The Unicorn Agenda

The Unicorn Agenda: Part 1

Walking down the street one morning, I saw a unicorn. Its unsullied white coat stood out in the shadowed gray concrete canyon of Third Street. Ordinarily I wouldn't have paid much attention. All my life I've seen strange things that others don't notice, and I've seen lots of odd creatures in our city. Early on I'd learned to keep my mouth shut about what I saw—or at least imagined I'd seen. My dad would smack me every time he thought I made something up.

But this unicorn noticed me watching, and that was unusual. He stopped and swung his head to stare at me. After a brief inspection, his lips curled into a contemptuous sneer, and he trotted on his way. Staying in the bike lane, he ignored the rest of the pedestrians plodding blindly by on the sidewalk. A speeding courier cycled around the corner. The unicorn deftly stepped out of his way without slowing. The courier himself showed no sign of noticing anything out of the ordinary.

Curious because of our moment of interaction, I watched the supposedly mythical creature as he continued on his way. At the corner of the next block he took a right at the bagel shop and headed east on Talbot. Halfway down the block, he turned a corner and I lost sight of him

I almost started to follow, but I remembered my appointment. Even so, I lingered at the corner, watching and wondering what a unicorn was doing downtown. The towering buildings of the business district surrounded me. I'd never seen a unicorn in the central city. They were rare enough in the suburbs.

But my meeting. Alexander Stuyvesant, plenipotentiary administrator of Sterling Fund Investments, wanted to see me, and it was a meeting I couldn't afford to miss. Why had a man who controlled billions of dollars of other people's money selected an unremarkable private investigator like me? I'd asked myself that question several times since Stuyvesant's secretary made the appointment last Thursday. As a private eye, my usual clients' definition of high finance involved renegotiating the payment schedule on their car loan.

However, I wasn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth—even a horse with a horn on its head. I straightened up, adjusted my tie, and started walking again.

Stuyvesant's office was so far up in the DAMA tower it would have been a three-day hike up the stairs. My appointment was for midmorning, so I missed the morning crowd on my trek in from a parking garage up the street. Although the DAMA tower had its own garage, Stuyvesant's office hadn't included a parking pass for a visiting tradesman like me.

Dark polished granite framed the outside entrance to the building. The entryway transitioned to a lighter marble that continued into a vaulted, three-story interior. The main lobby featured several high-end retail establishments. Since I didn't need to be reminded of my humble station in life, I ignored them and headed directly to the bank of express elevators.

There were only two other passengers with me on the run up to the sky lobby. The car glided in swift silent contempt past the first fifty floors before it deposited us at the two-story marble concourse dotted with more small shops. Gold-trimmed escalators led up to a second level of shopping. The elevated location of these boutiques made it obvious they were not interested in casual, walk-in trade. I suspected they'd charge somebody like me admission to come in and browse, but I didn't check.

Local elevators to the upper floors stood waiting down the way. I thought I would continue my journey all alone, but just as the doors started to close, a woman in a business suit carrying a briefcase slipped through the door.

"Floor?" I asked politely, hand poised over the buttons. She ignored me and impatiently reached in front of me to punch in her destination. Just for that, I didn't offer her a comment about the weather.

I was all by myself when I got off at the seventy-first floor. Outside the elevator there was an acre of dark-patterned Persian carpet. The elevator vanished behind me, and I realized I was already inside the Sterling Fund's main office. The reception area alone was as big as my whole apartment. Paneled in wood with lots of brass accents, large green plants lined an aisle that led to the welcome desk.

Out of curiosity I brushed against a shrub—real vegetation. Through strategic clearings in the underbrush I glimpsed three other people working at desks.

A young woman sat on alert behind the substantial wooden desk facing the elevators. A name plate labeled her as J. Tavers. A scruffy-looking gnome sat on a corner of the bare, polished desktop, doing his nails with a tiny pen knife. He'd glanced at me when I'd gotten off the elevator, but at the moment he was trimming a hangnail.

I approached the desk. Oblivious of the gnome, J. Tavers smiled politely. "May I help you?"

I too ignored the ugly little fellow who shared her desk and gave her a smile of my own—level two, pleasant enough but neutral.

"Hi. My name is Mickey Holmes. I'm a private detective, and I have an appointment with Mr. Stuyvesant."

Even though I was in my good suit, she blinked twice at Stuyvesant's name. Although she arched an eyebrow skeptically, she was smooth. Her smile never wavered. "Just one moment, please." She looked down to a screen partially recessed into the top of her desk.

Maybe I should have used a level three smile.

One point in her favor was that she had said nothing about Mickey Holmes being a private detective. A detective named Holmes? I've taken a fair amount of ribbing about my name over the years. My clients seem to find the temptation to be witty irresistible—and repetitive. And no, I don't look anything like those illustrations of the fictional London detective. Like the legendary literary detective, I'm trim and taller than average, but I have a winning disposition and a cute smile—at least according to a former girlfriend.

What I don't tell people these days is that Mickey is a nickname I chose for myself long ago. When my parents named me, they must have wanted me grow up tough. Or maybe they just decided to inflict their weird sense of humor on me in perpetuity. As of this moment, none of my friends—or enemies for that matter—have discovered my true given name.

The receptionist looked up. This time she beamed a welcoming smile that radiated on at least a level six.

"Yes, Mr. Holmes," she gushed, obviously overjoyed to see me. "Marcus will be down in a moment to take you up. Won't you have a seat?" She gestured to a rank of leather armchairs nearby.

Sterling Investments was an international operation. That much I'd found out with the quick internet check I always do to make sure a prospective client can pay. And yes, if Sterling paid Stuyvesant in line with their ostentatious headquarters, Stuyvesant could pay. Could he ever! The elegant atmosphere of their reception area hinted at the full meaning of all those extra zeros in their financial statement.

I was out of my element. Even the soft, cushioning armchair intimidated me. This one piece of furniture outclassed anything in my apartment. I was sitting in a masculine version of my great-aunt's tea parlor. Maybe if I scuffed the chair some, slopped coffee on it, and otherwise used and abused it for a couple of years, I could make it fit in with my apartment's bachelor-casual decor.

Uncomfortable in unknown territory, I stayed alert. Who knew what else besides a gnome might be lurking in all the surrounding foliage? Fortunately, I didn't have much time to vegetate amongst the vegetation.

A young man in a well-tailored suit strode out to greet me. I stood to greet him as he extended his hand. "Mr. Holmes? I'm Marcus. Welcome to the headquarters of Sterling Investments." After he shook my hand, he took my elbow and guided me toward a carved wooden door that slid aside to reveal another elevator.

Marcus—was that a first or last name?—kept a controlling hand on my arm, something I detest. I stumbled to one side and excused myself for clumsiness. My wobble gave me the chance to casually slip out of his grasp. Once inside the elevator, I kept my distance lest Marcus grab me again. It also meant he didn't have to worry about accidentally brushing against me and soiling his clothes.

The ride up one floor was short and almost imperceptible in its smoothness. The door opened onto what looked like a classic Victorian library. Dark wooden cases full of books lined the walls. An oil painting of an older gentleman hung above a marble fireplace.

Marcus made no further moves to guide me. He stretched out his hand to the archway on the right. "Through here, if you will. Mr. Stuyvesant is waiting."