"I can sell that. What's my name?"
"Your name?"
"If I'm playing a role, I need a name. Jennifer? Brittany?"
"Jennifer. From Accounting."
Griff used the maintenance keycard and the door opened with a soft beep. Inside, the facility hummed with the white noise of a thousand servers breathing in unison. Emergency lighting cast everything in a sickly green glow.
"Guard station is around the corner," Sarah whispered. "Usually one guy, sometimes two."
"Follow my lead. And remember—you're Jennifer from Accounting, slightly tipsy from happy hour, desperate to get your purse."
They rounded the corner. The guard at his desk looked up immediately—definitely not asleep. Mid-forties, alert, hand moving subtly toward his radio.
His eyes narrowed at Griff. "You're not Rodriguez."
Griff kept pushing the mop bucket forward, holding up the badge clipped to his coveralls. "Rodriguez called in sick. I'm covering his shift." He had a slight Hispanic accent now, tired night-shift worker who'd rather be anywhere else. "This lady says she left her purse?—"
"Nobody told me about a substitute." The guard's hand moved closer to his radio.
Griff tensed next to her. In a second, he’d grab the guy. But she had a better idea.
She stumbled forward, grabbing the desk edge. "Oh yay, someone in charge." Her Connecticut accent thickened, words slurring slightly. "Listen, I know it's late, but I am having the WORST night." She fumbled for her FBI badge, dropping it, picking it up upside down. "Jennifer Walsh,Accounting Services at…. Uh. Not here.” She jerked a thumb behind her. “I’m an analyst from up the street. I left my purse in that stupid cubicle. My car keys are in it and my mom's birthday?—"
"Ma'am, you can't be here after hours?—"
"I KNOW." She let her voice crack—exhaustion and fear making it easy. "But I already gave him fifty dollars—" She waved at Griff, then at the guard, "—or was it you? I had way too much wine at Jerry's retirement thing." She swayed, knocked over the guard's coffee mug.
"I'm so sorry." She grabbed tissues from the desk, dabbing ineffectively at the spreading coffee, making it worse. "I'll clean it, I'll?—"
The guard stood up, trying to save papers from the coffee flood. "Ma'am, stop?—"
"I'm such a disaster." She sobbed, hoping she wasn’t over-selling it. "My boyfriend dumped me because I'm a mess, and now I can't even remember where I left my stupid purse, and I'm going to miss my flight home?—"
"Okay, okay." The guard looked desperately at Griff, who shrugged with practiced indifference. "Where were you working?"
"7-B. No wait, 7-A? I can't—" She hiccupped. "Seventh floor?"
"This building only has three floors, ma'am."
"See? I told you I'm a disaster." More sobbing.
The guard rubbed his face. "Rodriguez—or whoever you are—take her to the second-floor offices. Check 2-A through 2-C. Five minutes, then out."
"I'm scheduled to clean 1A through E. I’m not supposed to leave my section," Griff said, still in character.
"I'll note it in the log. Just... get her out of here." He was still trying to save his paperwork from the coffee. "And ma'am? Your badge."
Sarah had started to walk away. She turned back, snatched her badge from the desk where she'd "forgotten" it, knocking over his pencil holder in the process. "Sorry, sorry!"
"GO," the guard said.
They moved past the station, Sarah maintaining her stumbling gait, Griff pushing his bucket with the bored efficiency of someone who dealt with far worse than drunk bureaucrats regularly.
The moment they rounded the corner, Sarah dropped the act and moved swiftly despite her ankle. No cameras beyond the front hallways. The price one paid to create unfettered access to data.
"We’re at 15 minutes and counting," Griff murmured.
