Free The Inner Circle by Brad Meltzer

Orlando was in that SCIF and near that book.
    “Beecher, right?” he asks, his sparkling fingers still on my shoulder. “You got a half moment to chat?”
    *              *              *
     
    11
    What a horror—and especially with you two being so close, eh?” Khazei asks, his accent polished, like a Yale professor. Across from us, a firewoman covers Orlando’s face by pulling up the thin bedsheet that’s neither crisp nor white. The sheet’s been beaten and washed so many times, it’s faded to the color of fog. Worst of all, it’s not big enough to really cover him, so as he lies there on the stretcher, as the paramedics confer with the firefighters, Orlando’s black work boots stick out from the bottom like he’s in a magician’s trick, about to float and levitate.
    But there’s no trick.
    “Pardon?” I ask.
    “I saw you run in with the paramedics… the concern you were wearing.” Khazei stands calmly next to me, shoulder to shoulder, like any other person in the crowd. He’s careful to keep his voice low, but he never steps back, never tries to draw me out or get me to talk somewhere private. I’m hoping that’s good. Whatever he’s fishing for, he still doesn’t know exactly where he’s supposed to be fishing. But that doesn’t mean he’s not hiding a hook.
    “We’re both from Wisconsin—he was always nice to me,” I admit, never taking my eyes off the body, which sits right in front of Orlando’s open cubicle. On the floor, there’s a small pile of scattered papers and books fanned out at the foot of Orlando’s desk. They could easily be the papers Orlando knocked over when he toppled from his chair. But to me, even as Khazei takes his manicured fingers off my shoulder, they can just as easily be the aftermath of someone doing a quick search through his belongings. But what would they be looking—?
    Wait.
    The video.
    In the SCIF. Orlando grabbed that video so no one would know we were there. So no one would know what we grabbed. We. Including me. But if someone sees that video… If someone finds out I was in that room… Maybe that’s why Orlando was—
    No, you don’t know that , I tell myself. I again try to believe it. But I’m not believing anything until I get some details. And until I’m sure that videotape is in my own hands.
    “Do we even know what happened? Anyone see anything?” I ask.
    Khazei pauses. He doesn’t want to answer. Still, he knows he’s not getting info until he gives some.
    “Our receptionist said Orlando was being his usual self,” he explains, “said he was humming ‘Eye of the Tiger’ when he walked in— which is sadly typical— then he headed back to his cube and then…” Khazei falls silent as we both study the covered body. It’s the first time I notice that, across the room, mixed in with the still growing crowd, are two familiar faces—one with a crappy beard, the other with her green reading glasses and triple-knotted shoes.
    Dallas and Rina.
    Clementine coughs loudly from behind. I don’t turn around. So far, Khazei hasn’t even looked at her. He has no idea we’re together. Considering who we just found out her dad is, that’s probably for the better.
    “Y’know he had sleep apnea, right? Always bitching about going to bed wearing one of those masks,” Khazei explains.
    I’m still studying Dallas and Rina, my fellow archivists. Unlike everyone else, who’s pretty much standing behind us, the two of them are deep on the other side of the room, facing us from behind the cubicles. Like they’ve been here for a bit. Or are looking for something.
    I continue to check each desk, searching for the videotape.
    “One of the firefighters even said that if the stress gets high enough, you can trigger a seizure, but—” Khazei shakes his head. “When you spoke to Orlando earlier, he seem bothered or upset about anything?”
    “No, he was—” I stop and look up at Khazei. He’s not wearing a grin, but I feel it.