Damaged (30 page)

She stood. “Do you think I could borrow this letter and make a copy of it?”

“Okay.” Claudine rose, looking doubtfully at the letter.

Kate walked to the door. She had the paper trail she needed. Vangie hadn’t died in a car accident. And since Claudine hadn’t even known her sister was dead, she obviously hadn’t given consent to her body being “donated” to BioMediSol.

But how had Vangie died? Was it the crack? Was it CJD?

She had got in the car with some guy and no one had seen her again
, Shonda had told her.

Something bad had happened to Vangie. She needed to find out from Ethan what Vicky had learned about Vangie’s disappearance and convince him there was more to this than the police thought.

“The police will probably be in touch with you,” she said at the door.

“Yeah. They’ve spoke to me before. But they did nothin’.”

The children turned on the sofa. “You goin’ Kate?” Tania asked. Her little brother stared at her, obviously used to letting his older sister do the talking.

“Yes. It was nice meeting you.” She looked at Claudine. “You have lovely kids.”

Claudine allowed a small smile that couldn’t hide her pride. “They’re okay.”

“Take care.”

She left the apartment and returned to her car. She had gotten what she came for. In more ways than one.

She’d seen through Claudine’s eyes what the path of addiction led to. She had tried to stop her own sister from being lured down that path. Her sister hadn’t wanted to be saved.

Her cell phone rang. She started violently. “Hello?” Her voice was trembling. She swallowed.

“Kate. It’s Randall.” There had been no mistaking his impatience, but now he paused. “Are you okay?”

Her breath caught. She wanted, more than anything, to tell him no. She wasn’t. The pain of her sister’s abandonment—for she now realized that was what her sister had done: she had abandoned the silent, struggling partnership they had forged after her father’s imprisonment for the oblivion of drugs—was spilling through the cracks of her reserve. Threatening to reveal the depths of her pain at being left alone. The sole survivor of the destruction her father had brought down on their heads.

She forced herself to inhale. She could not, would not, let her boss—this man who had both stolen from her with one hand and offered comfort with the other—know that, at this moment, her heart was riven. Wide open and raw. For all and sundry to see.

She needed to pull it together.

She needed to help Claudine and the families of all the other victims that BioMediSol had stolen from. And that meant keeping her boss at a distance until the job was done.

“I’m fine.” She made her voice as cold as possible. It worked this time.

There was silence. “Did you get my message?” he asked warily.

“Yes.” Again, cool, distant.

“Why didn’t you return my phone call?”

“It seemed pointless.” The words came out before she could stop them. But she was glad she said them. She hoped it would eradicate whatever concern Randall might feel about her. They both needed to retreat behind the professional divide of boss and employee, managing partner and first-year associate.

There was a stunned pause. She allowed herself a flash of weary triumph. It wasn’t a response a man like Randall got very often. If ever. He inhaled sharply. “What do you mean?”

“Nothing.” She could sense his antagonism building. She shouldn’t have been so brusque. She didn’t need to offend him, just keep him away. She added, “I’m sorry I didn’t return your call earlier.”

“You can give me a full explanation in my office,” he said curtly. “I need you to come in now.”

Damn
. “I can’t come right now, Randall. I’ve got an urgent matter to attend to.”

“I’m not asking, Kate.” His voice was steely. “Come now. Or don’t bother coming back at all.”

The phone went dead in her ear.

She threw it on the seat. “Damn him!” But she was really damning herself.

She headed toward the new bridge, debating her course of action. Police cars flashed up ahead. The traffic had slowed to a crawl at the tollbooths. Cars were veering away, racing to the old bridge. A gap in the traffic showed there had been an accident.

“Damn.” She abruptly turned down one of the exits, heading for the old bridge. Her frustration—and her pain—
threatened to boil over. She had wanted to avoid Randall until she’d presented her case to the criminal investigations unit. But Randall’s phone call had reminded her of something she’d forgotten.

She drove over the bridge, turning off Hollis Street toward Lower Water Street. The gleaming monolith housing LMB was five minutes away.

Once she presented her case to the police, it would blow the lid off BioMediSol and, in turn, TransTissue. Legal ethics dictated she give her firm warning of what was about to go down with one of their top clients.

And resign before the shit hit the fan.

Friday, May 18, 5:50 p.m.

K
ate Lange still had not come home. Where the fuck was she? He couldn’t wait for her any longer. John Lyons’ mind raced as he drove against the tail end of rush hour traffic to his office.

Despite his resolve, cold sweat ran down his back. Had Barrett found out about the withdrawals John made on his clients’ trust accounts? John had paid them back with the money he’d borrowed for BioMediSol. BioMediSol had never needed the money—their overhead costs were minimal thanks to Anna Keane’s on-site facilities—but he’d convinced Anna that the money was needed for future expansion. Eager to grow her empire, she was all over that suggestion.

But he hadn’t been able to pay the loan back. He’d been actively buying properties in the U.S., leveraging them to the hilt to buy more. He’d been like a kid in a candy shop. And then everything crashed. The banks were calling in their loans. One after another. He hadn’t been able to recover.

He drove into the parkade and took the elevator to LMB’s reception area. He stopped, gazing around. He had
helped build this firm. He remembered when they moved into these offices. Right on the water, the top two floors. He loved being on the penthouse level. Stunning views of Georges Island and the mouth of the harbor. They had furnished it as befitting a firm of their reputation: with high quality, tasteful and expensive pieces, thick carpeting, stylish cubicles for the support staff and an extensive legal library staffed with their own librarian.

John had personally chosen every piece of artwork on the walls. It was a collection that had taken ten years to build, but it was worth it. He had enjoyed the thrill of scouting emerging Canadian artists, convinced that the value of their paintings would jump exponentially over time.

Everything he had built, had strived for, was teetering on the brink of disaster. His partnership in the firm was his final reserve. The last bastion that could hold the wolves at bay. And now Randall Barrett had called him.

It rankled. Deeply.

He strode into Barrett’s office. He’d always hated the stark modernism Barrett surrounded himself with. Harsh angles, hard materials. Barrett had blatantly ignored the design aesthetic John had chosen for the firm.

Barrett swung his chair around, surprise flashing across his face. “I was beginning to think you’d changed your mind about coming in, Lyons.” Barrett kept his gaze cool, but John could feel the anger emanating from him.

John had rarely seen his partner show emotion. He’d have to tread carefully. He lowered himself into a leather-and-metal chair that was so ingeniously constructed he couldn’t figure out the seams. He kept his features blank. He wasn’t going to give an inch to this upstart bastard.

“You said you had something to discuss.” There was only one way to conduct this meeting: on the offensive.

“I had a phone call this afternoon. From a lending agency called CreditAngels.”

John tried to lean back in the chair but it was almost impossible. “And?”

“They are calling in a loan. One you signed on behalf of the firm. Fraudulently, I might add.” Barrett’s tone was casual. He could have been recounting a golf game.

No point in lying about it. Barrett would have seen the loan document by now. “I’ll repay it. With interest.”

“Of course you will. The question is, are there other loans out there that we don’t know about?”

“No.” He held Barrett’s gaze. “Just that one. I was short on cash. I needed it to invest in a promising new company.” He made his voice earnest. “It was such a good opportunity, I couldn’t walk away from it. The tissue industry is booming. I’ll be able to repay the firm within six months.”

“What I want to know is whether you advised TransTissue to settle because it would further your interest in BioMediSol.”

John recoiled. His back hit the metal frame of the chair. He cursed it silently. “No! Of course not. I would never do such a thing.”

Skepticism radiated from Barrett’s face. “Don’t bullshit me. I want the TransTissue files on my desk tomorrow morning.”

Tomorrow was Saturday. John fought to control his reaction to Barrett’s arrogant demand. Ordering him around like a fucking articled clerk. He forced his voice to remain neutral. “Randall, I’ve been practicing for twenty-three years. I have never in my career given legal advice that was contrary to the best interests of my clients.” It pained him to think that all those years of success would be undermined by this son of a bitch. Ever since Barrett
had joined the firm, he’d done his best to sabotage his power. To the point that he had been voted managing partner last year. Instead of John. It had wounded him, more than he’d ever let Barrett know.

He felt a perverse pleasure knowing he caused the smooth bastard grief. “I admit I made a mistake regarding the loan. I can pay that back. I’ll draw up the terms tonight.”

“I’ll draw them up,” Barrett said sharply. “But I’m more concerned about the TransTissue case, Lyons. If you’ve exposed the firm to a conflict-of-interest suit it won’t matter whether you repay the money. It’ll cost us a lot more to defend it. The damage to our reputation will be incalculable.”

John forced himself to meet Barrett’s gaze. He didn’t want Barrett to see that he’d found his weak spot. Because if Barrett knew he’d compromised his legal advice—just this once, to keep BioMediSol’s practices away from the magnifying glass of the judicial process—Barrett would start digging around his other clients. And then he’d discover he’d been dipping into their accounts.

If that happened, there was no question that he’d be kicked out of the firm. The bar society would suspend or disbar him. His reputation would be in shreds. He’d lose any chance of earning the kind of income he needed to pay back the debts looming over his head.

Barrett placed his palms on his desk. “I’m calling an emergency meeting with the partners tomorrow afternoon at 2:00 p.m. We expect a full accounting of the situation. Don’t try to cover anything up, Lyons. It’ll just get worse for you.”

Twenty-three years of legal practice had taught him one thing: never show them when they’ve got you by the balls.

“I’ve got nothing to hide,” he said, rising to his feet. He
turned on his heel and left the bastard’s office. Sweat beaded his brow. He wiped his hand impatiently across his forehead.

He walked to the reception area and got into an elevator. But instead of punching the button to take him to the parking garage, he went down one floor to the level occupied by associates and junior partners. Taking the stairs two at a time, he slipped back upstairs and hurried down the hallway, going the long way around to his corner office. Never before had he been so grateful that his office was in the opposite corner to Barrett’s.

He grabbed his briefcase, flung open his filing cabinet and began stuffing papers into it. His ears strained for the sound of Barrett’s footsteps.

The hallway was quiet.

Sweat drenched his shirt to his back. He snapped his briefcase closed. He had brought a coat with him, and now he draped it over his arm, covering the hand holding the briefcase. He closed his office door, locking it. He knew that Barrett could probably jimmy the lock but it was more of a delaying tactic than anything else. He’d think that there were files worth protecting inside John’s office. By then, John would have destroyed them in his shredder at home.

He walked lightly on the balls of his feet to the stairwell, taking the same route as before. The pressure in his chest eased. He had the documents. Kate was next on the list.

A plan formulated in his mind. One that killed two birds with one stone.

She would be the Body Butcher’s next victim.

After Craig took care of her, they’d kill Craig and dispose of him in the crematorium. Anna wouldn’t be pleased with this change of plans; she wanted to kill Craig right away. But they could wait a few hours until he’d disarticulated Kate’s body and inscribed his signature.

Then they’d inject him, and slide him into the crematorium. There’d be one less serial killer to prey on the world.

John would drive Craig’s car to a spot in the south end and dump Kate’s body.

When Kate’s body was found the next day, the firm would be in an uproar and the meeting would be postponed. The wind would be taken out of Barrett’s sails. The partners would be reacting to losing one of their own; they’d be in a more charitable mood. He’d been a role model and a mentor to many of them. He’d plead stress and his wife’s spending habits. They wouldn’t want to believe he’d been living a lie for the past five years. They’d give him a chance.

But only one. There’d be no forgiveness if they knew he’d compromised TransTissue, or that he’d borrowed clients’ money.

He took the elevator down to the parkade and hurried to his car. It was parked along a back wall, a lone silver symbol of status and wealth that had never failed to give John satisfaction. It was sleek, fast and played hard. He was always careful to leave his car parked away from the high-density areas where it could get scratched or bumped. He opened the trunk, placing the briefcase inside.

A car rumbled up the ramp.

He froze.

The car slid into a parking space opposite the elevator.

He glanced at it from the corner of his eye.

His heart leaped with adrenaline.

It was Kate.

Why had she suddenly shown up here?

Had Barrett called her in to question her about TransTissue—and sent her straight into his arms instead? What perfect justice.

She got out of her car.

He picked up the tire iron in the trunk and pressed it against his trouser leg.

“Kate!”