I opened my mobile browser and typed in the corporate registry for Sunlake Management Group. I bypassed the customer service lines and scrolled straight to the executive directory. I found the direct office number for the regional vice president of operations.
I hit dial, held the phone to my ear, and listened to it ring.
CHAPTER 3: The Record He Couldn't Erase
The phone rang three times before an executive assistant picked up. I sat in the baking oven of my Civic, my bruised throat throbbing as I stared at the regional vice president's direct extension on my screen. I didn't have time to navigate a corporate firewall, and I knew a front-desk receptionist would simply route my complaint to mall security—which meant routing it directly back to Richard Vance.
"Sunlake Management Group, executive office," a crisp, professional voice answered.
"I need to speak with Arthur Sterling," I said, my voice raw and rasping from the dry heat of the mascot suit. "My name doesn't matter yet. But you need to tell him I am sitting in the overflow lot with a destroyed OSHA lockout-tagout device, and I have timestamped proof that his property director just destroyed federal compliance records to cover up an assault."
The line went completely silent. There was no hold music, no request for me to repeat myself. The assistant knew exactly what those words meant in a commercial real estate environment. Ten seconds later, the line clicked.
"This is Arthur Sterling," a deep, measured voice said. "Who am I speaking to, and what exactly are you claiming is in your possession?"
"I'm the vendor who was just locked inside a promotional suit in your central plaza," I said, leaning my head back against the hot headrest of my car. "Someone threaded a commercial maintenance padlock through the dorsal zipper. The property director, Richard Vance, snapped the lock off my spine twenty minutes ago. Then he went down to the sub-basement and ripped the master registry page out of the LOTO compliance binder so you wouldn't find out who the lock belonged to."
I listened to the heavy, steady breathing on the other end of the line. Sterling didn't interrupt. He didn't accuse me of lying. He was a regional executive; he managed liability, and what I had just described was a catastrophic operational threat.
"Where are you right now?" Sterling asked.
"Parking lot C," I said.
"Come to the fourth floor of the main administrative tower. Use the private access elevator behind the security desk. I will clear you through." Sterling's voice was completely devoid of emotion. "Bring the lock."
He hung up.
I shoved the phone into my pocket, grabbed the heavy red thermoplastic padlock from the passenger seat, and stepped back out into the blistering heat. I walked back toward the massive architectural facade of the plaza. My legs were still shaking from the oxygen deprivation, my undershirt soaked in stale sweat, and a dark ring of bruising was already blooming around the base of my neck where the heavy fiberglass collar had dug into my skin.
I bypassed the crowded shopping promenade and walked straight through the glass doors of the administrative tower. The lobby security guard looked at my disheveled state, his hand dropping toward his radio, but before he could speak, his console beeped. He checked the screen, frowned deeply, and pointed toward the frosted glass elevator at the back of the atrium.
The elevator shot upward, depositing me into a silent, freezing corridor lined with dark mahogany and thick carpet. The air smelled of expensive espresso and sanitized leather. It was a completely different universe from the grimy, oil-stained concrete of the maintenance bay where Tyler Vance had checked out his gear.
The executive assistant I had spoken to stood up from her desk as I approached. She didn't offer me a seat. She simply opened the heavy wooden door behind her and stepped aside.
Arthur Sterling sat behind a sprawling, immaculate desk. He was in his late fifties, wearing a sharp navy suit, his silver hair neatly parted. He looked up from his monitor as I walked in. His eyes scanned my bruised neck, the grease stains on my jeans, and the sheer physical exhaustion radiating from my posture.
Before either of us could speak, the heavy office door opened again.
Richard Vance walked in.
He had clearly been summoned by Sterling the moment we hung up, and he had hurried up from the lower levels. Vance stepped into the room with his usual polished arrogance, adjusting the cuffs of his gray suit. Then he saw me standing in front of the desk.
Vance’s stride broke. He froze, his eyes dropping to my pockets, a flicker of genuine shock cracking his composed exterior. But he was a seasoned corporate director. He recovered in less than a second, his posture stiffening into absolute, righteous indignation.
"Arthur, what is this?" Vance demanded, stepping past me to address the vice president directly. "Why is this blacklisted vendor in your office? I just had him terminated and removed from the property."
"He called the executive line," Sterling said calmly, folding his hands on his desk. "He claims he was trapped in his suit with plaza maintenance gear, and that you tampered with the federal compliance registry."