Dina Santorelli (18 page)

Bailino
beamed with pride whenever he walked through any Upackk warehouse. When he
purchased the company back in 1997, it was a struggling family-owned operation
on the brink of bankruptcy. Nearly fifteen years later, it was the leading
distributor of shipping, industrial, and packaging materials in the nation,
with seven warehouses across the United States, including this one just outside
Albany that also served as the company's headquarters and factory. Upackk's
claim to fame—publicized prominently on its "Why Us?" Web-site page—was that it
dealt only in materials that were green and made domestically. The company's
most popular product was a starch-based peanut, a loose-fill packing and
cushioning material made partially from shredded paper and a patented
vegetable-oil base that made it just as durable and inexpensive as the popular
Styrofoam peanuts or air-filled plastic bags—only more environmentally sound.

Company
sales increased slowly every year, despite the recent economic downturn, and
last year Bailino invested millions by installing a robotic picking system that
aimed to increase Upackk's efficiency while reducing labor costs. Over the
years, he had been approached many times to go public, but was never
interested. He was told that without accessing a substantial source of
corporate funding, the business could never survive, let alone thrive. Bailino
loved exceeding expectations.

"I
thought you weren't coming in this week?" George Smith raised his head when
Bailino walked into the office, his small, round eyes showing just above the
monitor.

"Yeah,
well, I thought I'd stop in since I was nearby... I visited my Uncle Gino,"
Bailino said.

"Oh."
George's right eye began to twitch. "That's right. I forgot. How is he related
to you again?"

Bailino
smiled. He knew that George, who served as the Albany warehouse supervisor, was
working with the Feds to monitor his business operations. The government
suspected, and perhaps rightly so, that the Bailino family's close ties to the
Cataldis made them a perennial red flag for illegal activity. Over the years,
Bailino's homes had been raided, his vacations interrupted, but nothing was
ever found, and no criminal charges were ever filed against him. Bailino
suspected that George had been approached a few years back, since that's when
the interest in Bailino's personal life, and all the questions, had started.
About a year and a half ago, Bailino followed him one night into Tanzer Park and spotted one of his secret meetings along a hiking trail.

George
wasn't the greatest spy the Feds had ever enlisted, since he was sort of an
uptight fellow whose right eye twitched whenever he was nervous, but he was
competent. And despite the obvious, Bailino thought he was a decent guy—he did
his work, seemed to take care of his family. Plus, Bailino wasn't worried. The
warehouse was clean. After all, the shredded paper used to make his
award-winning packing peanuts had to come from somewhere.

"Yeah,
well, he's not
really
my uncle. He and my father were close back in the
day. Grew up together. Served in the war."

"Oh,
that's right." George said. "You look kinda tired for someone who's on
vacation."

"Yeah,
well my teenage... nephew is here staying with me on spring break. A bunch of
my cousins are in town—to pay their respects. I have a full house. Is this the
last pickup?" Bailino pointed toward the warehouse.

"No,
there's one more scheduled." He handed Bailino a clipboard with rows of data
highlighted.

Bailino
stepped over to his office, where a pile of boxes had been placed on his desk.
"What's all this stuff?"

"I
don't know. I signed for them yesterday. They had
personal
written on
them, so I just left them on your desk."

Bailino
looked at the return address on the top box. The package was from the Wounded
Warrior Project. Bailino had worked with the organization, which raised
awareness and funds for severely injured servicemen and women, for years. He
opened the box—tsk, tsk, tsking at the use of Styrofoam—and pulled out a
gleaming bronze award. He read the inscription: "To Don Bailino in appreciation
of his generosity of support and ongoing commitment to the Wounded Warrior
Project."

There
was something else in the box. Bailino reached in and pulled out a framed
photograph of a group of men standing in the desert. Bailino recognized the
image from his trip last year to Iraq. To the left of Bailino were several
Wounded Warrior executives, to his right was Kid Rock.

"Another
one, huh?" George said, looking at the award over Bailino's shoulder and
placing a file on Bailino's desk. George always seemed to have to stop in
Bailino's office whenever he was opening a personal package. "They really love
you over there." He pointed to Bailino's shelves of awards and trophies. "Looks
like we may have to build another shelf." George busied himself over by the
shelving units, stalling as he waited for Bailino to open the other box.

Bailino
ripped it open and pulled out a gourmet chocolate gift basket containing cocoa,
truffles, and cookies. He read the card: "Don, just a little something to thank
you for helping to publicize our recent networking event. You're so SWEET.
Love, Barbara."

"Nice,
truffles," George said, returning to Bailino's side. "You want me to bring it
out to the guys?" Cakes, cookies, just about anything that was edible, could be
brought to the warehouse, any time of day, and be gone, crumbs and all, in less
than ten minutes.

Bailino
inspected the ingredient list for the truffles, which were flecked with bits of
dried cherry and encased in white chocolate—"the perfect treat to give to that
special someone," said the packaging.

"Nah,
I'm going to take this one home," Bailino said.

"Bob, what's the status on
Dover?"

Bob took
another sip of his coffee. He could hardly keep his eyes open. "He wants to
plea bargain, but I can convince him to take this to trial." He knew Turner
liked headlines.

"Good,"
Hick Turner said. He looked at his agenda. "Jefferies, what's going on with..."

Bob
tuned out once again. These late-morning meetings were such a bore. Since he'd
made partner last year—the youngest man ever to perform such a feat at
Worcester, Payne & Leach—he had somehow lost his verve for impressing the
folks around the conference table. Been there. Done that. And done it well.

He
sat back in his chair, satisfied with the way things were going in his life. It
really was all coming together for him now, Bob thought. Divorced, finally,
although it had taken years longer than he'd anticipated. Awesome new car. Hot,
young, new girlfriend—with no issues about going downtown. $500K a year. Six
weeks' vacation. He was the king of world.

The
meeting adjourned, and, simultaneously, every lawyer reached for his or her
smartphone and left the conference table talking to clients or colleagues. On
his way out, Hick Turner detoured in Bob's direction. Bob pinched his upper
thigh to increase his alertness.

"Bob,
meant to ask... Heard from Edward lately?"

Bob
winced. "Yeah, just yesterday."

"Still
buds, huh? College friendships really are the ones that last."

"Yep,"
Bob said. "Buds."

"Well,
I hope you mentioned my offer again. We'd love to have him back. He's got quite
the legal eye. Clients are still asking about him. Just this morning, old Joe
Sentril requested Edward take the lead on his son's drug case. I didn't have
the heart to tell him Edward left years ago."

"Yes,
I had mentioned your offer a while back," Bob lied, "but I think Edward's happy
where he is with the Manhattan DA"

"Shame
about his mother. She was such a lovely woman."

"Yeah."

"And
how's Jamie?"

"Oh,
she's fine, fine." Bob knew he was eventually going to have to tell Turner
about the divorce, but the longer he could put it off, the better.

"Publishing
is tough right now. She finding work all right? You both should really come
back to the house. I know Paula would love to have you for dinner again."

"Oh,
uh, that would be great," Bob said, thankful to feel his phone vibrate in his
pocket. He pulled it out and was shocked to see Jamie's number. He put on a
smile. "Speak of the devil."

"Oh,
I'll let you take that." Hick patted him on the back and walked over to the
large flat screen, which had been turned on at the far end of the conference
room. Several lawyers were congregating around it.

Bob
stepped into a corner of the room. "Yeah," he said curtly into the phone.
"Hello? Hello?"

There
was silence on the other end.

"James,
are you there?"

Bob
looked at his phone. The connection was still intact; seconds were clicking by.

"I
can't hear you. Can you hear me?" Nothing. "Whatever. Listen, Jamie, Edward is
looking for you. Shocker, right? What, did you not check in?" Bob chuckled.
"No, seriously, Jamie, call your brother, all right, if you haven't already. I
hope you heard this. Call me later to tell me whatever it was you wanted to
tell me. I'm in a meeting right now."

He
clicked off his phone and faced the conference room. Now everyone was watching
the flat screen.

"Hey,
Scott, that's some strange shit about the governor, huh?" Steve Andrews, one of
the new paralegals, walked over and handed Bob a cup of coffee. Andrews had
been lobbying to get onto the Dover case for weeks, asking Bob if he "needed
anything"—coffee, lunch, a pack of gum—while he was "stepping out" of the
office. Bob wasn't interested in food, or Andrews, but he liked the attention.

"What
about the governor?" Bob asked, disinterested.

"His
daughter's missing."

"Yeah,
so? Not my problem."

"Yeah,
you're right." Andrews nodded. "But I wonder if this is going to affect the
Brightest Minds thing."

"The
what?" Bob said. "You mean that legal internship?"

"No,
Grand decided to make it a part-time paid position. A consulting thing. He's
looking to lure seasoned lawyers—one from each county—who are at the top of
their game. He wants to create a roundtable of the best legal minds to sort
through some of the shit they got up there in Albany. Kind of like King Arthur
and his court." Andrews leaned in. "You know, you should apply for it. Some
people are saying it's the quickest way to the state attorney general post, and
then who knows? Especially if Grand runs for president like they say he will."

Bob
thought
Sir Robert Scott
had a nice ring to it.

Andrews
added, "That is, if you ever get sick of this place. And why would you?" He nudged
Bob with his elbow.

Bob
had made quite the name for himself in legal circles, but this wasn't the first
time the idea of national credentials entered his mind. The book deals,
speaking engagements. Too bad Larry King already retired; Piers Morgan just didn't
have the same cred.

"Didn't
Edward Carter work with Grand a few years back?" Andrews asked.

"Nah,"
Bob said, annoyed that Edward's name had come up in conversation, not once, but
twice in the past five minutes. "A liberal like Edward wouldn't be seen
anywhere near Phillip Grand's employ." He thought a moment. "Although he did do
a paper on Phillip Grand in law school that was published in some national
journal. I can't remember which one."
American Lawyer
. August 2001.

"Why
would he want to do a paper on Phillip Grand?"

"Oh,
Edward's about seeing things from all sides, what makes people tick. He's
probably more interested in people whose views are diametrically opposed to his
than those who share his beliefs."

"Sounds
like an interesting guy. Some of the guys here were saying that Carter'd be a
shoo-in for Grand's legal roundtable."

Not
if I can help it
, Bob thought. Any
interest that Bob had in joining the governor's little consortium had
quadrupled at the thought of vying for a position against the incomparable
Edward Carter and beating him.

"You
never know," Bob said. "May the best man win."

It had been twenty-four hours
since he'd heard from Jamie, and Edward was in complete panic mode. After
calling in sick this morning, he contacted everyone she knew—even those he
wasn't sure she knew—but she hadn't turned up. Trish said he was overreacting,
that Jamie was a grown woman who may have decided to change her plans, take a
trip, go off on an adventure—and maybe she had. But she would have called.
Edward knew that. She always called. Every day. College. Marriage. Divorce. Not
a day had gone by in the past who-knows-how-long that he hadn't spoken to his
sister on the phone, most of the time just to say hi. Still, he had listened to
Trish, as he usually did, and held off on filing a missing-persons report,
hoping that Jamie would call or come home, and now he was regretting that
decision. Who knows what could have happened by now? He picked up the phone and
dialed 911.

"I
need to file a missing-persons report," Edward said when he heard a voice on
the line.

"Who
is the missing person?" a female voice asked.

"My
sister."

"What
is her name?"

"Jamie.
Jamie Scott. No, no... it's Jamie Carter. That's her name. Her maiden name.
She just got divorced. But she actually used it when she was married—she's a
writer—so I guess it doesn't really matter that she's no longer married. Does
it?" Edward was gasping for breath.

"The
more information you can provide me, sir, the better. And what is your name?"

"Edward.
It's Edward."

"Carter?"

"Yes."

"How
old is she?"

"Thirty-two."

"How
long has she been missing?"