Private Sector (42 page)

“And she asks for me . . .”

“Uh-huh.”

“This guy is pretty clever . . . and, well . . . there’s only one way to really know. You know what I’m saying? That’s your job, Bill.”

Yuck, yuck.

But we were all, I think, feeling tense and keyed up, and it’s important to get past that, because cool thinking and settled nerves were our only prayer of success.

So everybody stopped laughing, and in a more serious vein, I continued, “Here’s what the composite doesn’t show, that he can’t disguise. He’s about your size, Bill . . . slightly bigger, perhaps.”

Spinelli commented, “Bigger. The bastard’s built like a tank.”

I cleared my throat and continued, “He’s racked up eight kills we know of, but his skill level suggests he’s killed more. Possibly many more. In fact, we suspect he’s a professional for hire.”

Charlie, I noticed, was shifting his feet.

“He prefers to kill with his hands.” I continued, “His proficiency with other weapons is an open question, but he’s been well trained by somebody, and prudence dictates we assume he’s qualified with all weapons. I’d give him a good-to-go on reflexes, speed, and mental agility. I wouldn’t exactly say he’s a candyass.” How’s that for a soaring understatement?

But Spinelli said, “The guy’s a murderous motherfucker.”

Not helpful, Spinelli. Bill’s eyes went a little wide, so I awarded both him and Charlie another reassuring look, and continued, “Yes, well. . . why don’t we move on to some of his weaknesses?”

Charlie nodded, eagerly. “Great. What are this guy’s weaknesses?”

“Well, for one, he. . . uh. . . well—”

“He’s got no weaknesses,” interrupted Spinelli. “The guy’s a perfect fucking killing machine.”

Bill and Charlie sort of swallowed.

I said, “You’re very funny. For one thing, the killer is
not
expecting four of us. Also, he may be resourceful, clever, and skilled, but his technique to date indicates an overreliance on surprise. This worked for him in the past;I doubt he’ll discard it. Remove the element of surprise and he’ll lose some of his edge.” I allowed them to think about that before I suggested, “In fact, we should expect him to try some unorthodox way of getting in here.”

Charlie grinned at this remark. I grinned back, but Charlie was the one who worried me. He appeared to be somewhere around thirty, was prematurely balding, black, and slender. What concerned me was his face: too wholesome, too youthful, and too innocent. In fact, he reminded me of a frisky puppy I had as a kid, who ran in front of a truck and became a pancake. Bill also looked wholesome, because all soldiers
look
wholesome, but there was a hardness in his eyes that dispelled any sense of softness. Unless Charlie was one of those guys who could drill holes in dimes flying through the air, I was sort of anxious about him, and sort of wondering why Spinelli brought him to the party.

But Charlie said, “No problems on that account. I hope he does.”

“Is that right?”

“Sure. That’s why I’m here, Major. My specialty is facility protection.”

This is a fairly important field in an Army with lots of tanks and missiles and things that go boom, because Uncle Sam would get very annoyed at the Green Machine if Abdullah the Jihadist filched an Abrams tank or an Apache gunship and used it to put a few dents in the White House. I therefore gave Mr. Waters the benefit of the doubt. At least, I hoped he was competent. For my sake— for all our sakes—he better be.

The phone rang, I excused myself, and went into the bedroom to take the call. It was Jessica Moner, Jason’s legal brawler, and in her typically brassy, abrasive way, she said, “Drummond, you ass-hole, what’s this shit about you launching a lawsuit tomorrow morning?”

“Who informed you?”

“Bosworth informed me. And now I’m informing you, stop the bad joke—now.”

“You sound angry.”

“I could kill you.” I pondered how literally to take that sentiment as she added, “I don’t know what the bad blood is between you and your firm, but don’t drag us into your shitpile.”

“Sorry, Jessica, my lawyer says it’s the only way.”

“What the fuck are—”

“Maintaining you as a client was Bosworth’s motive. You’re the casus belli of the dispute.”

“No, you’re adding us because we have deep pockets. Bad idea, buddy boy . . .”

“Blame Barry. He pounded the crap out of me. I never realized what an animal he is.”

“Bosworth can barely lift his dick to pee.”

“He practices at home, on his kids.”

She paused for a moment, as it was obvious this track was leading nowhere.

She then asked, “What is it you
think
you have?”

Nice try.
“All of it, Jessica. Come to court in the morning, and you’ll hear all about your sweet arrangement with Grand Vistas. Make a deal with the devil and you go to hell.”

“Are we forgetting legal confidentiality, Drummond? You can’t expose what you learned working as our attorney. I’ll get an injunction, sue your ass off, and have you disbarred, you stupid shit.”

“Read the statutes on whistleblowers.”

“Whistleblower? You’re an attorney, asshole.”

“You know, that’s what my attorney thinks will make it a particularly intriguing case.” I paused, then said, “Hey, we both might get our names on a famous precedent. Think about it . . .
Drummond versus Moner
—nice ring, right?”

There was a long pause before Jessica, suddenly friendly, said, “Sean, look, the offer to work here’s still open. I like your style. You’ll like it here, and you’ll get rich. Don’t fuck this up.”

“You won’t hire me if I sue you? That’s small-minded, Jessica.”

“Okay . . . sure, I’m hearin’ you more clearly. It’s about the money, right? Make your offer and I’ll try to clear it with Jason.”

“Fine. Two million a year.”

“What?”

“Three million a year.”

“Don’t try to blackmail me, Drummond, or I’ll—”

“Four million a year.”

“Damn it, you asshole, I’ll—”

“Five million.”

There was a brief sputter, followed by another pause, while Jessica contemplated how much her floppy tongue was costing.

“Think, Jessica. What it’s worth to you and Jason to keep the partnership with Grand Vistas out of the courts and out of the news?”

“I’ll. . . all right. I’ll talk to Jason about three million. Okay?”

“Wrong answer. Ten million.”

“Listen, you pinheaded fuck. Don’t screw with me. I’m giving you your last chance to be rich and healthy. Piss me off, and I swear I’ll make you regret it.”

“See you in court.” I hung up.

I sat on the bed and contemplated our conversation. Clearly Jessica was in on it. But connected to the killer? Or was she just part of the scam?

Before I could finish that thought, the phone rang again. It was Cy and he said, “Sean, you and I need to talk.”

“We already talked.”

“The firm is willing to drop all charges against you and Miss Morrow.”

“Should’ve done that yesterday, Cy. Actually, never should’ve brought charges in the first place.”

“Perhaps you’re right.” Cy obviously had better bargaining skills than Jessica, but a career on the Hill does tend to round out one’s heels. He said, “I’m confused, Sean. What is this case of fraud you referred to?”

“Nice try.”

“You mentioned the partnership with Grand Vistas. Barry handled that.”

“Because
you
told him to.”

“Yes. Because Jason asked me to send him. What’s happening here?”

Cy sounded his usually sincere, earnest, and above-it-all self. He had a real gift for silky bullshit and was probing to find out exactly what I knew—how little or how much—so they could assess the potential damage.

In truth, I knew very little. As I explained earlier, the idea was to push and see who pushed back, how hard they pushed back, and from there, maybe to understand why.

For instance, the firm was now willing to drop all charges. That wasn’t the mood when Janet and I left the conference room—so A must’ve called B, and B must have told A to make this thing go away. But who was A? And who was B?

Also, I now knew Morris Networks would pay me three million a year to keep my yap shut—more, probably, if I dealt with someone less peppery than Jessica Moner.

Anyway, I said, “What’s happening, Cy, is corporate graft. Without Grand Vistas, Morris Networks would be vulture bait. Come to court and you’ll hear about it.”

“Hear me out, Sean. Morris is a very profitable and honest company.”

Yes, and Cy was working overtime to establish his ignorance, and, along the way, his innocence.

“Prove that in court.”

“Look . . . don’t do anything till we get a chance to talk.”

I replied, “Tomorrow, 10:00 A.M. ,” and hung up.

For some reason, I recalled the old joke: What do you call a lawyer who’s gone bad?—Senator.

I went into the kitchen and fixed a pot of coffee. Charlie was stringing electronic security systems around the windows. My door had acquired two new deadbolts and my bedroom dresser was shoved against it. Spinelli and Bill were seated in front of the big screen, watching a rerun of
NYPD Blue
, Spinelli scratching his nose with one hand and cradling a pistol with the other. Just another hum-drum day at the Drummond homestead.

I had just poured a cup of coffee when the phone rang again. I rushed back to the bedroom and caught it on the fourth ring.

“Sean, it’s Jason.”

“Oh. Well, I hope I’m not keeping you from something important.”

“Not at all. What the hell’s going on here?”

“What’s going on is, I was brutally assaulted in your office building, by an attorney representing your firm, who was being pressured by Jessica Moner.”

“That’s outrageous. I’ll fire him.”

“That won’t cure my nightmares.”

“Oh, come on.” He chuckled. I remained silent.

He stopped chuckling and said, “Sean, you’re a businessman. Think like one.”

“No, I’m an Army officer.”

“Then . . . try to think like one.”

“Gee, I’m a fish out of water here, Jason. How do you businessmen think at moments like this?”

“You ask yourself one question—what’s the most advantageous thing for you right at this moment?”

“Oh. . . Well, help me out here. What would that be?”

“A settlement. That’s how you lawyers handle these things, isn’t it?”

“When the offer’s sweet enough, yeah.”

“Okay. Let’s see what that takes.” You could hear the confidence and thrill in his voice. This guy made his living off deals; I was a fattened calf of the public dole. He was just tickled pink that some novice thought he could joust with him over money. Was this going to be fun, or what?

To get the ball rolling, I asked him, “What terms are you proposing, Jason?”

“I hadn’t really thought about it.”

“Well . . . suggest something.”

“How about ten million?”

“How about thirty?”

“Get serious.”

“Serious? Fifty million.”

“I . . . look, that’s a lot of money.”

“Ooops . . . seventy million. Keep flapping your gums, Jason, and it’ll hit a hundred. In fact, that’s the number in our civil suit. It could be that’s an unrealistic figure, but compounded by the sweet satisfaction that you personally will lose a few billion in stock value, it works out okay for me.” I couldn’t resist adding, “
You
think like a businessman, Jason.”

There was another long pause. I mean, this guy experienced no qualms about throwing away a few hundred grand for a fine piece of ass. Blow
this
deal, and thousands of lawyers and stockholders would scramble to get a piece of
his
ass. Also, he had to be thinking about all those recent corporate chieftains being led away in Fed bracelets.

He suggested, finally, “Seventy million is possible. I’d have to find a way to structure it, though. I can’t just hand over a check . . . taxes, SEC filings, notification to my board. . . I have to consider these things. The money, I need a way to explain it. Maybe if . . . well, maybe if we worked it as a stock transfer . . .”

While Jason rambled on, I contemplated the stakes and sums here. I mean, seventy million big ones.

This was a dangerous number, an intoxicating number, and I knew if I thought about it, I mean really took a moment and thought about it, everything it could buy . . . I slapped myself and interrupted him. “Jason, I’ve reconsidered.”

“Good, Sean. I don’t like this, I really don’t, but I’ve got eight thousand hardworking employees to consider. Wall Street is a treacherous place these days. I’ve done nothing wrong, but these days, a rumor of impropriety . . . Christ, stockholders pull the trigger over a whisper.”

I was tired of this guy, and I was really tired of this game, and I said, “I mean I changed my mind about the money. See you in court, pal.”

I hung up on him.

I called Janet on her cell. When she answered, I said, “How’s it going?”

“Lousy. I feel left out.”

“Don’t. You did your part, and it’s working.”

“Tell me about that.”

“Jessica Moner called, then Cy, then Jason. We’re up to seventy million to drop the suit.”

Janet was a cool cookie, but I heard a sharp intake of breath.

I added, “I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but as my attorney, I was going to cut you in for half.”

“Well . . . That’s
very
generous.”

“I have a soft spot for lawyers. Of course, we never would’ve lived long enough to spend a dime.”

“That’s a consolation.” She paused a moment, then asked, “Sean, what’s going on here?”

“I still don’t know. More than just bookkeeping sleight of hand, though.”

“You’re right. That much to hide a simple financial impropriety?”

I suggested, “So, let’s start back at the beginning.”

“Good. What happened in the beginning?”

“It begins with Lisa, like me, being assigned to work on the Morris Networks account.”

“And they probably chose you two because of your lack of competence in corporate finance.”

“A good assumption.”

“Because they’re lawyers and because Barry definitely—maybe Cy, possibly Bronson, and perhaps others—knew that Morris was cooking its books. None of them wanted their fingerprints on it. They wanted a patsy to take the fall, in the event a fall ever needed to be taken.”