"Mr. Brooks isn't an employee you supervise or a person accused of threatening a company facility," Thomas said. "You used corporate resources to seek information about a resident who embarrassed you. That is a serious misuse of authority."
"Then discipline me," Clare snapped. "Issue a reprimand. Why did you bring my father here?"
George did not look at Thomas. "Because of his name."
"Whose name?"
"David Brooks."
Her father said the name with a quietness that unsettled her more than anger would have. Thomas explained that the company had protected corporate records linked to the name and that the request had automatically notified legal and the board secretary. Clare looked at Rachel, who had entered and seated herself near the door.
"Who is he?" Clare asked.
Rachel shook her head. "I was not authorized to open the restricted profile. I followed the alert procedure."
"Then you must know," Clare said to George.
He looked past her toward the windows, where office towers gleamed in the morning haze. "I know a David Brooks," he replied. "I want to be certain we're talking about the same man."
He asked David's approximate age, appearance, and the location of the house. Clare described the broad shoulders, close hair, and faded jacket. The last detail made George's fingers tighten on his cane. Thomas noticed, and the expression on his face changed because he knew parts of the restructuring history Clare had never been told.
An assistant knocked and delivered a small leather document case from outside counsel. Thomas opened it, removed several sealed pages, and placed a ring of archival keys on the table. Attached was a battered brass compass, much like the one Clare had seen hanging from David's key ring. The engraved letters read WMG.
Clare pointed before she could stop herself. "That's it. He had one just like that."
George stood so quickly that Thomas moved to steady his chair. He lifted the compass, opened its hinged lid, and touched the small number engraved inside. The number was one. For nearly twenty years he had kept it in a drawer among the earliest records of Whitmore Mobility's safety technology program, and outside counsel had borrowed it for an archival review before returning it with the restructuring materials.
"When did you see his?" George asked.
"Saturday morning. On his keys."
"Did he say where it came from?"
"He said somebody gave it to him. I thought he might have taken it from a company employee."
George closed his eyes. Clare could not tell whether he was remembering something or trying to steady himself. When he opened them, the old executive appeared to have made a difficult decision.
"Nineteen years ago," he began, "Whitmore Mobility was on the verge of losing the biggest municipal transportation contract we'd ever won. Our collision-warning system worked in controlled demonstrations and failed when buses had to operate in real traffic. We were burning through money, and our engineers were blaming the wrong things."