should say a bit difficult to get along with.”
Subtlety is another English trait, and I translated this to mean Hal was a type-A asshole. I had reached this conclusion already. I told her, “I need the key to go up and see him.”
“Ring you up, did he?”
“He heard what a great guy I am and wants to meet me.”
She laughed. “Be on your toes, Major. Hal’s manners could stand a bit of polish.”
So she handed me the stairwell key, and actually, Hal’s office wasn’t that hard to find. His name was inscribed in gold letters on his doorway, like the partners’, and happened to be located in the connecting corridor between the junior and senior partners. Given that all kinds of people downstairs with law degrees were killing themselves to get an office on this floor, and that the rest of the administrative staff were packed on the seventh floor, it struck me that Hal’s stature within the firm perhaps exceeded his title.
The door was locked, so I knocked, a buzzing sound emitted, and I entered. Nobody was present, just two vacant desks in what appeared to be a narrow outer office. I walked to the next door and knocked again. Maybe this was like one of those dozens of boxes inside a box thing, and I’d keep walking into smaller and smaller rooms, and Hal was actually a midget who worked inside a tiny drawer.
But another buzzing sounded, and I entered what appeared to be the inner sanctum, where a guy who looked like he was named Hal was seated behind a desk. He was, as Elizabeth warned, in his mid-thirties, short and pudgy, with balding dark hair, flat black pig eyes, and a thick, imperious nose.
He also wasn’t alone. Harold Bronson, the managing partner, and Cy, my titular boss, stood directly behind him. From Cy I was getting the old avoid-my-eyes routine. And from Bronson the-old-happy-guy-who-wasn’t-happy act.
Hal was scowling and ordered, “Take a seat.”
So much for pleasantries. I stood.
“Suit yourself,” he said.
“I always do, pal.” Regarding Hal’s office, the desk, files, and bookcases appeared to have been purchased from an Office Depot sale. No paintings of ships or lush oriental carpets, nor was there any of the general clutter you associate with a real working office, suggesting Hal either didn’t have much of a job, or was one of those anal neat freaks. Also of interest were the video monitors mounted on wall brackets. One showed the entryway, where sat Elizabeth, energetically buffing her nails. Another showed an empty stairwell, presumably the one that led to the partners’ floor. And last, the interior of the elevator.
Among his other talents and duties, Hal appeared to be the partners’ watchdog. He probably had a gun inside another drawer and would love nothing more than to cap somebody for trespassing, or farting in the partners’ elevator.
Anyway, I smiled and reminded him, “You called me, Hal.” I looked at my watch. “My time is billable. You’ve got thirty seconds and I go back to work.”
It seemed clear that we were on the verge of a nasty little power spat, and I wanted to get in the first blow.
An eyebrow twitched, he flopped open a manila folder, and studied something with great care and interest. With no preamble, he mentioned, “At 5:46, on Thursday night, you signed a Miss Janet Morrow into the firm. Correct?”
“Does it say that on the sign-in form?”
“It does.”
“Then why are you asking?”
“At 5:55 P.M. you logged onto the firm’s server. Correct?”
“What form does it say that on?”
“The central server monitors all transactions. I receive a complete printout twice a day.” He snapped, “At 5:55, correct?”
“You’re sure it wasn’t 5:57?”
The piggy eyes turned piggier. “The server is recalibrated every fourth second by the clock at Greenwich. It is accurate to within three microseconds. It does not make errors.”
“But you do. Right, Hal?” I actually was starting to think I’d just been transported to a really bad episode of Hogan’s Heroes with Sergeant Schultz saying, “Achtung, Herr Colonel Hogan, the commandant is mad zat zomebody drew pimples on Der Fuhrer’s picture.”
And true to form, Hal continued, “Starting at 5:58 there were multiple attempts from your terminal to enter the e-mail account of Lisa Morrow. Seven fruitless attempts, followed by a successful effort.”
“What time was the successful effort?”
He stared back at his form. “That would be 6:04.”
“And how many microseconds?”
His face reddened. “It has been widely noted that you have an attitude problem. Don’t try it in here.” He set down the folder and informed me, “Breaking into another firm member’s files is a violation of firm policy. That policy was included on the firm’s associate exam you took and passed. You should also know it is a federal crime.”
I suspected that having two partners staring over his shoulder was cramping Hal’s style. This motorized, legalistic interrogation was too lawyerly and prompted for this chubby little buffoon. In fact, it struck me that Hal had been given a script.
He put his elbows on the table, bent toward me, and went on, “What were you doing in that file?”
“Ask your all-knowing server.”
Again, Hal glanced at his file, and oops-apparently, the server could tell him. “You downloaded information and an e-mail was sent. We know Janet Morrow was present.” He established eye contact and asked, “Did you in fact permit a non-firm member to access our confidential databases?”
“Did I?”
Bronson chose this moment to intrude. “Answer him, Drummond.” He folded his arms and added, “Miss Morrow, we’ve learned, is a city prosecutor in Boston, and her office is currently involved in cases against two of our firm’s clients.”
Well, it suddenly struck me that Hal was the type of paranoid bureaucrat who liked burning people, and the presence of two senior partners implied that the firm took Hal’s obsessive idiocy seriously.
I therefore addressed my remarks to the partners and said, “We looked up Lisa’s e-mail addresses so her sister could inform her friends about the funeral.”
Hal demanded, “But you logged on using Lisa Morrow’s name and password?”
“Is there another way, Hal?”
“And Janet Morrow was present, wasn’t she?”
“And she’s Lisa Morrow’s sister, and she only saw the e-mail addresses.” I looked back at the partners and added, “Case closed, docket cleared, time to run up those billable hours.”
Bronson looked annoyed. But apparently Hal wasn’t finished, because he lifted up the folder again, withdrew a computer printout, and tossed it onto his desk. “Explain this, Drummond.”
“This” turned out to be a long column of electronic scribbles with two phrases highlighted in yellow-“LF: BosVSParagon” and “LF: BosVSMurray.”
I shrugged and he said, “Don’t play dumb with me. You know ‘LF’ stands for legal file. And you know the entries are City of Boston versus Paragon Ventures, and City of Boston versus William Murray. ”
I replied, “Do I?”
“And you know Paragon Ventures is under indictment by the Boston District Attorney’s Office for fraud and overbilling the government on Medicare payments. And William Murray has been charged with mail-order fraud and conspiracy. They are clients of this firm, and both files were downloaded from Lisa Morrow’s e-mail file.”
He leaned back into his chair and smugly rocked back and forth. I found myself wondering why a firm such as this would hire a putz such as this.
And I knew from his expression that he wasn’t finished, and indeed, he then said, “How these files ended up in Lisa Morrow’s e-mail is very mysterious. But she’s no longer alive to explain, is she?”
“But a brain like yours has surely manufactured an explanation, Hal.”
“In fact, I have. I surmise that Lisa Morrow intended to help her sister. You were her friend, possibly her accomplice. Alternatively, you might have planted those files in Captain Morrow’s e-mail, foolishly assuming we
