Columbia, then I worked in a restaurant and posed for a photographer, and then I came here. That’s my entire employment history.”
Broden turned the page and continued to write. “And are you on a work visa, or do you have a green card?”
“My father’s an American,” Elena said. “I have dual citizenship.”
“How fortunate for you. Where was your father born?”
“Wyoming.”
“Nice state.” Broden kept writing. “Now, I know HR’s likely gone over this with you, but if you’ll just bear with me, I do need to ask you a few questions about Anton.”
“Do you work with them?”
“With . . .?”
“With HR,” Elena said.
“I’m sorry, I must not have been very clear when we spoke on the phone. I’m a corporate investigator. I work in conjunction with the HR departments of various companies, but I’m a third-party consultant.” Broden looked up briefly, then returned her attention to the pad of paper. “Did Anton ever mention anything to you about his background?”
“You know, a guy from HR asked me that exact same question. Three times.”
“And what was your response?”
“That the extent of my knowledge of his background was the Harvard diploma on his wall, and no, he never talked about it.”
“He never spoke about his family at all? His cousin?”
“No, nothing about that. He never mentioned a cousin.”
“I see. And you never met his family, I assume.”
“I met his fiancée once at a company Christmas party. Does that count?”
“When did you first meet him?”
“Anton? A little over two years ago. At my job interview.”
“You’re certain that was the first time you ever met him,” said the investigator. “At your job interview.”
“Yes,” Elena said.
When Elena returned to her desk an hour and a half later a stack of interoffice envelopes had accumulated, but she didn’t open them. She stared at the cubicle wall for a while, and when she looked at her watch it was four fifteen.
“Slipping out early?” Graciela asked. She was a company messenger, one of two; she stood by the elevator with an armload of envelopes.
“Coffee break,” Elena said dully.
“You look pale. Maybe take the day off tomorrow. Call in sick.”
“Maybe.” The elevator arrived. Graciela pressed the lobby button. Elena pushed the button for the third floor.
“What’re you doing on the third floor?”
“Just wanted to say hello to someone who works down there,” Elena said. When the door opened she said goodbye and walked down the corridor quickly, turned a corner, looked both ways and slipped through an exit door. In the cold gray light of Stairway B, a man was sitting on the cement steps with his eyes closed.
“Excuse me,” Elena said.
He nodded wanly as she stepped around him, and when she looked back he had closed his eyes again. She heard the sounds of the mezzanine as she pushed open the door: the rush of water through exposed pipes overhead, the rattling of vents, the movement of air—an industrial hum with no beginning or end, constant as the ocean. The corridor was wide and empty with a drifting population of dust bunnies, dimly lit. She passed a number of doors before the file storage rooms began: Dead File Storage One, Dead File Storage Two, Dead File Storage Three. She stood for a moment in front of the closed door to Dead File Storage Four and then backed silently away and walked back toward the stairwell. The office worker was still sitting on the stairs. He nodded again but didn’t speak as she stepped around him. On the elevator between the third and twenty-second floors she closed her eyes and leaned her forehead against the wall.
“Took another unscheduled break?” her coworker asked. Nora occupied the desk closest to the elevators, where she took apparent pleasure in observing and commenting on the comings and goings of the department. Elena ignored her and went to her cubicle. The number on Broden’s card was apparently a cell phone. There was a
Broden turned the page and continued to write. “And are you on a work visa, or do you have a green card?”
“My father’s an American,” Elena said. “I have dual citizenship.”
“How fortunate for you. Where was your father born?”
“Wyoming.”
“Nice state.” Broden kept writing. “Now, I know HR’s likely gone over this with you, but if you’ll just bear with me, I do need to ask you a few questions about Anton.”
“Do you work with them?”
“With . . .?”
“With HR,” Elena said.
“I’m sorry, I must not have been very clear when we spoke on the phone. I’m a corporate investigator. I work in conjunction with the HR departments of various companies, but I’m a third-party consultant.” Broden looked up briefly, then returned her attention to the pad of paper. “Did Anton ever mention anything to you about his background?”
“You know, a guy from HR asked me that exact same question. Three times.”
“And what was your response?”
“That the extent of my knowledge of his background was the Harvard diploma on his wall, and no, he never talked about it.”
“He never spoke about his family at all? His cousin?”
“No, nothing about that. He never mentioned a cousin.”
“I see. And you never met his family, I assume.”
“I met his fiancée once at a company Christmas party. Does that count?”
“When did you first meet him?”
“Anton? A little over two years ago. At my job interview.”
“You’re certain that was the first time you ever met him,” said the investigator. “At your job interview.”
“Yes,” Elena said.
When Elena returned to her desk an hour and a half later a stack of interoffice envelopes had accumulated, but she didn’t open them. She stared at the cubicle wall for a while, and when she looked at her watch it was four fifteen.
“Slipping out early?” Graciela asked. She was a company messenger, one of two; she stood by the elevator with an armload of envelopes.
“Coffee break,” Elena said dully.
“You look pale. Maybe take the day off tomorrow. Call in sick.”
“Maybe.” The elevator arrived. Graciela pressed the lobby button. Elena pushed the button for the third floor.
“What’re you doing on the third floor?”
“Just wanted to say hello to someone who works down there,” Elena said. When the door opened she said goodbye and walked down the corridor quickly, turned a corner, looked both ways and slipped through an exit door. In the cold gray light of Stairway B, a man was sitting on the cement steps with his eyes closed.
“Excuse me,” Elena said.
He nodded wanly as she stepped around him, and when she looked back he had closed his eyes again. She heard the sounds of the mezzanine as she pushed open the door: the rush of water through exposed pipes overhead, the rattling of vents, the movement of air—an industrial hum with no beginning or end, constant as the ocean. The corridor was wide and empty with a drifting population of dust bunnies, dimly lit. She passed a number of doors before the file storage rooms began: Dead File Storage One, Dead File Storage Two, Dead File Storage Three. She stood for a moment in front of the closed door to Dead File Storage Four and then backed silently away and walked back toward the stairwell. The office worker was still sitting on the stairs. He nodded again but didn’t speak as she stepped around him. On the elevator between the third and twenty-second floors she closed her eyes and leaned her forehead against the wall.
“Took another unscheduled break?” her coworker asked. Nora occupied the desk closest to the elevators, where she took apparent pleasure in observing and commenting on the comings and goings of the department. Elena ignored her and went to her cubicle. The number on Broden’s card was apparently a cell phone. There was a
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