Fiction
Two Before The Wedding Part 6
A Sunny Alexander-Johnson And Henry James Series
My name is Sunny Alexander-Johnson, and I’m Henry James, and we’re writers for Dark Sides of the Truth magazine.
Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5
Walking to the car, we were both silent, processing the information we’d gained from our brief conversation with Howard Bartley and Roger Sterling. It was a safe bet we’d come across some valuable tidbits of info. The problem was we didn’t yet understand how useful the information was or what it actually was.
We slid into the front seat of the car, closed the doors, and just sat, not bothering to buckle up, not cranking the engine, both of us staring through the front windshield in silence.
“Something’s not right with this, Henry.”
“Yeah, I’m sensing it too. Although I got the feeling, Bartley was straight with us.”
“Yeah, but what do we really know about him and that Roger Sterling dude?
“Okay, I’m going to plug Ashton Wheaton Homes in the GPS. We need to see what’s on the other side of the coin here. At this point, we don’t know which company this supposed target works for.”
“One way to find out. I think we need to get Donnie and Becca to give us a rundown on both men.”
“Works for me.”
The trip from Bartley’s Manufacturing to the offices of Ashton Wheaton Homes in downtown Austin took us about thirty minutes. It seemed regardless of the time of day, Austin city traffic always found a way to work against us.
After locating a parking garage three blocks away, we walked to the ground floor of a highrise then stopped in the lobby to examine one of the directory boards hanging on the wall next to the elevators.
“Fifth floor.”
“No office number Henry?”
“Nope.”
“That probably means they have the entire fifth floor.”
“Probably so. Let’s go.”
“Okay, but when we get up there, I need to sit down. All this walking around we’ve been doing is killing me.”
“What’s the matter, princess? That double shot of baby starting to slow you down?”
“Bite me, Henry. Let’s just go, alright?”
We stepped out of the elevators on the fifth floor into a carpeted hallway. Directly opposite us was another pair of elevators.
To our right, a vast expanse of a breakroom with several long tables and a sufficient number of chairs to accommodate about thirty or so people. Several refrigerators lined one wall of the breakroom, and the far exterior wall was glassed in offering a spectacular view of downtown Austin.
We had a choice of four hallways perpendicular to the elevators. Two to our left, and another pair to our right.
“Okay, which one do we take?”
“Does it matter? Right now, even those cafeteria chairs are looking real good.”
“Fine, let’s go this way.”
We took the hallway to our right, immediately spotting the Ashton Wheaton Homes sign etched into a pair of glass doors. Through them, we saw a standard office environment of cubicles and conference rooms and people moving about.
“Wait, Henry. I need to go.”
“What?”
“The ladies’ room.”
“Ah geez Louise Shaundrika, can’t you just hold it?”
“I swear to God, Henry, I’m going to punch you in the throat. These kids are using my bladder for a soccer ball.”
“Fine. Make it quick.”
“Whatever.”
After a brief interlude where one of us stood awkwardly in the hallway trying to look inconspicuous and failing miserably, we pushed through the glass doors and began to roam around.
Minutes later, we found a receptionist’s desk and explained our reason for being there to a young lady who possessed a headset and an award-winning smile. When we mentioned Brentwood, she nodded and pointed to another hallway to her left.
“You’ll probably want to speak with somebody on the Brentwood team. Usually, by this time, they’ve finished their morning briefings and are going about their day. Mr. Ruiz is the senior project manager. His office is five doors down on the left.”
After finding the man’s office, we knocked on the frame of the door. Inside the office, a middle-aged man with an olive tan complexion, thick black hair precisely trimmed and graying at the temples sat. The sleeves of his white shirt were neatly rolled back to his forearms, and he was studying some paperwork on his desk.
“Mr. Ruiz?”
He looked up at us and smiled, “yes. May I help you two?”
As we stepped into the man’s office, he rose, skirted his desk, and shook our hands.
“Charles Ruiz, but you can call me Charlie. Everybody around here does.”
“Henry James.”
“Sunny Alexander-Johnson.”
“Mr. James, Ms. Johnson. Nice to meet you. Make yourselves comfortable. Can I get you anything?”
“No, we’re fine. We’re here to talk about the Brentwood project.”
“Ah, yes. We’ve gained a ton of momentum since Mr. Thompson decided to join in and make this one of his pet projects. This is going to be one of Ashton Wheaton Homes’s best contributions to the community. An entire plot of affordable homes for the low-income, parks, playgrounds, swimming pools, vocational training centers.”
“Impressive. A project of this size must eat up a lot your time.”
“Oh it does, but we’ve got a crack team on this one. A lot of feet on the street. In fact, if it wasn’t for Angela, this whole thing would probably fall apart at the seams.”
“Angela?”
The man offered a smile and pointed to a gilded frame photo sitting on a bookshelf against his office wall.
“Yes, Mr. James. Angela is the driving force behind this project. In fact, it was she who took the idea before Ashton Wheaton’s board. And she was the one who approached Mr. Thompson, who sits on Austin’s planning committee. Even though she’s only been with us for a little under a year, that woman knows almost everything anybody could possibly know about the construction business. She’s a natural.”
“May I take a closer look at the photo?”
“Sure, Mr. James. That photo was taken at the annual golf tournament we sponsor at the Austin Country Club. All proceeds go to the local soup kitchens and homeless shelters. It’s for a good cause. Either of you golf?”
“Uh, Sunny?”
“Yeah?”
“Who do we know, named Angela?”
“No way.”
“Yes, way. Take a look for yourself.”
“Oh, holy shit Henry. That’s Angela Stringer.”
“You two must be mistaken. The name of the lady standing next to me is Angela, but her last name isn’t Stringer. It’s Bartley. Angela Bartley.”
We traded glances of surprise and, after the photograph was returned to the shelf, prepared to leave Charlie’s office. There was one thing we needed to know right now much more critical than information about the Brentwood project.
“Charlie, you’ve been a ton of help. One last question. This Angela Bartley. Can you tell us where we might find her? We just want to ask her a few things and perhaps clear up this misunderstanding.”
“Well, she said something about meeting with some local contractors out on Westlake drive this afternoon. Would you like me to call her?”
“No that’s okay. No need. What are the names of the contractors?”
Charlie jotted down the names on a sheet of paper, ripped it from a notebook, and handed it to us.
“So, Mr. James, are you two friends of Angela’s?”
“We used to work together. We’d like to get back in touch and talk about old times.”
“Great. I’m sure she’ll be surprised to see you.”
“Yeah, Charlie, I’m pretty sure she will be. Thanks for all your help.”
We left the man’s office and hurried as fast as a pair of arthritic old legs, and a bulging stomach would let us to the elevators. As soon as the elevator doors closed, we turned and stared at one another.
“I think we just found our target, Henry.”
“Yeah, and I’m willing to bet we’re the last two people in this world she wants to see right now.”
Read On — Two Before The Wedding Part 7
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