"Then perhaps we should discover what causes it," Naomi answered.
Another director suggested a formal listening tour.
Naomi declined.
"When executives know they're being observed, they perform. I don't need a performance. I need the truth."
She had spent the previous evening reviewing confidential complaints.
One described a manager who routinely mocked employees' accents.
Another concerned a receptionist who had been disciplined after reporting inappropriate comments.
A third alleged that contractors were denied access to facilities available to permanent employees.
The most troubling complaint came from a woman named Elena Brooks.
Elena had worked in the facilities department for eleven years.
According to her statement, a senior executive had threatened to terminate her entire team after she refused to clean up a private party held in an executive conference room.
The complaint had been closed.
No investigation.
No explanation.
Just three words in the electronic record.
Insufficient supporting evidence.
Naomi remembered those words as she opened the maintenance closet.
Inside were shelves of cleaning products, paper towels, gloves, and equipment.
A woman in a gray uniform stood beside a supply cart.
She looked up in surprise.
"Can I help you?"
Naomi smiled.
"I hope so. I'm looking for whoever supervises this department."
"That would be me."
The woman stepped forward.
"Elena Brooks."
Naomi felt a small jolt of recognition.
"Naomi," she replied, offering her hand.
Elena shook it cautiously.
"Are you with the new contractor?"
"No. I'm visiting the company."
Elena glanced at the supplies.
"Then why are you down here?"
Naomi hesitated.
"Someone upstairs thought I belonged to your team."
Elena's face changed.
"Who?"
"Gerald Whitmore."
For a long moment, Elena said nothing.
Then she closed her eyes.
"Oh, Lord."
"You know him?"
"Everybody knows Mr. Whitmore."
"Is he always that unpleasant?"
Elena gave a humorless laugh.
"Unpleasant is what people call him when they don't want to lose their jobs."
Naomi leaned against the doorway.
"What would you call him?"
Elena studied her carefully.
"You really want to know?"
"Very much."
Elena glanced toward the hallway before answering.
"I'd call him a bully."
Naomi nodded.
"Why hasn't anyone reported him?"
Elena laughed again, but there was no amusement in it.
"Reported him to whom?"
"Human Resources."
"His golf partner runs Human Resources."
"The compliance department?"
"His brother-in-law used to run that."
"The board?"
Elena looked at her as though she had suggested writing a letter to the moon.
"Ma'am, people like me don't get meetings with the board."
Naomi was silent.
Elena continued.
"We clean the offices. We empty the trash. We make sure everything looks perfect before the important people arrive."
She glanced down at her uniform.
"But nobody wants to hear what we see."
Naomi felt something tighten in her chest.
"What do you see?"
Elena hesitated.
Then she said, "More than they think."
Elena had not always worked in maintenance.
Before joining Westbridge, she had studied accounting at a community college.
She had hoped to become a financial analyst.
Then her husband suffered a serious workplace injury.
Medical bills accumulated.
Her mother became ill.
Her youngest son needed additional support at school.
The stable paycheck and health insurance offered by Westbridge became impossible to abandon.
Eleven years passed.
Elena learned every hallway, conference room, and security entrance in the building.
She knew which executives stayed late.
She knew which departments regularly worked weekends.
She knew which managers thanked the cleaning staff and which ones deliberately left messes behind.
She also knew something else.
"People talk when they think you're invisible," Elena told Naomi.
They were sitting in a small employee break room.
The furniture was old. The refrigerator hummed loudly. A handwritten sign reminded employees not to take food that belonged to someone else.
Naomi looked around.
"Does everyone use this room?"
"Just facilities and contracted staff."
"Where do the executives eat?"
Elena pointed upward.
"Twenty-ninth floor. Private dining room. Full kitchen. Beautiful furniture."
"Do you ever go there?"
"Only to clean it."
Naomi said nothing.
Elena leaned forward.
"Look, I don't know who you are, but if you're here to investigate something, you need to be careful."
"Why?"
"Because Mr. Whitmore doesn't like people asking questions."
"Has he threatened you?"
Elena looked away.
"Last year, one of my employees found confidential paperwork in a conference room. She followed procedure and gave it to security."
"What happened?"
"Mr. Whitmore accused her of stealing company information."
"Was there evidence?"
"No."
"Was she fired?"
"She resigned before they could fire her."
Naomi felt her jaw tighten.
"What was her name?"
"Marisol Vega."
Naomi made a mental note.
"Did anyone defend her?"
"I tried."
"And?"
Elena stared at the table.
"Three days later, they cut my overtime budget and told me my department was under review."
The room fell silent.
From somewhere in the hallway came the squeak of a supply cart.
Naomi looked at Elena's hands.
They were rough from years of work.
There was a small scar across one knuckle.
"Why did you stay?" Naomi asked.
Elena smiled sadly.
"Because courage doesn't pay the mortgage."
Naomi looked down.
She understood that sentence more deeply than Elena could have imagined.
Her own mother had worked two jobs while raising three children in a small apartment outside Richmond, Virginia.
One job was at a hospital cafeteria.
The other was cleaning offices after dark.
Naomi remembered waiting in the car while her mother finished late shifts.