“Whatever you need,” I say. “Anytime, anyplace.”
I have never been to London, and I can’t say that I’m seeing much of it on this journey. We went straight from Damien’s jet to his limo to his office. During the course of that ride, I saw traffic and people and buildings that are significantly older than any we have in either Texas or Los Angeles. But I didn’t see the Tower Bridge or Buckingham Palace or even a British pop star. In a way, I’m glad. This is hardly a vacation stop. On the other hand, who knows when I’ll be back this way again?
Now we’re at the London office of Stark International. It’s located in the Canary Wharf business district, and Damien’s office takes up one half of the thirty-eighth floor. The building is ultra modern, as is the furniture. Damien spent most of the short plane ride at my side, organizing a plan for locating Sofia while I made some notes about a smartphone app I’ve been pondering and sent Jamie and Evelyn both emails telling them we were on our way home and mentioning that I am—gasp—seriously considering leasing office space.
Now, I’m alone. I stand idly by the window and stare out into this dreary, overcast day. I have a view of the Thames, but not much else, and even that famous river doesn’t really draw my attention. My thoughts are twisting and turning when Damien comes back to his office, flanked by two efficient-looking women carrying electronic tablets and taking diligent notes.
He dismisses the one on the left and continues the conversation with the remaining woman. She’s in her late fifties, tall and slim and with the look of someone very capable. He introduced me to her earlier as Ms. Ives, his permanent London assistant. As far as I can tell, one of her primary duties is acting as the liaison between Sofia’s residential treatment facility and Damien.
I’m still fuzzy on why such massive resources are devoted to Sofia’s mental health. I understand that she’s a friend, but as far as I know, Damien doesn’t assign assistants to keep tabs on all of his friends.
“Let me know the moment you get through to Alaine,” he says to her. Alaine is now a chef in Los Angeles, but since he and Sofia and Damien were tight in their youth, Damien is hoping that he’s heard from her. He moves behind his desk and glances down at the neat piles of paper. “And since I’m in town anyway, bring me the projections on the Newton project.”
“Of course, Mr. Stark.” She pauses in her exit to nod at me. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Fairchild. I’m sorry the circumstances couldn’t have been more pleasant.”
“A pleasure to meet you, too,” I say. I remain by the window until the door shuts behind her, then I move to Damien’s side. “Any luck?”
“Unfortunately, no. She checked herself out of the most recent rehab facility about a week ago, and no one’s heard from her since.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.”
He grimaces. “It’s not the first time, but usually she turns up after a few days back in her apartment in St. Albans, drunk or stoned off her ass and ready to go get dried out again.”
“How old is she?”
“Twenty-nine. A year younger than me.”
I nod, digesting the information. “And she’s in rehab voluntarily? I mean, a judge didn’t put her there?”
“Sometimes I think it would be easier if one did,” he says flatly. “But no, it’s voluntary.”