The Partner (38 page)

“We’d like a moment to consult,”

Shenault said, still hard-faced.

“No we don’t,” Mims said to his client. “It’s a great deal. It’s on the table. We take it. Just like that.”

Shenault said, “I’d like to analyze—”

“No,” Mims said, bristling at Shenault. “We take the deal. Now, if you want someone else to represent you, fine. But as long as I’m your lawyer, we’re taking the deal, right now.”

Shenault went speechless.

“We’ll take it,” Mims said.

“Mr. Shenault?” Sandy said.

“Uh, sure. I guess we’ll agree to it.”

“Great. I have a proposed settlement agreement waiting on you in the room next door. Now, if you
gentlemen will leave us for a few minutes, I need to talk with Mr. Ladd and his client in private.”

Mims led his crew out. Sandy locked the door behind them and turned to address Mr. Cohen, Hal Ladd, and his associate. “Your deal is a bit different from theirs, I’m afraid. They get off lightly because there is a divorce. It’s messy and complicated, and my client can use his claim against Northern Case Mutual to his advantage in the divorce proceedings. You, unfortunately, are not in the same position. They put up a half a million for Stephano, you put up twice that much. You have more liability, more exposure, and, as we all know, a helluva lot more cash than Northern Case Mutual.”

“How much do you have in mind?” Cohen asked.

“Nothing for Patrick. He’s very concerned, however, about the child. She’s six, and her mother burns money. That’s one reason Northern Case Mutual collapsed so quickly—it’ll be very difficult to collect from Mrs. Lanigan. Patrick would like a modest amount to go into a trust fund for the child, money out of the mother’s reach.”

“How much?”

“A quarter of a million. Plus the same amount to cover his legal fees. Total of a half a million, paid very quietly so your client won’t be embarrassed by those pictures.”

The Coast had a history of generous verdicts in personal injury and wrongful death cases. Hal Ladd had advised Cohen that he could see a multi-million-dollar verdict against Aricia and the insurance companies for what was done to Patrick. Cohen, from California,
certainly understood this. The company was quite anxious to settle and leave town.

“All litigation is dismissed,” Cohen said. “And we pay a half a million?”

“That’s it.”

“We’ll do it.”

Sandy reached into a file and removed some papers. “I have a proposed settlement agreement, which I’ll leave with you.” He handed copies to them, and left them.

Thirty-five

The psychiatrist was a friend of Dr. Hayani’s. Patrick’s second session with him lasted for two hours and was as unproductive as the first. It would be the last.

Patrick asked to be excused, and returned to his room in time for dinner. He ignored most of it as he watched the evening news. His name was not mentioned. He paced the floor and spoke to his guards. Sandy had called throughout the afternoon with updates, but he wanted to see documents. He watched “Jeopardy” and tried to read a thick paperback.

It was almost eight when he heard Sandy speak to the guards and ask how the prisoner was doing. Sandy enjoyed referring to him as “the prisoner.”

Patrick met him at the door. His lawyer was exhausted, but smiling. “It’s all done,” he said as he handed Patrick a stack of paperwork.

“What about the documents and tapes?”

“We handed them over an hour ago. There must’ve been a dozen FBI agents swarming around. Jaynes told me they would work through the night.”

Patrick took the settlement agreements and sat at his worktable in the corner, under the television. Carefully, he read every word. Sandy’s dinner was fast food from a bag, and he ate it standing beside the bed, watching muted rugby from Australia on ESPN.

“Did they squawk at the half a million?” Patrick asked, without looking up.

“Not for a minute. Nobody squawked at anything.”

“Guess we should’ve asked for more.”

“I think you have enough.”

Patrick flipped a page, then signed his name. “Good work, Sandy. A masterful job.”

“We had a good day. Federal charges are all dismissed, the litigation is settled. Attorneys’ fees are taken care of. The kid’s future is secure. Tomorrow we’ll finish with Trudy. You’re on a roll, Patrick. Too bad you’ve got this dead body in your way.”

Patrick left the papers on the table and stepped to the window, his back to the room. The shades were open, the window was cracked six inches.

Sandy kept eating and watching him. “You have to tell me sometime, Patrick.”

“Tell you what?”

“Well, let’s see. Why don’t we start with Pepper?”

“Okay. I didn’t kill Pepper.”

“Did someone else kill Pepper?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“Did Pepper kill himself?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“Was Pepper alive when you disappeared?”

“I think so.”

“Dammit, Patrick! I’ve had a long day! I’m not in the mood for games.”

Patrick turned around and politely said, “Please, don’t yell. There are cops out there, straining to hear every word. Sit down.”

“I don’t want to sit down.”

“Please.”

“I can hear better standing up. I’m listening.”

Patrick shut the window, pulled the shades, checked the locked door, and turned off the television. He resumed his customary position on his bed, sitting, with the sheet pulled to his waist. Once situated, he said, in a low voice, “I knew Pepper. He came to the cabin one day asking for food. It was just before Christmas of ’91. He told me he lived in the woods most of the time. I cooked bacon and eggs for him and he ate like a refugee. He stuttered, and was very shy and uncomfortable around me. Obviously, I was intrigued. Here was this kid, he said he was seventeen but looked younger, who was reasonably clean and dressed and had a family twenty miles away, yet lived in the woods. I made him talk. I asked about his family, and got the sad story. When he finished eating, he was ready to go. I offered him a place to sleep, but he insisted on returning to his campsite.

“The next day, I was deer hunting, alone, and Pepper tracked me down. He showed me his little tent and sleeping bag. He had cooking utensils, an ice chest, a lantern, a shotgun. He said he hadn’t been home in two weeks. Said his mother had a new boyfriend, who was the worst one in years. I followed him deep into the woods to a deer stand he’d found. An
hour later, I killed a ten-point buck, my biggest ever. He said he knew the woods inside and out, and offered to show me the best places to hunt.

“A couple of weeks later, I was back at the cabin. Life with Trudy was unbearable, and she and I both lived for the weekends so I could leave. Pepper showed up not long after I arrived. I cooked a stew and we ate like hogs—I had an appetite back then. He said he’d gone home for three days, and left after a fight with his mother. The more he talked, the less he stuttered. I told him I was a lawyer and before long he told me his legal troubles. His last job had been pumping gas at a station in Lucedale. Some money came up missing from the cash register. Because everybody thought he was retarded, they blamed it on him. He, of course, had nothing to do with it. It was another very good reason to stay in the woods. I promised to check into the matter.”

“And so the setup began,” Sandy said.

“Something like that. We saw each other a few more times in the woods.”

“It was getting close to February ninth.”

“Yes, it was. I told Pepper that the cops were about to arrest him. This was a lie. I hadn’t made a single call. Couldn’t afford to. But the more we talked, the more convinced I became that he knew something about the missing money. He was scared, and leaning heavily on me. We discussed his options, one of which was to simply disappear.”

“Gee, that sounds familiar.”

“He hated his mother. Cops were after him. He was a scared boy who couldn’t live in the woods for the rest of his life. He liked the idea of going out West and
working as a hunting guide in the mountains. We hatched a plan. I watched the newspapers until I saw this terrible story of a high school sophomore getting killed in a train wreck outside New Orleans. His name was Joey Palmer; had a nice generic ring to it. I called a forger in Miami, who got Joey’s Social Security number, and presto!—within four days I had a nice set of papers for Pepper. Louisiana driver’s license, complete with a very close photo, Social Security number, birth certificate, even a passport.”

“You make it sound so easy.”

“No, it’s easier than I make it sound. Just takes a little cash and some imagination. Pepper liked his new papers, and loved the idea of riding a bus off to the mountains. No kidding, Sandy, the kid had no hesitation whatsoever about leaving his mother in the dark. There was not one trace of concern.”

“Your kinda guy.”

“Yeah, well, anyway, on Sunday, February ninth—”

“The date of your death.”

“Yes, as I recall it now. I drove Pepper to the Greyhound bus station in Jackson. I gave him every opportunity to turn back, but he was determined. No, he was excited. The poor kid had never left the state of Mississippi. Just the ride to Jackson was a thrill. I made it clear that he could never come back, under any circumstances. He never mentioned his mother. Three hours in the car, and he never mentioned his mother.”

“Where was he headed?”

“I’d located a logging camp north of Eugene, Oregon, and I’d checked the bus routes and schedules. I wrote it all down for him, then we practiced it a dozen
times on the way to the bus station. I gave him two thousand dollars in cash, and dropped him off two blocks from the bus station. It was almost 1 P.M., and I couldn’t run the risk of being seen. The last time I saw Pepper he was jogging away with a smile on his face and a stuffed backpack slung over his shoulder.”

“His shotgun and camping gear were found in the cabin.”

“Where else could he put it?”

“Just another piece of the puzzle.”

“Of course. I wanted them to think Pepper burned up in the car.”

“Where is he now?”

“I don’t know, and it’s not important.”

“That’s not what I asked, Patrick.”

“It’s not important, really.”

“Stop playing games with me, dammit. If I ask a question, then I deserve an answer.”

“I’ll give an answer when I feel like it.”

“Why are you so evasive with me?”

Sandy’s voice was louder, and edgy, and Patrick paused a moment to let him calm down. They both breathed slower, both tried to get a grip.

“I’m not being evasive, Sandy,” Patrick said evenly.

“The hell you’re not. I fight like hell to solve one riddle, and ten more mysteries hit me in the face. Why can’t you tell me everything?”

“Because you don’t need to know everything.”

“It would certainly be nice.”

“Really? When was the last time a criminal defendant told you everything?”

“Funny, I don’t think of you as a criminal.”

“Then what am I?”

“A friend, maybe.”

“Your job will be easier if you think of me as a criminal.”

Sandy lifted the settlement agreements from the table and started for the door. “I’m tired and I’m going to rest. I’ll be back tomorrow, and you’ll tell me everything.”

He opened the door and left.

The tail had first been noticed two days earlier by Guy as they were leaving a casino. A familiar face turned away a little too quickly. Then a car followed them a bit too aggressively. Guy had experience in such matters, and he mentioned it to Benny, who happened to be driving. “It’s gotta be the feds,” Guy had said. “Who else would care?”

They made plans to leave Biloxi. The phone lines were disconnected in the rented condo. They sent the other boys away.

They waited until dark. Guy left in one car, headed east to Mobile, where he would spend the night watching his rear and then catch a plane in the morning. Benny went west, along the Coast on Highway 90, then across Lake Ponchartrain into New Orleans, a city he knew well. He watched closely, but saw nothing behind him. He ate oysters in the French Quarter, then caught a cab to the airport. He flew to Memphis, then to O’Hare, where he hid most of the night in an airport lounge. Then on to New York at dawn.

The FBI was in Boca Raton, watching his home. His Swedish live-in was still there. She would bolt soon, they figured, and be much easier to follow.

Thirty-six

No release had ever gone as smoothly. Eva walked out of the detention center a free woman at 8:30 A.M., in the same jeans and button-down she’d worn into the place. The guards were nice; the clerks were surprisingly efficient; the supervisor even wished her well. Mark Birck whisked her to his car, a handsome old Jaguar he’d scrubbed inside and out for the occasion, and nodded to their two escorts. “Those are FBI agents,” he said to her, pointing with his head at two gentlemen waiting in a car nearby.

“I thought we were through with them,” she said.

“Not quite.”

“Am I supposed to wave hello or something?”

“No. Just get in the car.” He opened the door for her, closed it gently, for a second admired the fresh wax job on the long, sloping hood, then scampered around to the driver’s side.

“Here’s a letter faxed to me from Sandy McDermott,”
he said as he cranked the engine and backed away. “Open it.”

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“To the airport, general aviation. There’s a small jet waiting for you there.”

“To take me where?”

“New York.”

“And then to where?”

“London, on the Concorde.”

They were on a busy street, with the FBI agents behind them. “Why are they behind us?” she asked.

“Protection.”

She closed her eyes and rubbed her forehead, and thought of Patrick in his small room at the hospital, bored, with little to do but think of places to send her. Then she noticed the car phone. “May I?” she said, lifting it.

“Sure.” Birck was driving carefully, watching his mirrors as if he were chauffeuring the President.

Eva called Brazil and, switching to her native tongue, had a tearful reunion with her father, via satellite. He was well, and so was she. Both were liberated, though she didn’t tell him where she’d spent the last three days. Kidnapping wasn’t such a harsh ordeal after all, he joked. He had been treated superbly; not a single bruise. She promised to be home soon. Her legal work in the United States was almost over, and she was very homesick.