Whoever awarded the contract to the designer of Easthaven City Hall, an important building that, historically, could define a city and set the tone for the style of future construction, should be shot, and the architect might be next in line.
Or so Laura thought, metaphorically speaking, of course. She didn't condone murder.
Every time she encountered the structure, whether it was passing it on a bus or actually entering it for business purposes, as now, she wondered what the members of the selection committee were thinking when they chose this massive, blunt, boring, soulless design to represent the city. The unfortunate name of 'The Brick', doubtless provided by some wit at the newspaper when the building was completed, truly did sum it all up. The interior was just as stark as the exterior, though past administrations had tried to inject some life, colour, anything to the public spaces with varied success. Laura approved of the mural on one of the twenty-foot, concrete walls, depicting the history of the city using images from archival photographs to blend together the beginnings of Easthaven to sometime in the early two-thousands or so. Lots of colour and a lovely quality to the realism without being confined to it.
There were potentially comfortable sofas in a rich leather - or leather-like - material, arranged in three 'conversation zones' in the lobby. They were done in a deep rust colour, which was appealing, with glass coffee tables in the middle of each zone. Taller glass tables had been placed along the two side walls about every fifteen feet or so and upon them was a large arrangement of silk flowers in a tall, pillar vase. They looked real enough, without looking strange. It would cost a fortune to have real flowers installed every few days. It probably took forever and a day to dust the lot of them. If she had any criticism about the lobby, aside from her opinion that it needed something more to make it feel welcoming, it was the amount of glass in the furniture.
It was like a set from one of those Bruce Willis films, where people are held hostage in a building and a lot of scenery is destroyed by gunfire. A lot of broken glass for the extras to step on as they tried to flee.
There were two security guards, who sat at small desks just inside and on either side of a set of pillars about twenty-five feet or so from the main entrance. Two symbolic, heavy, red ropes, about ten feet long a piece, had been set up attached to metal stands at either end to narrow the space between those pillars and acted as a frame of sorts to direct traffic through the high-tech, security arch in the middle. Laura hadn't encountered anything like it outside an airport, but she supposed it never hurt to be careful, especially considering the level of violence in the world today. Not that she was aware of Easthaven being a target for anyone, as it was hardly the White House, but just the same, she was glad they had decent security in place.
“Good evening, Miss Johnson,” one of the guards said. She recalled his name was Scott and replied in kind. Laura gave her purse and black garment bag to him and walked through the arch. The other guard, whose name she didn't know, looked at something on a monitor and nodded.
“You're clear, Miss Johnson,” he said.
“Thank you.”
“Here you go, Miss Johnson,” Scott said with a smile, returning the bags to her.
“Thank you, Scott,” she replied with a smile, and with a nod to the other guard, Laura strode toward the elevator and pressed the button. The woman at the front desk looked over at her and Laura smiled back. The woman didn't smile, but returned to whatever she was doing. From the angle of her head and the movement of one hand, it looked like she was reading a magazine. The elevator dinged, she entered the car and pressed the button for the seventh floor. The ride was silent, but for the ever-present instrumental 'music' that droned quietly in the background. Tonight it was 'Candle in the Wind' and Laura doubted Sir Elton John would have appreciated the jazzy interpretation.
Dressed in a suit of pewter grey with a pencil skirt that dipped just below her knees, matching pumps and a rich, purple blouse, Laura felt tired, but looked the part of a personal assistant. The cuffs of her blouse were turned over the cuffs of her jacket, adding a bit more colour to her outfit. Her long, dark hair was up in a loose but neat bun, hair parted on the left with a side bang that flipped up a little. She presented a professional appearance without being unapproachable.
With another ding, she arrived at the Mayor's floor. Where the lobby had smelled vaguely of dust from the old heating system, some fumes from the traffic outside and fake lemons, this floor had hints of roses, lavender and rosemary. It was definitely a preferable combination. She smiled at the receptionist, who would probably be leaving for the day shortly, and knocked on the large, wooden door to the office proper.
Or so Laura thought, metaphorically speaking, of course. She didn't condone murder.
Every time she encountered the structure, whether it was passing it on a bus or actually entering it for business purposes, as now, she wondered what the members of the selection committee were thinking when they chose this massive, blunt, boring, soulless design to represent the city. The unfortunate name of 'The Brick', doubtless provided by some wit at the newspaper when the building was completed, truly did sum it all up. The interior was just as stark as the exterior, though past administrations had tried to inject some life, colour, anything to the public spaces with varied success. Laura approved of the mural on one of the twenty-foot, concrete walls, depicting the history of the city using images from archival photographs to blend together the beginnings of Easthaven to sometime in the early two-thousands or so. Lots of colour and a lovely quality to the realism without being confined to it.
There were potentially comfortable sofas in a rich leather - or leather-like - material, arranged in three 'conversation zones' in the lobby. They were done in a deep rust colour, which was appealing, with glass coffee tables in the middle of each zone. Taller glass tables had been placed along the two side walls about every fifteen feet or so and upon them was a large arrangement of silk flowers in a tall, pillar vase. They looked real enough, without looking strange. It would cost a fortune to have real flowers installed every few days. It probably took forever and a day to dust the lot of them. If she had any criticism about the lobby, aside from her opinion that it needed something more to make it feel welcoming, it was the amount of glass in the furniture.
It was like a set from one of those Bruce Willis films, where people are held hostage in a building and a lot of scenery is destroyed by gunfire. A lot of broken glass for the extras to step on as they tried to flee.
There were two security guards, who sat at small desks just inside and on either side of a set of pillars about twenty-five feet or so from the main entrance. Two symbolic, heavy, red ropes, about ten feet long a piece, had been set up attached to metal stands at either end to narrow the space between those pillars and acted as a frame of sorts to direct traffic through the high-tech, security arch in the middle. Laura hadn't encountered anything like it outside an airport, but she supposed it never hurt to be careful, especially considering the level of violence in the world today. Not that she was aware of Easthaven being a target for anyone, as it was hardly the White House, but just the same, she was glad they had decent security in place.
“Good evening, Miss Johnson,” one of the guards said. She recalled his name was Scott and replied in kind. Laura gave her purse and black garment bag to him and walked through the arch. The other guard, whose name she didn't know, looked at something on a monitor and nodded.
“You're clear, Miss Johnson,” he said.
“Thank you.”
“Here you go, Miss Johnson,” Scott said with a smile, returning the bags to her.
“Thank you, Scott,” she replied with a smile, and with a nod to the other guard, Laura strode toward the elevator and pressed the button. The woman at the front desk looked over at her and Laura smiled back. The woman didn't smile, but returned to whatever she was doing. From the angle of her head and the movement of one hand, it looked like she was reading a magazine. The elevator dinged, she entered the car and pressed the button for the seventh floor. The ride was silent, but for the ever-present instrumental 'music' that droned quietly in the background. Tonight it was 'Candle in the Wind' and Laura doubted Sir Elton John would have appreciated the jazzy interpretation.
Dressed in a suit of pewter grey with a pencil skirt that dipped just below her knees, matching pumps and a rich, purple blouse, Laura felt tired, but looked the part of a personal assistant. The cuffs of her blouse were turned over the cuffs of her jacket, adding a bit more colour to her outfit. Her long, dark hair was up in a loose but neat bun, hair parted on the left with a side bang that flipped up a little. She presented a professional appearance without being unapproachable.
With another ding, she arrived at the Mayor's floor. Where the lobby had smelled vaguely of dust from the old heating system, some fumes from the traffic outside and fake lemons, this floor had hints of roses, lavender and rosemary. It was definitely a preferable combination. She smiled at the receptionist, who would probably be leaving for the day shortly, and knocked on the large, wooden door to the office proper.