Improper Influence Page 8
“Caroline’s not in yet; she had to take her car in for service. She’ll be sorry she missed you.”
“Oh, that’s too bad. I brought her a loaf, too.”
Sasha placed the second sourdough round on Caroline’s immaculate desk and trailed Will to his personal office.
“Sorry to say, I haven’t yet found a home for all of Cinco’s trappings. But, at least I got the place repainted.”
He pushed open the door to reveal a perfectly normal-looking office with tan walls in place of the vibrant orange that Cinco had favored.
Cinco’s white leather furniture was pushed into one corner of the room behind Will’s Amish-style coffee table and chairs.
“Have a seat.”
Sasha deposited herself in the chair across from Will.
“So, aside from the freshly baked bread delivery, what brings you Downtown? You’re not finally going to accept my job offer are you?” Will’s tone was light, but he leaned forwarded with a look of anticipation.
She smiled. “Not today. Actually, I’m here to talk about Naya’s job offer.”
“We’re very excited to have her as our first P&T Advancement Scholar.”
“She’s excited, too. I’ll be sorry to lose her, but I think we all know she’ll be a dynamite attorney. If she can manage to get through law school without alienating all of her professors.”
Naya’s disdain for authority was no secret around Prescott & Talbott’s offices.
“True. So, what exactly’s on your mind? I don’t mean to rush you—it’s an unexpected pleasure to see you here. But this managing partner business is one meeting after another. I barely have time to practice.” Will seemed both surprised and saddened by the realities of running a major law firm.
“No, of course. Let me get to it. It’s ludicrous to threaten Naya with the loss of her scholarship and job if I don’t take her off my VitaMight case. She’s with me for another four months, Will. I can’t pay her to play Candy Crush all day. And, as you might imagine, she’s been pivotal in helping me build my strategy. For Prescott & Talbott to drop that little bomb on me and then follow it up with a document dump ... well, I don’t expect much from most lawyers, but I thought that sort of thing was beneath you. Not to mention, there’s no ethical rule that supports your position.” Sasha exhaled slowly.
She’d gotten more wound up during her speech than she’d intended.
Will cocked his head and wrinkled his brow. “What the devil are you talking about?”
Sasha mirrored his confusion. “You don’t know?”
Naya had suspected as much, but it didn’t make sense for English to make a threat he couldn’t back up.
“Know what?”
She shook her head. “Friday afternoon, Garrett English called me to request that I wall Naya off from a case I’m handling for VitaMight.”
“Why on earth would he do that? They remain a firm client. We still do some regulatory work for them; we wouldn’t want to upset the apple cart.”
“All I know is, he said if I don’t pull her from the case, she won’t be able to work on any Herbal Attitude matters when she joins you.”
“He said that?”
“Yeah, and we both know you guys hire lateral attorneys all the time who are conflicted out from working for certain clients. But English hinted that she could be in danger of losing the scholarship and the job if I don’t take her off the case. Then, right after we hung up, your mailroom delivered a small mountain of discovery. After five on a Friday. Classic bury the solo practitioner nonsense.”
Will’s eyes flashed. It happened so fast, she thought she’d imagined it. He was famous for never losing his temper. But he had one. She’d just seen the evidence.
When he spoke, though, his expression was placid and his voice was cool. “This must be a mix-up. Who did you say we represent—Herbal Attitudes?”
“Right. VitaMight spun off their herbal supplement division. Prescott’s transactional group represented them in the sale to Herbal Attitudes. Apparently, the firm is now doing some litigation work for Herbal Attitudes, who, by the way, isn’t a party in my case. I just sent a third-party document subpoena. So, why English responded scorched earth-style, I have no idea.”
“Because Garrett English has the lawyering instincts of this loaf of bread,” Will muttered, reaching for the phone on the side table and punching in a number.
“Kevin Marcus’s office.” Sasha’s former secretary’s voice sounded through the speaker.
“Good morning, Lettie. I’m here with your favorite trial-sized trial attorney,” Will said, chuckling at his own joke.
Lettie processed that for a moment then squealed, “Sasha?!”
Sasha leaned toward the speaker. “Hi, Lettie. I’ll stop by on my way out.”
“You’d better. Have you and Leo set a date yet?”
“Not quite. I’ll fill you in on all the wedding hubbub. Promise.”
“Okay, then. What can I do for you? Mr. Marcus isn’t in yet.”
Will harrumphed at that even though it wasn’t yet eight o’clock. “Ask him to come see me when he arrives.”
“Yes, sir. Now, Sasha, don’t you forget to come see me when you’re done,” Lettie demanded.
Will depressed the speaker phone button and turned toward Sasha.
“This must be a misunderstanding. I’ll take care of it.”
“Thanks, Will. I appreciate it.”
She gave him a genuine smile and stood.
As he walked her to the door, he managed to sneak in another attempt at wooing her back. “You’ve said you aren’t interested in coming back as a partner. You turned down the Director of Community Relations position. What would it take to get you back?”
She gave the question serious consideration.
What would it take to entice her to return of a life of endless billable hours, pointless position-jockeying, favor-currying, and petty unpleasantries?
“A miracle.”
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Sasha checked the time, cursed under her breath, and took the stairs up to her office by two. She didn’t even pop into Jake’s for her late morning coffee.
She’d spent more time than she’d intended visiting with Lettie. Then a partner she knew only in passing had materialized and dragged her into his office to look at an endless supply of pictures of his kids.
She’d finally escaped and made the mistake of stopping by a boutique shop in the building lobby for a quick spin through the sale racks. There, over a stack of discounted asymmetrical sweaters, she’d bumped into Kaitlyn Hart, a Prescott & Talbott junior associate who, not only remembered her, but—unlike the new receptionist—was impressed to the point of fawning with her notoriety.
Kaitlyn had insisted on dragging Sasha to a very early lunch with two other bargain-hunting Prescott associates. Watching them wolf down their sandwiches in great gulps while chugging their drinks in order to return to their desks and their mounds of work as quickly as possible both dampened Sasha’s appetite and confirmed her belief that an act of God would be required for her to ever again toil in the employ of Prescott & Talbott.
Her frolic and detour had cost her an entire morning, and she hadn’t even scored any accessories at the boutique.
When she reached her office door, it was both unlocked and ajar. She assumed Naya had gone in to drop off some papers, but when she walked through the doorway, she stopped short.
Connelly and Bodhi were camped out in her guest chairs, and Bodhi was holding an ice pack over his left eye. Dried blood stained the front of his shirt. Connelly raised his head at the sound of the door swinging open and met her gaze with concern in his eyes. He looked to be unharmed.
“What happened to you?” she asked Bodhi.
Connelly answered for him.
“He was attacked this morning behind his office building. He’s okay. He’s got some bumps and bruises and a nice shiner, but it could have been a lot worse.”
“Did you get
a good look at the person?”
Bodhi shook his head. “No. I was bent over, locking up my bike. He came up behind me and grabbed the strap of my laptop bag. The force wheeled me around and he popped me in the eye, then the nose. Took off running with my bag. It was all over in a few seconds. White guy. Taller than me. He was wearing jeans and a dark shirt. I’m sorry, but that’s the best I can do for a description.”
She wasn’t surprised.
Connelly had told her about a Homeland Security training exercise where experienced law enforcement personnel had unknowingly witnessed a staged robbery. Afterward, they’d given conflicting, sometimes diametrically opposed, descriptions of the perpetrator. Their descriptions had differed on everything from race to the presence or absence of neck tattoos.
And she’d once attended a continuing legal education seminar in which a criminal law professor discussed a case in which a rape victim picked the wrong man out of a lineup and he was convicted. DNA evidence later established that the actual rapist had coincidentally also been in the lineup. The convicted man and the rapist bore no physical resemblance to one another aside from sharing a race.
The human brain reacted in strange ways to stress and the attendant flood of adrenaline. That was one reason she trained in Krav Maga: to take the need to think out of the equation in a crisis and to rely instead on instincts that had been honed through repetition.
“Did you report it?”
“Yes. To the police and to security at work.” Bodhi’s voice shook.
To Sasha’s ear, the tremor sounded like anger, not fear.
Connelly interjected. “Over Bodhi’s objections, he’s been placed on paid leave while the Medical Examiner’s Office investigates the attack and the thefts of his work and personal laptops.”
Sasha blinked. “Work and personal laptops?”
“Yesterday, a colleague called me at home and asked me to meet him. He said he’d seen a guy in my office, who made off with my work-issued laptop. He’d broken the window to get in. I wasn’t too worried because my personal laptop is a mirror image of my work laptop.”
“And you didn’t mention this to Connelly when you called last night because—?”
“You asked me to let you know that I was safe. I was safe. I didn’t see the point in bothering you with the break in on a Sunday night, especially when work was going to be handling the investigation, anyway.” He let out a shaky sigh. “I guess that was a mistake.”
“It was, but it’s done now, so let’s move on.”
As she was situating herself behind her desk and wondering how exactly to go about moving on and helping Connelly’s friend, Naya appeared in the doorway, balancing a tray from Jake’s.
“I thought I heard you running up the stairs,” she said, handing Sasha a large latte. She passed an herbal tea to Bodhi and a cappuccino to Connelly, then took a sip from a bright blue bottle and screwed her face up in a grimace.
“What is that?” Connelly asked.
“Champion Fuel,” Naya said with a shudder, “it’s disgusting.”
She placed the bottle on the table beside Bodhi and caught Sasha’s eye. “How’d it go at Prescott?”
“Will’s going to take care of it,” Sasha said distractedly. “But for now, we need to focus on something else.”
“Him?” Naya asked, jerking a thumb toward Bodhi.
“Bingo. Connelly, have your contacts come up with anything yet?”
He shook his head. “No. And they’re adamant that if there’s any official action behind this, it’s not federal. I trust my source on that.”
Which meant his source was Hank, Sasha thought. She doubted he’d take anyone else at his word.
“Okay, well, clearly someone very badly wants some information that he or she thinks Bodhi has. Obviously, it’s not in your reports on the dead women, it’s not in your journal, and it’s not in either of your laptops.”
“Why do you say that?” Bodhi asked.
“Because they’re still looking. If they had what they wanted, they’d stop.”
“So what’s left? What source of information remains?” Connelly asked Bodhi.
Bodhi was quiet for a moment. Then he said softly, “Nothing. They have everything.”
“Wrong,” Naya interjected.
Bodhi flashed her a confused look. “No, I don’t have any other files or computers.”
Naya leaned over and tapped him gently on the temple. “You have this.”
He looked at Sasha for confirmation.
She nodded. “If you’re right about it being a mirror image, they aren’t going to find anything on your personal laptop either. That means they’ll be back. And next time, they’ll be looking for you.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Mackenzie slid into the chair across from Fred, waving him back into his seat as he halfheartedly rose to greet her. She snapped the folds out of the black linen napkin and placed it across her lap. It was a nice touch, the black napkin. It saved patrons who stopped in for a few midday drinks the trouble of picking tell-tale white napkin lint off their dark suit pants before returning to the office. If she’d shown up wearing a light-colored skirt, she’d have gotten a white napkin. She appreciated that level of attention to detail.
“Well? What was so important that you needed to drag me out of a meeting with the entire Economic Development team, Fred?”
Since Barry wasn’t around, she didn’t bother to hide her irritation. Barry’s unctuous style around his big donors had really begun to grate on her.
Fred sat back as though he’d been slapped.
He toyed with his half-empty rocks glass before meeting her eye and saying, “Now, Mackenzie, that’s not very cordial.”
She ignored the scolding. He opened his mouth to continue but cut himself off when she raised her hand to flag down a passing waitress.
“I’ll get your server, ma’am—” the woman began.
“No, don’t get my server. Get me a vodka tonic. Please.”
The waitress bobbed her head and scurried away.
“You’re a no-nonsense gal, aren’t ya’?” Fred said with something approaching admiration in his voice.
“I’m a busy woman.”
“Point taken. Okay, sweetheart, I won’t waste your time. We have a problem.” He tipped back his head and drained his glass.
“What kind of problem?” Mackenzie kept her voice low.
She’d scanned the busy restaurant when she’d come into the room. She hadn’t recognized anyone, but that didn’t mean that she hadn’t been recognized. She’d gotten plenty of television exposure. It was her practice to stand right behind Barry’s shoulder at press conferences, close enough to grab his elbow and whisper into his ear if he veered too far from his script, which happened with alarming frequency. And, as a result, she’d gained her own measure of fame among the local television audience.
Just thinking about her boss’s idiocy kicked her stomach ulcer into activity. She hoped the waitress would hurry up with the drink.
“Someone’s snooping around internally, trying to see if there’s a connection between Champion Fuel and those dead girls.”
“Internally? Inside your company, you mean?” she clarified.
There was no way Fred could have found out about the growing problem in the Medical Examiner’s Office. All of her people knew better than to leak information. But even if he had somehow gotten wind of Bodhi King’s meddling, Fred was getting plastered for no reason. Firing King would neutralize him. With no access to files or the investigation, he’d be unable to continue to try to connect the deaths.
A new, harried-looking waitress materialized and placed a cocktail napkin and drink in front of Mackenzie.
“Thank you.”
“Honey, let’s have another one of these,” Fred said, giving the woman his empty glass with an unsteady hand.
After she’d left, he nodded at Mackenzie.
“Yes, my company. What’d you think I meant?”
She sipped her drink and was pleased to discover that the bartender had used a generous hand with the vodka. She savored the slow, warm burn as it ran down her throat and coated the angry ulcer in her stomach. She’d pay for that in the morning, but, right now, she was just happy to dull the anxiety that rose in her throat like bile.
“He told me,” Fred said.
“Who told you? The snoop?”
“Yeah.”
“Why would he do that?”
She supposed some overeager company man might have thought he was doing his boss a favor by proactively clearing the company’s name. But that seemed unlikely given that she’d been so successful in squelching any hint of concern about Champion Fuel in the media.
Fred turned his rheumy eyes on her and stared hard at her. Then he said miserably, “Because he’s my son.”
Not good, Mackenzie thought.
She gave a low whistle. “Stone Junior?”
“I don’t have any other sons, honey.”
“That is a problem.”
“Yeah.”
“Did he find anything?”
“No. Not yet. But, you know, he’s tenacious. If there’s anything to piece together, that boy’ll do it. I told him to leave well enough alone, but that’s just spurred him on.” His voice contained the barest hint of admiration for his son, but he shook his head in dismay.
The waitress returned with his bourbon. Mackenzie let him take a long, greedy swallow before she posed the question.
“Are you going to take care of him or do you want me to do it?”
For a long moment, Fred didn’t answer or give any indication he’d heard her. He stared into the bottom of his glass.
She waited, looking over his bowed head out the large window behind him, where the sun was setting over the city. The sky was streaked pink and orange, and she realized it had been months since she’d gotten home before dark. Her ulcer flared, and she turned her attention back to the miserable drunk across the table.
Just as she was about to repeat herself, he mumbled, “S.J.’s my boy. He’s my problem.”