No Time To Run (Legal Thriller Featuring Michael Collins, Book 1) (36 page)

Michael picked up the clipboard and wrote down the name of another associate he had pulled off of the firm’s website, and then walked past the security guard without asking for permission. He didn’t need permission. After all, he worked at one of the biggest and best law firms in the country. He also happened to be in a hurry.

Michael walked to the elevator. He pressed the “up” button, and a set of elevator doors at the far end of the row slid open. A bell rang and the light above the doors lit up.

Michael walked into the elevator. He pressed the pass card against a gray magnetic reader; then punched in the number of the tower’s top floor and held his breath. As the request processed, Michael felt a cold bead of sweat roll down his back. Finally the floor number lit up and the elevator began to move.

###

The famous Wabash, Kramer & Moore foyer was empty and dark. The only noise that could be heard was the distant hum of a vacuum cleaner somewhere on the floor. All the legal assistants and the paralegals had gone home. All of the attorneys were also gone, unusual for this early in the evening, but it was Rhonda Kirchner’s funeral.

If handled in the normal manner, which it most certainly was, the firm would have circulated an e-mail to all associates and partners. The e-mail would appear no different than other firm announcements, such as a new hire, a birth, a wedding, or an anniversary. It would provide the who, what, when, and where of the funeral service. No descriptions of Rhonda as a person or a mother would appear, nor would it be revealed that she had been fired by Lowell Moore or provide the cause of death.

To encourage attendance at Rhonda Kirchner’s funeral, the final paragraph of the e-mail would note that the executive committee had authorized a specific administrative file to be opened. Time spent at the funeral could be billed and counted toward each attorney’s required number of billable hours per month. In a fitting tribute, the meaning of Rhonda Kirchner’s life would be quantified and evaluated as part of the cost of doing business. She had been reduced to the ten digits of a Wabash, Kramer & Moore billing code: 14.2F64.0050 (Misc. Administrative-Kirchner Funeral).

Michael passed the copy room, and then a series of cubicles. He walked by one empty attorney office after another, until he arrived at Lowell’s office at the corner of the building.

He looked back and didn’t see anything or anyone.

Michael looked in the other direction and saw only a large, blue cleaning cart at the far end of the hallway.

Lowell’s office was in front of him.

Michael took two steps inside, and turned on the lights. He shut the door and felt his pulse quicken.

At night, the view was spectacular. Hundreds of outside lights dotted the windows that encased the large room like a planetarium. It was easy to be hypnotized, but there was work to do.  

Michael took off his jacket and set the jacket and his briefcase down on Lowell’s table. Then he walked toward a row of file cabinets on the other side of the room.

He pulled the first drawer. It slid open, and Michael scanned the headings of each folder. Then he pulled the second drawer, and then the third.

Michael moved down the line of file cabinets, looking for financial records or anything related to Andie, but no luck. The file cabinets only contained copies of correspondence and pleadings. It was the paper that every lawyer shuffled every day.

He got to the fifth file cabinet and pulled the top drawer, but it didn’t slide open. The lock in the upper right corner had been pushed in.

Michael looked on the top of the cabinet for a key, but it wasn’t there. He then went to Lowell’s desk. Michael opened the drawers, faster now, looking for a small key to open the cabinet. Then he stopped.

There was a bulge underneath an open magazine on Lowell’s desk. Michael picked up the magazine. A ring filled with small keys was underneath.

He ran back to the file cabinets, put a key into the hole, and turned. The lock popped out, and Michael pulled open the top drawer only to find personnel files.

“
Hell-o.” There was a knock on the door, and the woman repeated herself. “You working?”

“
Ah …” Michael hesitated. “Yes, busy.”

“
Garbage?”

Michael thought about how he should respond.

“
Yes.” He looked for the garbage can. “Come in.”

A large Hispanic woman in her late fifties opened the door, crossed the room and retrieved Lowell Moore’s garbage can. She took it out into the hallway, and then emptied it in her large blue cleaning cart.

She returned the garbage can to its place, and then said, “Open or close?”

Michael didn’t understand.

“
Door,” she said. “Open or closed?”

“
Closed.” Michael felt his cell phone vibrate as she left, closing the door behind her.

Michael flipped open the phone, and pressed a button.

It was Father Stiles. Lowell Moore had gotten a phone call in the middle of the service and left. He tried to follow, but lost Lowell on the freeway. It looked like he was coming back to the office, but Father Stiles didn’t know. He was trying to catch up with him.

Michael turned off the phone, and scanned the office again. He checked his watch. Eight minutes had passed.

Michael knew the documents had to be in the office. Lowell wouldn’t trust them to be stored anywhere else. But where?

Michael sat down in Lowell’s chair and took a breath. His eyes scanned and re-scanned the room. Maybe Lowell had a safe behind one of the paintings – Michael stood – or maybe not.

He remembered Lowell’s comment about Hooten, taking over the old man’s office when the firm “trimmed the fat.”

Michael walked over to the door to Lowell Moore’s private bathroom and tried the handle.

It was locked.

Then, Michael took a step back and saw a small silver keypad next to the door. Bathrooms usually don’t have security.

Michael pressed 1,2,3,4, and then the pound key. The light on the top of the keypad beeped and flashed red. The door remained locked.  Michael pressed the zero key four times, and then pound. Then, zero six times. Red. Red.

“
Think.” Michael needed numbers: birthdays, anniversaries, social security numbers, they were all possible. But Michael didn’t know them and didn’t have time to find out. He checked his watch, again. He wondered if Lowell even remembered his anniversary date after three marriages. Maybe it was written down on a piece of paper on his desk.

Michael felt his cell phone vibrate again.

It was Father Stiles. He had caught up to Lowell in the Lincoln Tunnel. Michael had ten minutes.

He hung up the phone, and tried to focus. Closing his eyes, Michael tried to think. “Come on. I need this.”

And then, it came to him.

Michael slowly and carefully punched in the numbers: 1-2-0-3-2-9.

He paused. That had to be it, he thought, and then pressed the pound sign.

Michael saw the yellowed statement and the check hanging in Lowell’s home office so clearly in his mind: Paid to Lowell H. Moore, Esq. in the amount of $1,203.29. It was the amount paid by his first client, the first one to ever pay his bill.

The light flashed to green, and Michael opened the door.

The bathroom was no longer a bathroom. It was another small office equipped with a computer, telephone, and a second set of file cabinets.

Michael walked inside. He pulled out the top drawer, scanned, and then pulled out the middle drawer. Nothing.

Last, Michael pulled out the bottom drawer and started flipping through the folders. Half way through, Michael found the financials.

Each year was separate, and about an inch thick. Michael didn’t need to look at them. There would be plenty of time for that later. He pulled out the last three years, stuck them under his arm, and then fingered through the rest of the cabinet.

Wedged in the very back, there was a large white envelope. Michael pulled the envelope out and looked inside. It contained the sign-in logs from the First National building, and the time-stamped video of Andie entering and exiting.

Michael checked his watch. It would be close, but he still had plenty of time to get out. He turned and headed for the door, but only made it a step.

Patty Bernice stood in the doorway. Her friendly face and rosy cheeks were nowhere to be seen.

“
Hello, Michael.” She pointed the gun at his chest. “I never did trust you.” She paused. “Always a little too eager for my taste.”

CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX

Michael remembered the driver of the white van’s voice, the woman screaming at the Professor to hurry. It was Patty Bernice. He should’ve recognized it.

Patty cocked her head to the side, but the gun remained pointed at him.

“I told that to Lowell, tried to warn him, but he went on and on about me being paranoid and about what an asset you were to the firm.”

Patty shook her head.

“
But look at you now, stealing confidential information from us, information that could jeopardize the integrity and reputation of Wabash, Kramer & Moore.”

“
Patty.” Michael tried to take a step forward, but Patty raised the gun, stopping him short. “What are you doing?”

“
You know how many hours of my life have been spent dedicated to this firm?” Her eyes blinked; a nervous twitch. “I was here at the beginning. I was the one who had the magic touch, finding those cases that no other firm would take, but I could turn them into gold.”

“
Patty,” Michael said. “Lowell’s been shifting money around. There’s a hole that he’s trying to cover – ”

“
You don’t think I know that?” Patty laughed. “I’m every bit as smart as you. In fact, I’m smarter than every attorney in this place, except for Mr. Moore, and even then, sometimes I wonder.”

“
Patty.” Michael repeated her name, hoping to connect. “Put the gun away.”

She shook her head.

“Lowell doesn’t have the guts to do this. He doesn’t like to get his pampered little hands dirty.”

“
It’s gone too far.”

“
Why did you do it to us?” Patty asked. “There was a simple plan to fix a simple error related to the filing of the
Maltow
lawsuit. It shouldn’t have happened, but it did, an oversight on my part, and I had a plan to fix it. The
Krane
money was just sitting there, and if we didn’t take it,” she shook her head, “the government was just going to flush it away.”

“
Patty.” Michael tried, again, to take a step toward her, but stopped when Patty’s grip tightened on the gun.

“
Lowell loved the plan, called me brilliant.” Patty took a step back, out of the doorway and gestured for Michael to follow. “All we needed was those account numbers. Thompson would do the carjacking. He would meet me in the alley, give me the numbers, and then I’d take care of Thompson. That was how it was supposed to go ...”

“
Except he didn’t have the numbers.”

“
Except you took the numbers,” Patty said. “You took the money that was supposed to help the firm out of a little jam.” Patty led Michael to the French doors leading out to the balcony overlooking the street below.

Patty gestured to the ground.

“Set the files down and open the doors.”

Michael, unable to think of anything else, did as he was told. An opportunity had to come. Where was Father Stiles?

He rose back up, and looked out the glass doors to the terrace now filled with mounds of fresh snow.

“What are you waiting for?” Patty nodded toward the space behind him. “Outside.”

Michael raised his arms and looked at the door.

“Okay.” He opened it and cold air filled the office in a rush. The pictures rattled from the wind and the walls moaned from the sudden change in temperature.

Patty gestured for Michael to step backward, out of the office and onto the terrace. The wind picked up again, and Michael felt the needles of icy sleet cut into the back of his neck.

“
We had Dwight track you down.” Patty shook her head. “You have to take risks to succeed in this firm, Michael.” She shouted to allow her voice to be heard above the howling wind. “That’s something you never really understood. You need to bend the rules, and not ask how or why, just do it and get the reward.”

“
That’s what Rhonda was,” Michael said, “a risk taken so that a problem would go away.”

Patty shrugged her shoulders.

“Not much of a risk, and neither is this.” Patty lowered her voice an octave and pretended as though she was reading a news script. “A young man caught stealing from a local law firm, takes his own life after his accomplice confesses to the crime and takes her own life just one day before.”