Page 9 of Hanging and Burning

“Usually, people say that their family and friends are doing well or they’re in good spirits.”

“Oh,” I said. “Yeah, yeah. I never met Mr. Babylon before. It was a business thing.”

“What kinda business? Medical insurance?”

“I’m a private detective. As a rule, it’s my job to find what’s missing.”

“Oh,” she said, putting emphasis on the word. “You really do charm people for a living.”

“Not you.”

The Filipino woman with the West African name came to a decision, reached into a sky-blue leather purse that sat at the edge of her desk, and came out with a business card. This she handed to me.

Printed thereon was her name, Molayo Adlawan, along with her Facebook page, telephone number, and in the lower righthand corner, her astrological sign—Capricorn.

“You work at something else besides this job?” I asked.

“No.”

“Then why you need a business card?”

“In case I happen to meet you.”

I gave her my card. What else could I do?

Back to the first floor, then across the base of the hospital to the opposite side, I came to the restricted entrance to the South Tower. This was where the richest of the rich people were ensconced. A man in a business suit sat at the reception desk. He was flanked by two armed guards and watched from behind by a third.

“Mr. Oliver, isn’t it?” the brown-haired, tan-skinned receptionist asked.

“You know I am. I was here yesterday, and the day before that.”

“Identification, please.”

“You’ve already seen it, photographed it, and put it in the system.”

“Identification, please.”

I took out my wallet and handed over my passport card. I used this because I was from out of state and I thought a national ID would work better than a New York driver’s license.

While he pretended to study the information, the armed guard behind him took my photograph with an impressive-looking camera.

“Go right in, Mr. Oliver,” the receptionist said.

“What’s your name?” I asked the young man.

“What?”

“Your name is What?”

“No. Um, Riddick, Bob Riddick. Why?”

“No reason.”

I went past the private constabulary and took the elevator to the twenty-sixth floor. There I encountered another guard. The suit he wore might make the general population think he was a businessman, but I was sure that he was armed. I didn’t have to show him anything because the camera-wielding protector downstairs had already sent my photo and yet another picture of my ID.

“You know the way?” this man asked cordially.

“Yes.”