Private Sector (51 page)

Phyllis shrugged. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Who’s Sally Westin?” But I guess she realized from my expression that it wasn’t selling. Plus, I had piqued her curiosity, so she cleared her throat, then asked, “All right. How do you know about Sally?”

“One, she’s a lousy lawyer. A for effort, F for effect, right? Two, Sally arrived at the firm about three years ago, about when your investigation started, right? And if you’re wondering why Sally wasn’t able to pinpoint Merriweather, go back to point one.” I let them ponder that, and then asked, “Who is she?”

Phyllis nodded at Jack, who then said, “Not Sally Westin, if you’re wondering. The real Sally Westin became a nun and lives in a convent north of Denver. Go figure, right. The woman you know as Sally is a Bureau special agent, and that’s all you need to know.”

Jack studied the carpet a moment, then commented, “Jesus, I thought she had a foolproof cover. We invested a lot of time studying that firm. That whole thing with the Westin family, when we discovered that, I mean, how often does a legend like that land in your lap? We even had her graduate from Duke, because the firm has no Duke grads.”

“It’s a great cover,” I told him. “She’s got them completely fooled.” Then I let the shoe drop. “But for that one little slip, the girl’s a real pro.”

Phyllis’s lower lip twitched. “Little slip?”

“Her affair with Cy Berger. But you already know about that, right? I mean, surely an agent of her caliber would’ve informed you that she was sleeping with a possible suspect.”

Phyllis’s left eyebrow shot up at that one. She said, “You’re sure about this?”

“Ask her.”

“Oh, we will. Most definitely, we will.”

Lisa was surely smiling down on me for that one.

The way I figured it, Sally’s bulletproof legend had one flaw: She was drastically out of her legal league in a top firm. But if she slept with Cy then all her problems were solved. In return for all the free poon he could stomach, he’d slide her past her annual reviews, and she wouldn’t have to return to the FBI with her tail tucked between her legs. Or maybe Cy was just irresistible to the ladies. How would I know? I appear to have a few problems in that department.

Anyway, Phyllis then said, “Do you have anything else to add?”

“No. I’ve told you everything.”

She searched Jack’s face and asked, “Well?”

He rubbed his jaw a moment, then suggested, “My guess would be the syndicate realized the Grand Vistas–Morris Networks connection was getting out of hand, its people were exposed, and decided to terminate them. By tomorrow, they’ll have cashed out their stock in Morris Networks, Grand Vistas will be history, and they’ll move on to the next thing.”

“I agree with that assessment, Jack.” She then asked, “Any further damage we should be concerned with?”

He shook his head. “Not unless we treat Morris’s and Merriweather’s deaths like murders. But if we handle them like unrelated events, exactly as they were orchestrated to appear—a suicide and a diving accident—the syndicate will have no reason to think they’ve been further compromised.”

Phyllis also seemed to agree with that assessment. She looked back at me and said, “You had already thought that through, hadn’t you?”

“Maybe.”

Meany said to me, “Jesus, you are one cold-blooded bastard.”

“Maybe I am, George. But Morris and Merriweather made their own choice. Make a deal with the devil, and you’re on his time.”

They all thought about that a moment.

But Phyllis had started playing with that spider brooch again, and she said, “But there’s one problem left, isn’t there?”

“You mean me.”

“Yes. . . you.”

Jack pointed out, “The syndicate should not be concerned with him. As far as they know, he’s unaware of their existence, or their connection to Grand Vistas. If they collapse that connection today or tomorrow, Drummond should be free and clear.”

Phyllis nodded. She asked me, “Is that your assessment?”

“Jack’s right. The syndicate won’t worry about me. I’m no threat to them.”

She said, “Then why that anxious look on your face, young man?”

“The killer, is he syndicate, or a local hire?”

Jack replied, “We assume he’s a local. For obvious reasons, it’s their habit to employ locals when it’s called for. They did a thing like this in Pakistan a year ago; all local hires.”

But again Phyllis showed her intelligence. She said to me, “But it’s gotten personal between you two, hasn’t it?”

“I know it’s personal for me. I think it’s personal for him.”

“That’s unfortunate.”

“Tell me about it.”

“You’ve really got yourself in a fix, then.” After a moment, she asked, “What would you like us to do about that?”

“Don’t remove your security from Janet, or from either of our families. This guy is vindictive.”

Meany, who’d been quietly licking his wounds, chose this moment to state, “The Bureau’s position, as you know, is the killer must be brought to justice. He has brutally murdered eight people and his case is on the front page of every newspaper in the country. We have to get him, Phyllis. Our image with the public is on the

line.”

So they all looked at me.

Well, one did not need to be a genius to know what they were all thinking.

CHAPTER FIFTY

A
DRIVING WINTER RAIN WAS FALLING OUTSIDE THE CLASSROOM WINDOW, and my students were daydreaming, doodling, flirting, making fart jokes—anything but listening to me.

It had been three very long and considerably tense days since our meeting in the hotel.

In fact, we had departed the Madison right after that talk, and moved straight to the Pentagon, to Room 2E535, General Clapper’s office. Phyllis explained to my boss that I needed to be yanked out of the firm, toute suite, and immediately reassigned to other duties—duties that would leave me exposed and vulnerable, just not too exposed or vulnerable. I wasn’t at all sure what that meant, but Clapper promised to handle it, then very cordially asked Phyllis to wait in his outer office while he and I shared a few thoughts.

So our thought-sharing turned out to be one-way, and it began a bit stiffly, with a long talk about proper legal procedures, and the need for flawless professional conduct when operating in the private sector, not to mention other federal government agencies, that kind of thing. Clapper actually made some very good and valid points and I dutifully noted those areas where I badly needed improvement as I stood rigidly at attention in front of his desk.

Well, he got all that off his chest, then said, “Major Drummond, you may now be seated.”

So we adjourned to the same leather chairs over in the corner where all this started a few short weeks before. I sat across from him. He crossed his legs, smiled, and asked, “I believe there’s one other matter we have to settle.”

I replied, tongue in cheek, “I thought you covered everything fairly well.”

“The money.”

“Money?”

“Seventy million dollars.”

“Oh . . .
that
money.”

“Refresh my memory. How did it come into your possession?”

“The fruits of a legal settlement.”

“I think you’re confused, Major. It was the fruits of a criminal investigation.”

I said, “No, General, I was assaulted and pursued a very common legal remedy.”

He replied, “Perhaps we’re having a terminology issue. You
extorted
the money from a public company. This extortion was authorized for a criminal investigation. The vernacular term is ‘sting, ’ and the money therefore belongs not to the agent, but to the government that authorized the agent.” He gave me a guarded look and added, “I’ve already asked the JAG School for an opinion on this matter and they assured me the odds are one thousand to one in the government’s favor.”

But that was three days ago, and I’m not one to dwell on the past. He got a piece of my ass, but as things turned out, I got a piece of his, too. I had strained his long and amiable friendship with Cy, who, oddly enough, did not appreciate that his old buddy had sent Calamity Sean into his very fine firm. The firm did not appreciate that Cy had extended the offer to the Army, and around and around it goes. The day after I left the firm, the management committee invited Cy to change his status from active partner to “of counsel” status, which is a polite term for “you’re retired,” though in his case it meant “you’re fired.” Barry got the same treatment, except in his case, there was no “of counsel” about it. He was simply fired.

But never think Clapper lacks a sense of humor. In response to Phyllis’s request, he assigned me to temporary instructor duty at Fort Myer, teaching JAG officers, of all things, a seminar on corporate accounting. JAG officers are JAG officers precisely because they want nothing to do with corporate law. Right? And it always makes for a lively classroom experience when the instructor shares the sentiments of the students.

Like my protégés had been doing the past hour, I checked the clock on the wall—three more minutes till happy hour. I paused from my truly invigorating and riveting explanation about currency hedging, and thought we’d end on a high note. Of course, this means a good joke. So I yelled at them to shut up. And they did.

I said, “Okay, these three guys are being interviewed by the CIA for jobs. The CIA recruiter takes them into a room, one at a time. He says to the first guy, ‘Here’s a gun. Your wife’s inside that door. Go in and shoot her. ’The guy takes the gun, he gulps, he goes into the room, ten minutes pass, then he comes out and confesses he just can’t do it. The recruiter informs him he lacks the acceptable level of commitment, and sends him away. The next guy comes in, same routine, but he’s in there only three minutes before he emerges and is sent away. The third guy takes the gun, and enters the room. A moment later there’s the sound of three shots. Five more minutes pass before the guy finally emerges. He throws the gun at the recruiter and says, ‘You stupid son of a bitch, some idiot put blanks in that gun. I had to strangle the bitch to death. ’”

I was pelted with paper and laughter.

I said, “Class dismissed,” and they all fled.

So I began gathering my teaching materials and cramming them into my legal case. Happily, I was teaching this class in the Post Community Center, so I only had a short walk through the rain, across a parking lot and a grass field to the Bachelor Officers’ Quarters, more commonly called the BOQ, where I had a small, cramped room.

My stay in the BOQ was supposed to be temporary, until the killer was apprehended, and/or the repairs were completed on my apartment. But temporary was now looking to be a very long time. Do you believe the management company that owned my apartment building actually submitted a motion to the claims court to have me evicted? Personally, I thought their grounds were a little specious and shaky, but their lawyers appeared quite confident that an explosion and gunfight justified a forced relocation.

Still, all in all, I was happy to be back in the Army, happy to be back with people who dress and think like me, and really happy to be out of the firm. I would miss Elizabeth; I had a sort of Mrs. Robinson crush on her. The Jaguar truly was a devastating loss. But I at least had a nice wardrobe even Clapper couldn’t take away.

There was a knock on the door, and a soldier stuck his head inside. He asked, “You done here, Major?”

“Yeah. A few more minutes to pack up,” I informed him.

“Hey, sir, if you don’t mind, I’ve got cleanup detail. I’d like to get an early start. Got a hot date tonight.”

“Be my guest.”

I turned around and began removing the slides from the projector and putting them into my case. He began straightening the chairs and desks behind me.

I said, “How long you been in?”

“Too long. Enlistment ends in two months and I’m not reupping. No sir, I’ve had enough.”

“Yeah? Think twice, pal. I have to tell you the private sector’s not all it’s cut out to be, either.”

“No?”

“Nope. Let me tell you—”

I don’t know how long it was before my eyes popped open. But I found myself seated in a chair, dripping wet, and the back of my head ached terribly. So I reached up to massage it, and wouldn’t you know, it turned out my hands were inconveniently tied behind my back.

He was looking down at me, holding an empty jar in his hand. He smiled and said, “Surprise.”

What an asshole. This was not good. It was after five, Friday, the community center was about empty, and surely the door was locked. So I spent a moment studying him. He was dressed in an Army battle dress uniform, in fact, with the rank of buck sergeant on his collar. His nametag said Smith, and obviously that was phony.

Also, the guy was really huge, big-shouldered, thick arms, thick legs, and a linebacker’s neck. No wonder none of his victims managed to fight him off. He was quite good-looking, actually, strong jaw, straight-nosed, and startling blue eyes. He did not look at all like a murderer, which I’m sure helped him get close to his victims. His head was completely shaved, although that’s not uncommon on Army posts. Also, resting by his left foot was a green duffel bag, and I found myself wondering what was inside it.

I said, “Hey, you don’t want to kill me, pal.”

“No?”

“I’m a great lawyer, and you’re the kind of guy who’s going to need one.”

“Is that the best you can do?”

“Well, what can I say? You cheated. You took me from behind.”

“Oh, now, Drummond. I promised you I’d come.”

“I thought you left.”

“Left for where?”

“Whatever shithole you crawled out of.”

He laughed. “That will cost you one finger.”

“Fine. Middle finger, right hand.” I smiled.

“You’ve got a deal.” He smiled, too. We were really getting along well.

I asked, “Incidentally, who are you?”

“I go by many names. Bill, Tom, Jack, call me whatever you like.”

“Asshole?”

“Well . . . there goes another finger.”

“Right. Middle digit, left hand.”

“Hey, I admire that. It’s hard to keep a sense of humor in a tense situation like this.”