I hit the down button, restless with the worry that I’d be seen, and trying to stay still so I didn’t draw attention ifanyone was watching the cameras in this hall. I wasn’t under surveillance, but I knew there were cameras everywhere in the building. I’d need a little luck to get out of here unobserved.
The elevator arrived, doors opening to reveal an empty car. I stepped inside, hitting the button for the first floor, then jabbing at the button to close the doors, even though I was pretty sure those didn’t work. I tensed as the elevator passed the second floor, where the offices were. If someone had hit the call button there, I’d be busted before I got anywhere. I let out a breath at the soft jolt of the car reaching the first level. The doors slid open to the empty hall I’d seen only once before, the day I’d rung the bell from the street, trying to chase down my lead on Emily Shaw. It felt like I’d lived a lifetime since then.
I followed my memory, turning right, then right again, to see the solid metal door that remained the only thing between me and the street. I half expected it to be locked, or alarmed, or something. From the street side, it wouldn’t open. I’d learned that myself. But from the interior… I pushed the latch on the handle, a bolt clunked inside the door, and it swung open. I stepped out into the crisp late winter air. I didn’t have a proper overcoat to match my semi-professional outfit, but I was glad I’d been wearing my winter raincoat when I’d left my van for a burger. It wasn’t horribly cold; this was Atlanta after all, but it wasn’t exactly spring either.
The second I was clear of the building, I put a spring in my step and moved—not fast enough to draw attention, but fast enough to cover ground.
I was glad I had a solid recall of visuals. I didn’t want to keep pulling up the map or using GPS on my phone.Instead, I turned the phone off completely. That wasn’t proof against being tracked, but it seemed like a good move.
I walked up a block, crossed the street, turned left, went another few blocks, and reached the MARTA station, disappearing down the escalator with a crowd of other people. I blended with everyone else, anonymous in my dark pants, blouse, and blazer, my hair pulled back in a bun, bundled in my coat.
The subway map made it easy enough to figure out where I was going, and less than fifteen minutes later, I was climbing the steps to the street just south of Midtown. Pulling up the map in my memory, I walked a few blocks, made a turn, another few blocks, another turn, and found myself on Renaissance Parkway NE.
I wasn’t sure what to expect. This area of town was all over the place—parking garages, old concrete and brick office buildings, interspersed with a warehouse or a shiny new condo complex. This wasn’t the business district, but I didn’t stick out too badly as I trudged up a slight incline, reading the numbers on the buildings.
Eighty-six was wedged in between a parking garage and a square building with flat planes of windows that looked like it had been built in the seventies. Eighty-six was only three stories tall, clad in brick painted a grayish khaki sometime a few decades ago. The windows were small, and there were some art deco-y details around the door, but otherwise it was a plain, slightly run-down, nondescript office building.
There wasn’t a directory outside, and if you’d told me the entire place was deserted, I wouldn’t have been surprised. I pushed the front door open to find the lights on in the lobby, a circular desk at the front, a narrow elevator I wasn’t sure I trusted, and finally, the building directory.
Six offices, two on each floor. It looked like the third floor was fully occupied. The second had a vacant office. And the first only had one name written for suite 101, a travel agency that, from a glance at the door, appeared to be closed.
The other, though, had the windows facing the lobby covered in paper, but the lights were on inside. Now that I was here, I wasn’t entirely sure what to do next. I didn’t have a business name, or any name at all—no one to say I was looking for. All I knew was that the IP address of the person who had hacked into my socials had come from this building.
It could have been somebody sitting in the parking garage next door who connected to the Wi-Fi here. I considered that. It might have been a squatter—somebody who took advantage of one of the empty office spaces, or the one right behind me. It looked like it was being renovated, which could mean easy access for somebody looking to cause trouble.
I turned and stared at the door. I was here. I might as well ask a few questions, see if anyone had noticed anything suspicious. Maybe somebody hanging around who shouldn’t be there.
I crossed the lobby and tried the doors. One swung open, and I walked in to see a wide-open room taped off as if to be painted, plastic over the carpet, and a desk set up in the middle where I’d expect the receptionist would eventually be.
“Hello? Anybody here?” I called out.
“One second,” a male voice called from down the hall. He sounded young—not teenager young, but close to my age. I waited, and a minute later a man strode down thehall, a little taller than me, with messy dark curls and bright gray eyes.
“Hi.” He approached with his hand out, and I shook it, smiling back.
“Hi. This is kind of weird, but are you new to the building?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Opening up in a few weeks. As you can see, we’ve got a lot of work to do.”
“Yep, I see that.” I gave him a bright, friendly smile. “I’m trying to track down some information that came from this building, and I was wondering if you’ve had any issues with break-ins? Or finding people in the building who shouldn’t be here?”
“No, nothing like that. It’s actually a very secure building. That front door is usually locked. I was bringing supplies in, so I forgot to lock it behind me. Don’t tell my neighbors,” he added, raising a finger to his lips.
I smiled back. “I’m not trying to get anyone in trouble,” I said. “Just curious.”
“What kind of information is it that you’re tracking down?” he asked.
“I wish I could tell you, but it’s a private matter.” I hoped that explanation would be enough.
“I understand,” he said. “If you want, we can go check the security logs. I’ve got a camera—I keep it turned on when I’m not here. I haven’t looked through the footage. I never noticed anything out of place, so it didn’t occur to me anyone could have been here.” He shrugged, held his palms up. “You never know, I guess. Do you want to see?”
“Yes,” I said. “If you don’t mind. What does the camera cover?”
“Oh, just inside the doors here and the lobby.”
“You have coverage of the lobby? How far back does it go?”
“About a week, I think,” he said, turning and leading me down the hall. “I set up a few computers in here. That’s the one I have the camera feed on. I’ll show you.”
