Miranda (4 page)

His skin was tanned by the sun, and he would wear his hair long–long enough to make it curl. He made all the girls go crazy… even the female professors, I’m sure. They gave themselves away with their furtive glances and drooling when he would interact with one of them. Alex sported that eternal surfer look. And yes, we romped, but just once. It never happened again–not because it didn’t feel good, but because it wasn’t right. Within a few months, the attraction faded, but our friendship had become very strong. In short order, that we would be friends mattered more than sex. When I began working at Medika, Alex already had my trust, so when Norman gave me the opportunity to hire my own team, the first one I hired was Alex.

“I don’t know what the media is saying,” I began to say, whispering just like he was. “I spent hours at the hospital. Come. Let’s talk in my office.”

Alex closed the door and sat in one of the black chairs that faced my desk. I was surprised that he didn’t choose to use the elegant sofa that was his favorite piece of furniture in the entire building. Sometimes I would let him put his feet up on the sofa, as long as they were clean enough. Faced with this unusual behavior, I didn’t use my chair either, but sat instead in the one next to him and rested my elbows on the wood.

“Norman had an accident.”

“I know that already. How is he? What’s going to happen to him?” His anxiety was overtaking him as mine was. I too wanted to know how he was really doing, and if he would be able to survive this.

“Not very well.” I turned away to look at the floor. “It’s bad, very bad. Now that this news is public knowledge, I’ll need your help.” I looked at him again. “We must send out a memo which briefly states what happened. Also, we must stress that any request for information from the media must be routed through you.”

Alex nodded. There was no time for lamentations–only work.
The show must go on.
That’s what Norman would have ordered.

“Make sure not to communicate anything to the media without having it first approved by Ethan and I. If the police visit Medika, Ethan must direct all interaction with them.”

Alex said nothing. He looked at me as if he didn’t understand the instructions… as if he were waiting for me to say something else, or that I would provide a better explanation.

“That is all,” I concluded.

Alex is not easily fooled. He is my only friend and the only one who meets the requirements to hold that title. He knew I was nervous, and when I get like that, I sometimes don’t act normally. But he is also a good communicator. He knew I was hiding something in between all of those instructions.

“What’s going on, Miranda?”

He was looking at me with those pleading little eyes that made me lower my guard. Speaking grew more difficult.

“I don’t know. I really don’t know, Alex, and until I know, it’s best to follow protocol. Something isn’t right, but I don’t know what it is yet.”

That was enough for him. He got up out of his chair and walked to the door.

“I’ll go write the employee memo,” he announced.

He came back inside almost as fast as he left. I was still seated with my face in my hands.

“Detective Hernandez is in the lobby. He’s asking for you.”

“For me?” I asked him, as if I didn’t already know the answer.

If I was not mistaken, Hernandez was coming for the information Ethan would be providing. Why would he come to see me too?

“Do you want me to call Ethan?”

Those were the Ethan’s exact instructions: that he be called. That would be the only proper way to handle the situation.

“Tell him I’ll be there in a few minutes. I’ll take care of Ethan.”

I picked up the phone to let Ethan know about the police presence in Medika’s facilities. The anger I felt towards Ethan made me disobey his instructions. Besides, I wanted to know more about the case.

Alex, who still hadn’t left the office, saw that I hung up the phone and smiled knowingly.

“That’s what I like: for you to be a good girl and follow instructions.”

***

Half hidden behind a large column, I watched Hernandez. His brown hair was somewhat disheveled–hat’s how he looked since the early morning–an additive to the air of intrigue that exuded from his pores. The cream colored jacket he was wearing showed signs of light wear at the elbows, which revealed that it was his faithful companion during work hours. Even with the high heels I was wearing, Hernandez was taller. He had a mole on his right cheek. Every now and then, that mole caught my attention more than his stunningly blue eyes.

The detective was playing with some key in his hand. Sometimes a peculiar tic of making noise with his shoes would show itself as well. When he was bored of staring at the wall or the ceiling, he would stretch out his neck to look beyond, perhaps with the hope of catching a glimpse of me among so many employees. Suddenly, it occurred to me that with the nervous act as a cover, he was actually photographing every detail of our facilities that he could with his eyes.

“Good afternoon, detective.” We shook hands.

“Good afternoon Mrs. Wise.”

“Miss,” I corrected his mistake. Once, it’s a slip; twice, he may begin to believe it. His eyes sparkled and he smiled.

“How can I help you?”

He insisted that we go somewhere where we could speak privately.
Of course, there are many places here where we can speak and do what you want in private
, was the answer I gave him in my mind. What was the source of such lusty thoughts for him?

“We can speak in my office.”

The receptionist had a “visitor” nametag ready. I gave it to Hernandez and asked him to put it on.

My office was next to Norman’s at the end of a long hall decorated with abstract oil paintings. The detective walked slowly, examining each work in detail.

“They are very impressive. Whose are they?”

I scanned some of them with my eyes before answering.

“Mr. Clausell’s.”

He looked at me disapprovingly, as though I didn’t have to be formal with him.

“Norman’s,” I corrected myself. Then he corrected himself too.

“I meant to ask who the painter was.” He stepped back to get some distance and to better appreciate the paintings.

“Oh! I don’t know. From what I understand, they are by an anonymous artist.” I joined him in contemplation. I did just that every afternoon before going home. “Norman is mildly obsessed with them. They are magnificent, yes, but for some reason, they make me feel... uncomfortable.”

I decided to keep my mouth shut. Why was I telling him how a few abstract paintings affected my mood? He didn’t miss the opportunity to throw out some questions.

“Really? Why is that?”

“I don’t know... perhaps they make me feel sad? Sometimes I imagine that the artist is a very solitary, melancholy person.” I didn’t want to add the following truth: that, one way or another, I saw a reflection of myself in them. I didn’t always understand why, but there I was… alone, every time. I knew many people, and only a few of them were part of my life–my inner circle–but that did not mean that I was a sad person. Really? No, I wasn’t a sad person. Sadness didn’t have a place in my life. At least, not until I was looking at those paintings.

“Do you really want to know why they make me feel that way?” I stopped in front of the painting that hung facing the door to Norman’s office. “This painting expresses the pain… the fury when someone betrays you.”

Hernandez lifted his head.

“I think that someday I may request your services for an investigation. I think your interpretation is very astute. I’m amazed.”

I let out a laugh that provoked an even bigger one from the detective. Between laughs we arrived at my office. He sat in the same chair in which Alex had been sitting just a few minutes earlier. Again, I used the chair next to it.

“I came here because I wanted to know how you were, Miss Wise. I know that all of this has been quite overwhelming for you.”

“I’m somewhat tired, but fine. How can I help you?” I insisted.

“The detectives have finalized the search for evidence where we found Mr. Clausell.”

The silence was uncomfortable. I swallowed hard. My heart was beating forcefully.

“And what news do you have? What happened?”

Hernandez sighed.

“This is not an official version, because these things don’t work that quickly, but I can say that this does not seem to have been a traffic accident... with other vehicles.”

Suddenly it seemed like the detective had stopped speaking English–like he was speaking French or Chinese, or maybe some kind of jargon.

“What makes you think that?” I was able to verbalize.

“There is no evidence that shows that the car lost control before hitting the fence.”

My mind went blank, again without understanding the language he was speaking. Maybe that’s how some people feel when they have been told they won the lottery–but I had not won the lottery. I had lost it, and it was as if everything was taken away abruptly… even the air out of my lungs.

Little by little, I figured it out. If it had not been a car crash, then what was it? I dared not ask for fear of what I may hear. That he shared those details with me made me curious. As is usually the case, my mouth reacted before my reasoning.

“Why are you telling me this?”

His eyes turned into question marks.

“Why am I telling you what?” He asked, knowing the answer and trying to conceal a very indecent desire to laugh.

“These details! Aren’t you supposed to keep them under wraps until everything is solved?”

His face lowered its guard.

“Miranda,” he spoke gently, with total kindness. “May I call you Miranda?”

“That’s my name,” I stressed.

There were no warning signs left on his face.

“Miranda, I think you’ve watched too many movies and TV series,” he couldn’t hold back his desire to laugh. We both laughed at the same time. When we managed to calm down, he added, in a more realistic tone, “I think there may be something behind Mr. Clausell’s accident.”

What ability he had to change topics within seconds! Of course, pure strategy to cause confusion and identify lies. He was going to say something when someone knocked.

Through the glass door, I saw Ethan. It must have been very difficult for him to not interrupt without permission, as he always did. No doubt he wanted to show the manners that, truth be told, he lacked. Without waiting for an invitation, he opened the door and walked in.

“Detective Hernandez, good afternoon. Please forgive the delay.” He gave me a look that did not seem to mean anything, but I knew what it meant.

Then I remembered who had authorized Hernandez’ visit.

“Don’t apologize, counsel. I’ve taken advantage of the opportunity to speak with Miranda.” Ethan hid it to perfection, but I, who had known him for a long time, knew he was about to boil. I had disobeyed his instructions…
and it felt so good.

“Please come with me to my office and I’ll happily provide you with the information that is pending.”

Hernandez got up.

“Miranda, have a wonderful afternoon. We’ll keep in touch.”

The greeting and farewell with a handshake was now a habit–a habit that made me feel very good. His hand was delicate, so delicate that I couldn’t imagine him shooting a gun with it.

“Likewise,” I answered in a casual tone to completely unhinge Ethan.

I moved on to sending some emails. I wanted to leave the office before Ethan could finish his business with the detective, but because I waited to review the employee memo that Alex was preparing, I was not able to leave on time. Ethan returned to my office before I could make my eager escape. He remained standing at the doorway with the door shut behind him. I had no escape for what awaited me.

“So then, Miranda?”

“Did Hernandez leave?”

He raised his tone of voice.

“Why didn’t you follow my orders?”

From inside, a muffled giggle escaped.
So they weren’t instructions, but orders.

Ethan’s attitude really bothered me. It was time to clarify our roles in this new state of affairs that was unfolding. I got up and leaned on the desk, stopping right in front of Ethan, who was watching every step I took to get closer.

“I think I need to remind you of a few little things, Ethan. I am second in command at this company. So,
I
decide how things will be managed while Norman recovers.” I would never have wanted to be so rude, because I was not that kind of person. I’ve always been peaceful and calm, but he left me no other choice.

“Damn it, Miranda! You have to understand. That’s the reason I want to protect you.” He lowered his voice by several decibels. “You must not involve yourself with what happened to Norman. It’s not good for the company.”

“What are you saying?” Although we spoke almost simultaneously, my voice could be heard over his. “What do you know that you’re not telling me? And how is it that you also know what’s good for me and what’s not?”

“What questions you ask!” Now it was I who invaded his space, and he didn’t like it. “I don’t know anything about anything, Miranda.” He stepped back and raised his hand to his forehead. I knew that gesture inside out. He was weaving a story–the story he wanted to sell me. He began the act calmly: “Miranda, my job is to look after the company’s interests. You, more than anyone, know how hard Norman has worked to build this. He wouldn’t want Medika to be affected by his personal situation.”

I relaxed my jaw and shoulders and moved away a few inches.

“Yes, yes, Ethan. Whatever. You’re not going to convince me with that story. You know or you at least have suspicions about what happened to Norman. What kind of trouble are you both involved in?”

He voice went up again.

“There’s no trouble here! I already told you. I don’t know anything. I just do my job: watch over the interests of the company. I recommend that you lower you guard with me, Miranda. Don’t forget, I’m your ally, always! I’m not looking to cause you any harm.”

I made a disrespectful display of false reverence.