This is for adding a Search Category to the thread.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Right in the heart of Sacramento's downtown, the J street building which houses Declan Karabas' office is a white block of stone, its windows tinted darkly and arranged like the teeth of a saw. At seven stories it's short compared to some of its neighbors--even the spire of the cathedral on its south side towers over it. Just a few blocks away from City Hall, the offices--
Well. She didn't come here for a travelogue.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
I feel like I'm walking on the moon as I approach the building.
Light.
Without the comforting weight of metal piercings, shit in my hair, or the heavy leather jacket and boots. It's like I'm walking on air, and the light white top and black skirt do nothing to dispel the sensation. The thin material of the blouse and fucking breeze up my legs make me feel like I'm not wearing anything.
Naked.
That's a better word. I feel vulnerable, like all the other rats in the maze. I'm also still getting looks, but I don't like these, at all. I welcome the disapproval and discomfort. I hate the lewd speculation. It's not that I have anything against men, or sex, it's just annoying to be judged solely on how fuckable I look.
One particularly obnoxious appraiser gets my shoulder bag accidentally swung into his crotch as I push through the doors o the building. Between my laptop, and about thirty pounds of "tools of the trade", I'm surprised he's still standing.
But he's not staring at my chest like he'll spontaneously acquire X-ray vision anymore, either.
My first bit of business is twofold, as I look at the building security as I search for a directory -- one which will hopefully have a floorplan on it.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
There's a satisfying thud and an even-more-satisfying ragged exhalation from the designated target, who has to sag against the wall for support as he tries to regain his stolen breath. Zinta may hate having to go out without her dark armor, but it certainly does give opportunities she wouldn't normally have.
There's a reception desk across from the doors as she enters, and beyond that a bank of elevators. In the hallway which houses the lifts Zinta can see a building directory--no floorplan, alas, merely a list of names. The walk across the lobby gives her time to scope out her other target.
A look around the lobby confirms a security presence, although here "presence" means one middle-aged guard who seems to just be standing around, thumbs hooked into his belt loops. His eyes pass over the room, and Zinta, without slowing. Chances are his mind is out in the Gulf, reliving a fishing trip, instead of in a bleak office lobby where his back hurts and his feet ache.
Shoes clicking on the marble floor, Z reaches the directory (letters like Scrabble tiles to be changed by hand, arranged behind a sheet of glass) and quickly finds her quarry--D. Karabas, Law reads the enty. Suite 227/2nd Flr.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
I take a slow look around, as if something inside of me expects ninjas to pop out of the plant vases. I'm not sure why, other than a vibe I got from Harry. Then again... I'm not very good with people, either.
Pushing the elevator button and waiting like a good heifer to be herded into the veal cage, I board the elevator and take it to the second floor. I stare at the numbers above the door, just like everyone else. Some of them do it from unease; others, like me, do it to avoid forced social contact.
My general rule is, unless we're fucking, if I can smell you -- you're too close.
Getting off the elevator, I wait to see if anyone else gets off on the same floor before beginning a slow circuit of the floor. I'm looking for a few things before I visit the law office -- bathrooms, and utility closets. One of the closets should hold all of the telecomm gear for the floor, and I'm curious to see how secure it is.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Two pieces of good news for Zinta as she steps off the lift: no one follows her off onto this floor, and across from the elevators there's a basic map of the second story's layout. She's on the south side; restrooms are down the hall and around the corner, on the southwest; 227 is on the western half of the north side.
So now she knows exactly where she needs to go; but it's easy enough to "forget" that info and go the long way around just to scope the place out that little bit extra.
The leased-out offices are all on the outside of the building. The hall circuits around the building's core, and it is in this core that things like the restrooms, closets, and elevator shafts are all situated. Zinta finds several doors set at intervals around the hub--white, unmarked, utilitarian. Some of the doors have little white pads nearby on the wall, a red LED staring like the eye of HAL. RFID sensors. A few of the doors, however, lack the pads. Extrapolation: she just found the difference between a store room and a server room.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
RFID was a bit of a surprised, with the single guard downstairs. Still, if the facilities management company had several buildings, it would be easier than physical keys.
Not much more secure.
I thought of several ways to get into the secure rooms as I walked past them, but hoped it wouldn't be necessary. I'd only need in there for something insane, like putting a packet sniffer on their WAN link.
Taking a moment to concentrate on my walk, trying to look more like a lady and less like a guy walking in heels. I've worn Doc Martens since I was a kid, and it's had an effect. As I complete my circuit, I look for any security cameras, then head towards 227. Having lived overseas, I've seen American sydicated television decades out of date -- and suppress the overwhelming urge to yell out for "Mar-ray," in my best Jackee Harry impersonation.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
If there are any cameras, they're unobtrusive--none are obviously out and filming. Black plastic domes are packed into the ceiling every twenty feet or so but those could be decoys just as easily as they could be live.
Suite 227 has pebbled glass preventing a clear sight line into the offices; the glass is blank, without logo, an oddity when all other tenants have branded every bit of available space. The only indication that it is occupied is a placard on the door which just says "Offices of D. Karabas." Just beyond the door is a small reception area--green carpet, white leather couch, tiny coffee table with three magazines splayed out--and a desk. At the desk is a small Korean woman who looks up and tucks her hair behind her ear as the door opens. A smile breaks across her face.
"Hi!" she says, greeting Zinta with the tone she'd use to greet a dear friend who moved away in sophomore year and how have you been and oh my God you're married and what have you been up to?
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
The badging is interesting, and alludes to Mr. Karabas having a very select number of clients that come to him.
Like Wallis Engineering.
Things are starting to bug me; this office, the temp... it's like a big put-on for anyone looking for Karabas that doesn't know how to really find him.
"HIIIIIIIIIII!" I sing out, waving like we're sorority sisters reunited. "I'm Jennifer, call me Jenny!"
I drop my bag on the coffee table, taking a peek at the magazines; to see if they're current, and if they're subscriptions or off the rack... and if they're subscriptions, if the addressing information matches this place.
Turning back with a big fake smile, I wonder how long I'll last.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
The magazines scatter a bit as the bag hits the table, fanning out a Time magazine with Michael Phelps and his eight medals, a Newsweek that came out shortly after the Obama inauguration, and another Time which asks: Did NBC Screw Conan? The covers are free of any white mailing stickers.
"Hi, Jenny!" the receptionist says, standing up and holding out a hand. "I'm so glad to meet you, thanks for coming by. I'm Mercy." She eyes the bag, and her tone has changed slightly as though she remembers that this is supposed to be a business meeting. "Please, have a seat. Can I get you anything? Water, tea?" She smooths out her skirt and smiles again.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
"Tea would be wonderful," I say, as if I'm so relieved she asked. Honestly, it'll be a great excuse later to visit the ladies room. Probably to compose myself... this 'social engineering' shit is just not me.
I follow her eyes to the bag and wave a hand at it. "Oh, don't worry about that... as long as you let me see how you do things so I can write up a sales call log," I beam. "I just can't believe you're stuck here all alone, do you at least have a view?"
I babble as I move to the window, as if to look outside, but actually looking to see how the windows are secured.
"Mercy? Like the French word?"
Duuuuhhhr.
Draft this Post
