Irreparable Harm (3 page)

Marty leaned over, bracing his stiff hands on his thighs, right above his knees. He heaved, but nothing came up, so he spat a few times and then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. As he straightened up, he spotted bright metal glinting in the brush. He kicked the growth aside with a steel-toed boot and stared. A badly dented, stainless steel box roughly the size of his toolbox at home lay on its side. It had been painted bright orange. The words “FLIGHT DATA RECORDER DO NOT OPEN” were stenciled on in large black letters.

“Hey!”  he shouted, “I found it—I found the black box.”

People started running toward his voice from all directions.

Chapter 5

Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania

Not quite four hours after she’d gone to bed, Sasha’s eyes flipped open exactly five minutes before her alarm was set to go off, as they did every morning. She stretched to her full length, pointing her toes and spreading her arms above her head, fingertips hitting the headboard. She sat, arched her back, rolled her neck, and switched off the still-silent alarm.

The genius of her loft-style condo was that her bedroom was just three steps up from the kitchen with its oil-rubbed bronze appliances (the new stainless, according to her realtor). She made the short walk to the kitchen and had an oversized mug of very hot, very strong black coffee in her hand before she’d fully awakened.

Sasha had learned quickly that grinding the beans, setting up the water, and putting the coffee maker on the timer the night before made for much easier mornings. She even set out the mug the night before, putting it right beside the machine on the recycled glass countertop (deemed the new granite by the same realtor).

She had briefly dated Joel Somebody or Other, a coffee purist who’d been appalled when he witnessed this routine. He had lectured her about the oils in the beans and the temperature of the water. At their next—and last—date, he’d presented her with a small French press and suggested she learn the art of crafting her coffee one perfect cup at a time.

She’d tossed the French press in a drawer, where it remained, still in its box. She’d tossed Joe back into Pittsburgh’s shallow dating waters, unwilling to indulge his coffee-related snobbery.

What she sacrificed in flavor by setting the coffee up at night was more than offset by the immediate delivery of caffeine that greeted her each morning.

She carried the coffee back into the bedroom, where she pulled on her running shoes. She’d also learned that sleeping in her workout clothes instead of proper pajamas made for easier mornings.

Then it was into the bathroom to wash her face, brush her teeth, and pull her hair back into a low ponytail. She headed out to the small foyer, where she pulled on the fleece jacket that hung by the door, jammed a baseball cap on her head, and shrugged into her backpack. She checked to make sure the door locked behind her and jogged down the stairs to the lobby.

Eight minutes after getting out of bed, Sasha burst out the door to the street and filled her lungs with the cold air. As she ran through Shadyside, up to Fifth Avenue, she felt her legs loosen and her stride lengthen.

Mondays through Saturdays she ran from her condo to her Krav Maga class. She’d taken the hand-to-hand combat classes since law school. Krav Maga kept her mentally sharp. Not to mention, she was almost 5’3” tall—as long as she was wearing three-inch heels—and a whopping ninety-seven pounds. That put her at a distinct size disadvantage against anyone other than third graders. Knowing how to shatter a kneecap gave her some comfort when she was walking to her car late at night or brushing off the advances of some drunk on the rooftop deck at Doc’s bar.

After the class, depending on where she’d left her car the night before, she either ran back home to get ready for work or ran straight to Prescott & Talbott’s offices and showered at the firm gym, where she kept a supply of business clothes.

Sundays she neither worked out nor worked. She slept until noon and then spent the afternoon at her parents’ house, staying for dinner with her brothers, their wives, and her assorted nieces and nephews.

By the time she showered, dressed, and stepped off the elevator into Prescott’s offices six days a week at eight a.m. sharp, takeout cup from the coffee shop in the lobby in her hand, Sasha was alert, loose, and ready for her day. No one asked if she’d spent her morning learning how to crush a windpipe with the blade of her forearm, disarm someone wielding a knife, or subdue an attacker using an arm triangle chokehold, and she never mentioned it.

Chapter 6

Bethesda, Maryland

Tim Warner had the bad luck to be the first one in the office on Tuesday morning, as he was most mornings. He’d never really been a morning person, but when he started working at Patriotech, he learned he got most of his work done before his colleagues arrived for the day and started peppering him with questions about how many vacation days they had left and when their worthless stock options would vest.

Even though his job was mundane, Tim felt lucky to have landed a job shortly after graduation, especially in a recession. His salary sucked, that was for sure, but he did have an impressive-sounding title—Director of Human Resources—which was made somewhat less impressive only if one happened to know he directed a staff of zero.

Tim told himself he was making an investment in his future. Patriotech, as a technology startup in the defense sector, was well-positioned to go public within a few years. At least that was what the CEO, Jerry Irwin, had said when he’d interviewed Tim for the position of human resources specialist. After the interview, Tim had been inspired by Irwin and his vision for the company, so he’d leapt at Irwin’s offer to come aboard with a fancier title and stock options, despite the paltry pay.

In the two months he’d been at Patriotech, Tim had remained impressed by Irwin’s vision, even as he’d grown to hate and fear the man. Tim lacked the technical background to understand the product Patriotech had developed, but he assumed Irwin’s violent outbursts and rapid mood swings were a sign of his genius. Or more accurately, he hoped they were a sign of his genius, because Irwin was making his life miserable.

Tim stooped and picked up
The Washington Post
before swiping his access card in the reader by the lobby doors. Once inside, he flipped on the lights and took the newspaper from its biodegradable green bag, scanning the headlines before he deposited the paper on Lilliana’s desk in the reception area. What he saw below the fold ruined his day: “Hemisphere Flight from National Airport Crashes into Mountain in Virginia; No Survivors.”

Tim skimmed the article to confirm what he already suspected—the downed flight was bound for Dallas—then hurried into his cubicle in the back corner of the office, pulled out a personnel file, and dialed Angelo Calvaruso’s home number.

After he hung up with Calvaruso’s newly minted widow, he sat perfectly still, cradling his head in his hands, for a long while. He stayed immobile when Irwin came into the office and breezed past him on his way to his glass-walled corner office.

After another minute, he steeled himself and walked over to Irwin’s office. His legs felt like they were encased in rock. At just twenty-three, Tim had never had to deliver news like this before; he wasn’t sure how to go about it.

He rapped softly on the open frosted glass door. Irwin looked up from his
Wall Street Journal
.

“Tim,” he said. Then he waited.

For a moment, Tim had an overpowering feeling Irwin already knew, but he dismissed it as wishful thinking. Irwin read nothing but
The Wall Street Journal
and technical journals, claimed not to own a television, and listened only to classical music on satellite radio in his BMW. There was no way he would have heard about the crash.

Tim swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. “Uh. Jerry, I don’t know if you heard but . . um … there was a plane crash late last night …” He trailed off.

“Oh?” Irwin said.

“Yeah, um … well …,”  Tim took a breath and the words tumbled out of their own volition, “there were no survivors, Jerry. Angelo was on the plane. I’m so sorry.”

Irwin just looked at him.

“Angelo? Calvaruso? The consultant?” Tim prompted him, thinking Irwin might be blanking on the name. Or maybe he was in shock, Tim thought.

“Oh,” Irwin said again, finally. “Tell Lilliana to send his family flowers when she gets in.” He turned back to his paper. Tim was dismissed.

Tim walked back to his cubicle, wrinkling his brow in confusion.

Just one month earlier, Irwin had insisted Patriotech hire Calvaruso as a technical consultant under a one-year, $150,000 contract. Tim had gone to see Irwin when the order crossed his desk, and Irwin had blown up at him. In fact, he reflected, it was after their confrontation that Irwin had really started to make life unbearable.

Tim couldn’t understand what Irwin had been thinking. Not because the contract payment was four times his own salary—well, not only because of that. Angelo Calvaruso was a seventy-two-year-old retired snowplow driver for the City of Pittsburgh. Tom found it unimaginable Calvaruso had technical expertise worth what Irwin wanted to pay him.

Irwin had exploded when Tim questioned his decision. His face had darkened and an ugly raised vein had begun to pulse at his temple. He’d screamed so close to Tim’s face that Tim had been able to count the fillings in Irwin’s teeth and feel the heat from his breath. He’d told Tim to draw up the contract and keep his worthless opinions to himself.

Tim had rushed to prepare a contract then snuck into Irwin’s office and left it on his desk when he was out at lunch. He got it back signed, along with a note to get keyman and travel insurance on Calvaruso in the amount of $1 million each.

Tim had scoffed at the idea that the old man’s technical skills or knowledge—whatever they were—could possibly be so critical to Patriotech’s business that they needed keyman insurance on him, but he didn’t dare raise it with Irwin. He simply called the company’s broker and got the coverage.

Now, after all that, Irwin seemed completely unfazed that the old man had died after having worked for the company for just four weeks.

Then, a very ugly thought occurred to Tim:  Patriotech had paid Angelo Calvaruso exactly $12,500. Rosa Calvaruso was about to collect a million bucks under the travel policy, and Patriotech was going to collect the same amount under the keyman policy.

Chapter 7

The offices of Prescott & Talbott

Sasha crossed Prescott’s gleaming lobby, her heels clicking against the polished marble floor. Her mind still on the knife attack she’d successfully warded off in class, she smiled hello at Anne, the silk-voiced receptionist who’d been greeting visitors to the firm since Sasha was in diapers. Anne nodded back, her headset bobbing; she was already busy fielding calls.

Sasha ignored the bank of internal elevators across from the reception desk and headed up the curved staircase, taking the four flights as quickly as her heels would permit. On four, instead of going straight to her office, Sasha detoured down a long corridor and poked her head into one of the interior offices. All attorneys, except for the contract attorneys, had offices along the exterior walls of the building; each office had at least one window. The legal assistants and document clerks had windowless offices along the interior wall. The contract attorneys were relegated to crowded, charmless, communal work rooms lined with computers and devoid of privacy.

“Hey,” Sasha said, startling the slight African-American woman whose back was to the door. Naya Andrews’ head swiveled at the sound of Sasha’s voice.

“Mac,” the older woman said, smiling. “Where’ve you been hiding?”

Naya and Sasha had spent most of the summer working on a trade secrets case that had settled on the morning the trial was scheduled to start. During the trial preparation, Sasha had been nicknamed Mac, and, at least as far as Naya and Peterson were concerned, it had stuck.