for battle, looking meaningfully into our eyes and checking our give-a-shit meters.
When he got to me, I gripped his hand and asked, “Time for one more question?”
“Sure.”
“Why the armed guard at the door?”
“Him? He’s just precautionary.”
“I see. Is there a specific need for that kind of precaution?”
Instead of telling me to screw myself, he explained, “I’m sure you’re aware I have a very high public profile. It’s not something I like, but the company has been built around me, and every story the press does benefits my stockholders and employees. It’s a fortune in free advertising. Unfortunately, my wealth is reported in many of the stories.”
“So, nothing specific?”
“A few threatening letters.” He added, “Once you’re known for having money, the nuts and freaks line up. I’d be foolish to leave myself vulnerable.”
“Gee, it sucks being rich, doesn’t it?”
“No, Sean.” He winked. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
Less than five minutes had elapsed since the guy with the lump under his armpit had deposited us in the backyard and we found ourselves ushered right back into the lush seats of the stretch limo. Figure-between the plane, the car, and the billable hours for four lawyers-our little three-minute chitchat had just cost Mr. Morris somewhere in the neighborhood of five times my annual salary. The rich do indeed have queer ways.
The moment the plane took off I shut my eyes and pretended to sleep. This, of course, is a polite way to avoid conversation. I had nothing in common with my colleagues; Sally was a heartless, manipulative bitch; Barry was an idiot; and Cy, whom I actually liked, was preoccupied with spiked orange juices and with Miss Jenny.
Also I wanted to mull over Jason Morris and his problems. Actually, it was my problem with his problems. For starters, he was rich and famous and got to ball nearly every babe in Hollywood- an impressive list of haves I regrettably have not. Well, life isn’t fair and get over it, Drummond. Forbes magazine had recently pegged his worth at four billion big ones, and, looking deeply into my soul, anybody with that much self-made goulash has earned enough capitalist’s merit badges to indulge in a few baubles and palaces. And if it would benefit my employees, I too could scale the heights of self-sacrifice and stomach a weekend on an exotic island with Jolie What’s-her-name scampering around in a skimpy bikini. Noblesse oblige, right?
So ignore his wealth, and he seemed fairly down-to-earth and unpretentious, like he got the joke about his wealth, and if you wanted to take it too seriously-like Sally, who was squirming with restless ambition beside me- fine. But he didn’t take it that seriously. I find that appealing. A bumper sticker that’s very popular on Wall Street proclaims, “He who dies with the most toys wins.” Au contraire-in the immortal words of Napoleon Bonaparte, he who possesses the biggest battalions wins. Capitalist pigs are well-advised to remember that.
About Nash, it would surpass the bounds of corporate idiocy to employ a former Secretary of Defense to bag a Defense contract. Everybody expects you to. Right? Contrarian logic would argue that you use him for exactly that reason, since stupidity can be the best camouflage. However, people are rarely that devious.
Finally, I had to ponder the tricky ethical territory involved in this mess. The American Bar Association would spank me for confessing this, but I have this simpleminded need for moral clarity. It’s what I love about criminal law-the lawyers enter the fray after the crime has been committed, when we’re only arguing about who gets the final credit. With corporate law, if your client decides to slide over that line that separates the legal from the less than legal, you can end up along for the ride. The textbook calls this abetting and assisting a crime. Added to that, it’s all white-collar stuff, where the laws are vague and mushy, and it’s all about greedy bastards fighting other greedy bastards over a nickel.
So where was the moral clarity in Jason’s charge? Was there moral clarity? After several minutes of tossing the proverbial pros and cons into the ethereal air, I concluded that Morris Networks was offering a needed service at a fraction of what its competitors wanted to gouge. If that freed up an extra shekel or two to, say, buy more tanks and planes for our fighting boys and girls in the field, well, that’s good for the goose and the gander. Right?
That issue settled, my mind drifted to another muddled order of business. Janet had called that morning, and I had agreed to spend my evening with her going through Lisa’s apartment. I had no idea what she expected to find, even if there was anything worth finding. However, she had sounded unusually eager to look-quickly-which gave me an odd sense she had some specific knowledge I didn’t.
Ask that question and you invariably end up asking yourself: Where and how does Sean Drummond fit into her plans?
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The last person I expected, needed, or indeed wanted to find in my new office was lounging on the plush leather couch, sipping an espresso, feet on the coffee table, watching Judge Judy on my office TV.
Chief Warrant Daniel Spinelli glanced up and asked, “Hey, how was Florida?”
“Warm, overpriced, and full of old farts. What are you doing here?”
He punched off the TV, and his eyes shifted around. “Nice place, ain’t it?”
“Actually, the place sucks. But it’s nicely furnished.”
“They’re spoilin’ the shit out of you.”
“Well, I’m the best. I deserve it.”
He chuckled. “You gonna be able to come back home when this is done?”
Spinelli’s idea of inconsequential chatter was wearing thin. I replied, “I’m sure I asked, why are you here?”
He shrugged and set down his espresso. “Ever hear of Julia Cuthburt?”
“Never.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure.”
He stood and walked to the window. He said to me, “Nice view, ain’t it?”
“Great view. Incidentally, if I have to ask why you’re here again, we’ll do it with my foot up your ass.”
He continued to stare out the window. “The body of Miss Julia Cuthburt was found in her apartment this mornin’ by the Alexandria Police. Sexually molested, robbed, and dead.”
“I didn’t do it. I’ve got witnesses.”
He faced me. “The victim was twenty-eight, single, a CPA with Johnson and Smathers, some big accounting outfit in the city. She had a long, ugly hour before her neck was broke.”
“Her- What direction was her head twisted?”
“Same as Morrow’s.”
I asked, “And you’re here to ask me if there was a connection between her and Lisa?”
“Was there?”
“I have no idea.”
He thought about this a moment, then said, “Two women, roughly the same age, single professionals, attractive. Similar victim profiles. .. same manner of death…”
“But what about the sexual molestation?”
“Yeah. I thought about that. Try this scenario. He’s waitin’ for Morrow in the parkin’ lot, he tries to drag her into a car, she tries to fight him off, threatens to expose him, and he decides she’s too much trouble.”
I nodded, but said nothing. Spinelli was playing games, and he annoyed me. CID people are all sneaky little bastards anyway. For some, that’s part of the job, a suit they have to wear to work, and if you put enough beers in them, they’ll even admit they find it distasteful. Spinelli was the other type. Also, this news came as a bit of a surprise, and a shock, and emotionally I needed a moment to absorb it, and intellectually, to fit Lisa’s death into this fresh context and perspective. I had imagined any number of scenarios and likely motives-vengeance, theft, and jealousy leading the list, none of which involved a complete stranger. I had not considered that she was a number pulled out of a hat by a maniac.
