to stand up, his legs failed before he took two steps toward the door, and he collapsed to the ground like a sack of money.
Amber fished a handkerchief from her bag, stood up, pulled her glasses off her face, and began wiping away the crimson droplets clinging to her lenses. She glanced at the dying form on the floor, no more than a blurry shape while cleaning it with the care of someone who'd found a wayward fingerprint. Once done, she continued to ignore the desperate gurgling sounds from Castor as she calmly pulled a shirt and pair of pants out of her bag. They looked exactly like the ones she was wearing.
She glanced at the floor to see a pool of blood slowly creeping toward her and stepped around the side of the table, careful to not get any on her shoes. Men rarely looked at a woman's feet, but one of the officers at the security checkpoint had been a woman, and Amber didn't care to find trouble because of a fashion-conscious woman in law enforcement.
She stripped off her blouse, exposing a pair of breasts held in a plain D-cup bra and a feminine belly—soft and supple. Once she'd slipped on the clean top, she did the same with the pants, sliding khakis stained with droplets of blood over generous hips and a shapely ass, discarding them in favor of the freshly laundered pants.
A few wet wipes later, Amber Bell looked like a completely professional woman who had not just committed either first or second-degree murder. She would leave looking precisely as she had arrived. Phillip Castor could not say the same. His flailing, desperate movements were finally coming to a rest, and any attempts at breathing were barely audible; the light was fading from his eyes.
Amber had just started gathering the paperwork when the door to the visitor's center opened, and a guard came in, looking different than the one who had escorted her here. It was the man she'd been coordinating with. He was in his mid-to-late thirties with a receding hairline and the beginnings of a paunch from enjoying beer a little too much. He was paper-white and looked like he was about to show her what he'd eaten for lunch as he stared at the soon-to-be remains of his charge.
"Ah," Amber said. "Good timing. I think we're done here." She glanced up at a camera hanging in the corner. "I trust that's taken care of?"
The officer was too busy staring at the mess lying mere feet away from him with a pool of blood slowly inching its way toward him to answer her.
"Mr. Estes?" Amber asked, finishing packing up as she stared at him.
He finally tore his gaze from the body. "What?"
"The cameras?"
"Oh. Yeah. He's out cold."
"And the recordings?"
"There won't be any footage of you," he said. "It's all been erased." He looked back down at the body again in concern.
"Ah… very good," Amber said with a curt nod, turning her attention to packing without appearing to be in any hurry. Despite the blood on the clothes and papers, she packed them, preferring not to leave them behind. Security rarely did a check on visitors leaving the building, and Jarden's was a joke by comparison. Checking her bags on the way out would be an unlikely anomaly, but leaving them here was not an option. She could dispose of the evidence once she was out of the city. Once done, she pulled out another wet wipe and ran it over the table's surface and her chair.
"The kid in the surveillance room's probably going to lose his job," the officer said, mesmerized by the lifeless body. "I definitely will. I'll probably be charged with something, too."
"Oh, I wouldn't worry about that, Mr. Estes," Amber said, picking her bag off the table and turning to him as she adjusted her glasses. "You'll receive the other half of your payment by midnight tonight. If you're prosecuted, we will make sure you're well represented. You won't have to enjoy your earnings from a jail cell. What's the young officer's name?"
Carl Purfroy," the officer said.
"Don't worry about him. We'll make sure he's well compensated as well. The well-fed have little to complain about."
Estes nodded and looked back down at the body.
"Mr. Estes?" Amber said.
"Huh?"
"I will need you to escort me to the lobby. Once I'm safely out the door, go to the surveillance room and remove any remaining evidence of tampering. Once you're satisfied, call for backup and report Mr. Purfroy's unconscious state. After that, follow all procedures as normal. Call the number I gave you at our first meeting if you run into any legal trouble. Do you understand?"
Estes nodded, making a concerted effort to not look at the dead body.
"Very good," Amber said. "Now, please lead the way."
The officer backed toward the door, still watching the body. "Can I ask why you killed him?"
Amber approached the body and swiped at the pen sticking out of the corpse's neck, removing any possibility of fingerprints. Slipping the wipe back in her bag, she straightened and said, "No. Just know that my employer looks after those who assist him. I promise… none of this will permanently affect your life, and any inconvenience will be well-compensated. Now, if you would kindly lead the way."
Estes finally opened the door, let Amber Bell walk through, and followed her out. The door closed behind him, and the lock clicked in place.
The corpse of Phillip Castor continued to bleed as the minutes ticked by.
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