Improper Influence Page 4

  “Yes,” Sasha said simply.

  Naya chewed her lower lip.

  The waitress appeared with spring rolls and jasmine tea.

  Naya stopped her before she could leave again. “We’ll have a bottle of the house wine, too. White.”

  Naya turned back to Sasha. “None of this is a surprise, you know. But, come on, it’s not that bad.”

  Sasha snagged a spring roll with her chopsticks and swirled it around in the small dish of plum sauce while she considered her answer.

  “It’s not all bad. Prescott’s one of the top firms in the city—if not the top. You’ll get excellent experience; it’ll open a lot of doors for you. But, on a per hour basis? You’ll make less than you did as a legal assistant there. There’s no overtime for attorneys. And there’s no end to the work. You’ll spend vacations, holidays, and weekends in the office—”

  “I know all that, Mac. I’ve done all that.” Naya combed her fingers through her hair and shook her head.

  The waitress returned with the bottle of wine and two glasses. After the pouring/sniffing ritual, Sasha took a long swallow of the crisp, dry wine and leveled her gaze at Naya.

  “You’ve done all that and been compensated, thanked, and appreciated for it. It’ll be different when it’s expected and taken for granted. I think that’ll be the biggest change for you. You’ll be treated like a professional, like your brain is an asset. But, you won’t be treated particularly kindly. You’re going to have to bite your tongue a fair amount. And, I love you for it, but let’s face it—you aren’t exactly a shrinking violet.”

  Naya laughed at that, a long, loud chuckle. Then she picked up her glass and her smile faded.

  “That’s the truth. Well, maybe things are different now with Will in charge.”

  Sasha shrugged. It was possible. Anything was possible.

  “Maybe,” she allowed.

  Naya drained her glass.

  The smiling waitress returned with two steaming, fragrant plates piled high with food. Sasha’s stomach leapt at the sight. She’d skipped breakfast—something she rarely did—in her effort to get a jump on tackling the mountain of documents that waited for her in her office.

  They ate in silence for a few moments. Then Naya put down her chopsticks and said, “I’m going to talk to him.”

  “To whom?” Sasha asked around a mouthful of pad Thai.

  “Will.”

  “About?”

  “VitaMight.” Naya put up a hand to forestall the objection she must have known was coming. “Say whatever you want about Prescott, Will’s a decent human being. If he knew what Garrett’s up to, I think he’d put a stop to it.”

  Sasha agreed that Will was a good egg—or as close to one as a person would likely find in the rarified environs of Prescott & Talbott. But she wasn’t so sure that he was unaware of Garrett’s machinations. Or that he’d disapprove of them if he knew. Business, after all, was business. And lawyers were notoriously flinty-eyed about such things. She left room for the possibility that she could be wrong. After all, Will had stood by her on more than one occasion during the past year and a half. And she considered him something of a friend, if not a mentor. But still, it would be a mistake for Naya to march—and march she would—into Will’s office and demand that he call off the dogs.

  “You don’t want to do that. Let me talk to him.”

  Naya eyed her over her bowl of noodles.

  “I don’t need you to carry my water, Mac. And you need help. You can’t review all those documents alone.”

  Sasha beat back a frustrated sigh. Lord, was Naya ever stubborn.

  “That’s not what this is, Naya. You can’t begin your career as a Prescott attorney by demanding concessions before you even start working there. This is an issue between Prescott and me. I can’t let you burn goodwill on it. I’ll reach out to Will, okay?”

  Naya pursed her lips and considered this. “When?”

  “Soon. Early next week.”

  “Monday,” Naya said.

  “Fine. Monday,” Sasha agreed.

  Placated, Naya returned her attention to her curry. “How are the wedding plans coming along?”

  Sasha groaned and reached for the wine.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Allegheny County’s Chief Medical Examiner spent every Saturday morning from seven until noon in his office, catching up on all administrative nonsense that inevitably piled up during the week. Although he no longer performed autopsies—unless a celebrity was involved or there was heavy media interest in a case—he never seemed to have time to get through the stacks of requests that needed his approval, reports that needed his signature, and backs that needed his scratching each week.

  Jefferson Anderson Jackson (the name his parents proudly wrote on his birth certificate and promptly discarded in favor of “Sonny”) was trained as both a lawyer and a doctor. But he functioned principally as a politician these days. While he didn’t exactly miss being in the trenches, he did not enjoy the paperwork that came along with his current position. As a result, he was usually not in the best of moods during his Saturday morning work sessions, and his staff had learned to steer clear of his office during that block of time.

  Or so he thought.

  But notwithstanding the conventional wisdom that Sonny was best avoided on weekend mornings, Bodhi King was lurking around his door, wearing a path in the carpet from the kitchenette to the small library and back.

  Sonny knew two things: One, Bodhi was a health nut and, therefore, unlikely to find anything appealing in the kitchen’s offerings, which ran toward the stale doughnut and burnt coffee end of the culinary spectrum. Two, Bodhi, like most of the forensic pathologists under the age of fifty, had electronic subscriptions to all the research journals.

  It was theoretically possible that there was some mildewing tome in the library that he needed to consult. But it was more likely that he was working up his nerve to interrupt the boss.

  Sonny leaned to his side to peer through his partially open door. Bodhi passed by again on another circuit to the kitchen.

  Sonny put down his pen and scratched his neck—a gesture his wife jokingly claimed activated his brain. Bodhi was the least labor-intensive employee Sonny had ever known. He didn’t seem to have the arrogance or ego that sometimes came along with a medical degree. He didn’t get emotional about grisly cases. He worked all the Christian holidays, kept his head down, and avoided the back-stabbing office politics that permeated the building worse than the constant odor of formaldehyde. In short, he was a dream employee, and Sonny had been on the lookout for more Buddhist coroner candidates, hoping to someday have a staff full of Bodhis.

  So, if Bodhi needed to talk to him, it was probably important enough to listen to. At a minimum, it was unlikely to be a complaint along the lines of the last employee issue Sonny had been subject to on a Saturday morning. One of the forensic pathologists had measured his office and discovered that it was a full two square feet smaller than everybody else’s. But Bodhi was no Wally Stewart, and Sonny was willing to wager Bodhi had never notice the size of his office, let alone compared it to a colleague’s space.

  He grabbed his travel mug, crossed the room, and opened the door wide. At the end of the hall, the door to the kitchen swung closed.

  In the kitchen, Sonny headed for the sink and began rinsing out his mug. As the water ran, he turned toward the small electric stove, where Bodhi paced back and forth in front of a tea kettle.

  “Morning, Bodhi,” he said over his shoulder. “You coulda heated that water quicker than greased lightning in the microwave an ‘at, you know?”

  Sonny was Pittsburgh born and bred. He’d left Pittsburgh at eighteen to attend college in Boston and had stayed in New England for medical school and beyond. As a result, his Pittsburgh accent had long since had its rough edges filed down to the polished, neutral cadence of an academician. After he’d been lured home to head up the Medical Examiner’s Office, he’d found it handy to resurrect
his Pittsburghese. It distanced him from the former, almost universally reviled, Chief Medical Examiner, who had relocated from Northern California for the job. And it seemed to disarm people and get them to lower their guards. Sometimes he applied it thicker than others.

  Bodhi just smiled. Sonny figured it was some kind of religious thing, the food preparation, and left it at that.

  “What’re you doin’ in here on a Saturday anyway? It’s a beautiful day. Hope you aren’t catching up on paperwork like me.” He placed his mug upside down in the drainer and then turned to face Bodhi full on.

  Bodhi’s usually placid expression was tense. The muscles in his face were tight and his eyes were clouded with thought.

  “Actually, Sonny, I’d like to talk to you about some of my paperwork. If you have time, of course?”

  Sonny nodded. “When you’re done watching that pot boil, bring your tea into my office and we can pow wow.”

  “Thanks.”

  As Sonny turned to leave, Bodhi asked, “Would you like some? Tea, I mean? It’s ginkgo leaf to promote mental clarity.”

  “Ginkgo, like those crap-smelling berries? No thanks,” Sonny said with a shudder. “See you in a few.”

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  Bodhi paused outside his boss’s half-open door to gather his thoughts before knocking lightly on the door frame.

  “Come on in,” Sonny said from behind the desk, his head bent over an Excel spreadsheet. “Working on the darn budget.”

  Bodhi lowered himself into a guest chair and folded his long legs beneath him. He sipped his tea in silence and waited until Sonny had reached a stopping point. He felt no impatience. And, having made up his mind to talk to Sonny, he also felt no lingering worry. His thoughts were calm. He imagined they were a lake on a day with no breeze.

  “Alrighty, then,” Sonny said, slapping the thick sheaf of paper down on his desk, “What’s troubling you, son?”

  Bodhi saw no reason to sugarcoat his words. He leaned forward slightly and held Sonny’s gaze. “My files on the girls who died from myocarditis are gone.”

  Sonny sat back but otherwise showed no reaction. He was quiet for a moment, then he said, “When you say ‘gone,’ what exactly do you mean?”

  Bodhi noted that Sonny’s local boy accent had vanished.

  “I mean, they’re gone. It’s as if my autopsy reports never existed. They’re gone from the database. And my local copies are gone, too.”

  “That’s not possible. It must just be ... some kind of technological glitch.” He waved his hands around in the air as if that would explain this unprecedented network malfunction.

  “It’s not a glitch, Sonny.”

  “Now, Bodhi, I’m no computer expert, but then neither are you. ‘Course it’s a glitch. The IT fellas musta screwed the pooch somehow. Who’s the department liaison for technology? Stewart? I’ll get him on it to have it all straightened out come Monday.” Sonny ended with a too-hearty laugh and gave Bodhi an encouraging smile.

  Bodhi chose each word with care and said, “I may not be a computer expert. But, I can’t conceive of an error that would make the files—both the network and local copies—on the women with myocarditis disappear and only those files. Can you?”

  Sonny gave him a blank look. “Can’t say I know enough to answer the question.”

  “Ever hear of Occam’s Razor?”

  Bodhi was sure he had. If Sonny hadn’t encountered the theory in medical school, he likely had in law school. Or while watching television. It was hardly obscure.

  “The simplest explanation is generally the best—or something to that effect,” Sonny mumbled.

  Bodhi waited.

  “So what are you sayin’, son? Someone deliberately deleted your files? That’s a pretty strong accusation.” Sonny leveled him with a look.

  “I know. And I hesitated to make it, sir, but there’s one other factor to consider: I don’t know if you’re aware that it’s my practice to keep personal journals, handwritten journals of my cases.”

  “News to me. Why? You thinkin’ about writing a book?”

  Bodhi smiled. The former Chief Medical Examiner had done just that. And then he’d leveraged his tell-all bestseller into a weekly program on Court TV.

  “No. It’s just a way for me to memorialize the lives that pass through my hands. They’re private thoughts, of no medical or legal value.”

  Sonny shrugged. “Whatever gets you through. Some guys drink. Saul golfs. I favor a long run, myself.”

  “My most recent notebook is missing. It contained my notes on the myocarditis cases. But, the rest of the books are undisturbed right where I keep them.”

  “And where’s that?”

  “In my office.”

  The room was perfectly still and silent for a moment. Then Sonny passed his palm over his eyes and muttered a low curse that Bodhi didn’t quite catch. When he removed his hand, Sonny looked like he’d aged ten years. His skin was sallow and his eyes were bright with fear.

  Before he could speak, the portable radio on his desk blared to life.

  “10-55 incoming.”

  10-55 was the code for a confirmed coroner’s case. It meant the police had arrived at a scene and determined there was no need for emergency medical services.

  “I’ll take it,” Bodhi said, halfway out of his chair. There was no point in dragging in whoever was on call. He was already here.

  Sonny raised a hand indicating he should wait. Then he picked up the radio and said, “Any details?”

  The voice on the other end registered surprise that the boss himself was asking. “Uh, another young woman, sir. Neighbor called it in when she didn’t show up for a breakfast date. She was dead in her bed. No evidence of trauma or foul play. Looks like the others.”

  “Roger that.”

  Sonny shook his head at Bodhi. “I’ll take it myself.”

  Bodhi kept his expression neutral at this news. “Of course.”

  Sonny stood with uncharacteristic urgency. “I’ll have Wally look into what happened to your computer files, Bodhi. Don’t you worry.” He patted Bodhi’s arm and guided him toward the door.

  Worry.

  That unfamiliar undercurrent coursed through his body again, and Bodhi realized that he was, in fact, very worried.

  Bodhi walked out of the building on autopilot, focused on his thoughts and not his surroundings. Once he realized he was acting mindlessly, he stopped at the edge of the parking lot to recenter himself before mounting his twelve-speed and pedaling off.

  Do one thing at a time, do it slowly, and do it mindfully, he reminded himself.

  Mindfulness usually wasn’t difficult for him to achieve, but in his current mindset he found he had to force himself to watch a ladybug creep along the top rail of the bike rack until it reached the end and unfolded its wings. Only after it took flight, did he unlock his bicycle.

  The white van with its tinted windows zipped into the parking lot and backed into the unloading bay. Bodhi paused and waited to see who emerged from the driver’s seat. It was Jamal Parker, which was perfect.

  Jamal was a relatively new employee and, despite the excellent benefits and stability that the job offered, Bodhi figured Jamal wouldn’t last much longer. He hadn’t managed to develop the shell that would allow him to chauffeur the dead without letting it haunt his dreams.

  True to form, Jamal fumbled around in his shirt pocket for a cigarette and walked across the lot to smoke it, keeping his eyes averted from the heavy black body bag that his coworkers were unloading from the back of the van.

  “Hey, Jamal,” Bodhi said, as Jamal stopped to light his cigarette, cupping his hand around the flame to shield it from the late spring wind.

  “Bodhi, my man.” Jamal took a drag on his cigarette and exhaled, as he clasped Bodhi’s hand in a friendly shake.

  “You okay?”

  “These young girls ... it ain’t right.” Jamal shook his head.

  Bodhi nodded his agreement. “No, it
’s not. Same pattern as the others?”

  “Yeah. Her downstairs neighbor told the cops she was out late partying but the neighbor heard her come home alone. They were supposed to get breakfast together this morning and the girl never showed. Her car was out front, and she didn’t answer when the neighbor pounded on the door, so she called the landlord. He showed up with a key and ... they found her. Hispanic chick. She was pretty.” Jamal’s voice trailed off, soft and mournful.

  Bodhi was glad for the information but sorry to see Jamal’s pain.

  “That’s sad, man. You know that luxury car dealer on Baum Boulevard?”

  “Yeah?” Jamal looked up at him quizzically.

  “They’re hiring drivers. The pay probably isn’t as good, but it’s full time, with benefits. And you’d get to drive Jaguars and Benzes instead of a hearse.”

  A smile spread like lightning across Jamal’s face. “You for real?”

  “I play volleyball with the assistant manager. Ask for Gary Flanders. Tell him I sent you.”

  “I will. Thanks, man.”

  Bodhi watched Jamal head back to his van, his step lighter now that his passenger had been removed. As he considered this latest death, the words that Bodhi had been avoiding came screaming into his brain: Pittsburgh was experiencing a cluster of sudden unexplained deaths.

  A death cluster.

  Protocol required Sonny to assemble an investigative team of pathologists to go out into the field and tease out any commonalities among the dead women—did they swim in the same pool, kiss the same person, eat at the same diner? The fact that there wasn’t already a field investigation underway meant ... what did it mean?

  Either Sonny had suddenly become incompetent or he had deliberately decided not to investigate a series of potentially related deaths. Bodhi thought of his missing files and stolen journal. Then he thought of Occam’s Razor. He slipped his bike chain into his messenger bag and slowly pedaled away from the building.

  As he bumped over the curb and eased out into flow of light weekend traffic on Grant Street, a dark green Taurus started up and pulled out behind him. His mindfulness gave way to distraction as he tried to come up with a convincing argument against the existence of a death cluster. As a result, he didn’t notice the car as it followed him at a crawl all the way through downtown, onto Bigelow Boulevard, and along his route through several residential neighborhoods.