I’m going to do it.” And they went back and forth like that for a while, sounding like an old married couple.
But apparently, experience had taught him that with the lady in question he wasn’t going to win this, or any, argument. A compromise of sorts was reached; he would have two more special agents meet us at the Delta departure gate, to be reinforced by two more agents when we arrived at Ronald Reagan National.
Janet and her aunt and sisters then spent some time doing the emotional good-bye thing, and I used the occasion to draw Spinelli out to the back porch. We had a deal, and to show I honored my word, I gave him a swift rundown on our suspicions about the firm, what we’d found inside the car, and so on. He got the sanitized version, of course. Daniel Spinelli was motivated by self-interest, and to protect my self-interest I carefully held back a few key issues I might need in exchange for later favors. He seemed to really appreciate my confidences, however, so I exploited his good mood to arrange another deal.
In fact, two guys in nondescript clothing were cooling their heels by the curb when we pulled up to the Delta entrance at Logan International in Bob’s black sedan. From the look of them, Meany had apparently concluded that the search for the killer was going nowhere; or his boss had ordered him to move Janet’s safety up a few pegs on his priority list, because these two were clearly members of the A-team. Grim-faced, hard-nosed, and well-built, they had already completed the paperwork to fly with their guns, and in fact had persuaded Delta to whisk us through the ticketing procedure and allow us to cool our heels in the VIP lounge until three minutes before takeoff.
I like guys who take no chances when my safety is at stake. Also, I was really hungry, and I stuffed my pockets with free peanuts.
But they obviously had been prebriefed that we were difficult cargo, because they put up almost no fight when Janet insisted they sit no closer than six seats forward or aft, so she and I could have a discussion about confidential legal matters. It wasn’t like this guy was going to come running down the aisle and whack us, anyway, so they obliged us, and we had two hours to jointly ponder our dilemma and plot our strategy.
The dilemma was fairly straightforward-somebody in the firm was an accessory to murder. Janet commented that this was like one of those old closed-room mysteries English people go nuts about, where somebody killed the host-but who? The shortlist included Harold Bronson, Cy Berger, Barry Bosworth, Sally Westin, and Hal Merriweather. I wanted it to be Hal, or Barry, or Harold.
The trifecta would be Hal, and Barry, and Harold. I believe I mentioned I have a vindictive streak, and the beast demanded to be fed. I could live with it being Sally, though I’d be very surprised. I’d be disappointed if it was Cy, but only mildly surprised.
Anyway, I informed my new attorney about the basis for my lawsuit, and we efficiently worked through the details of how we would shape and present it. The legal fine points and elements of proof were meaningless anyway-it was all bluff and bluster.
There’s a saying in our biz: If the law is on your side, pound on the law; if the facts are on your side, pound on the facts; if neither is on your side, pound on the table. We lacked the law and facts, and they owned the damned table, which meant we had to pound on them. The basic idea was to infuriate, insult, and threaten everybody and see who got all sweaty about it. Somebody in that room had important things to hide. The time had come to find out who, and what.
By the way, not two, but four more agents met us at Reagan National Airport. Spinelli had had enough of us, and he left alone in a taxi. Janet and I departed a few minutes later in an inauspicious caravan of three shiny black Crown Victorias; a lead car in front, us in the middle, and a chase car behind. We traveled at high speed, straight to 1616 Connecticut Avenue. Janet informed our bodyguards that we were attending a confidential legal conference, so they would have to wait in the downstairs lobby.
At 7:30 P.M., the elevator door opened on the eighth floor. Hal Merriweather was perched stiffly beside Elizabeth’s long wooden desk. Standing freeform, he looked like an egg on stilts.
I said, “If it isn’t my man. Hal, this is my attorney, Miss Janet Morrow. Janet, this is the idiot who claims we stole information from the firm.”
The supercilious grin on Hal’s face disappeared. “Janet Morr- Are you stupid, Drummond? What in the hell is she doing here?”
“Don’t let his appearance fool you,” I told Janet. “Hal’s even stupider than he looks.”
She laughed.
Hal’s face turned a nice shade of off-pink. “Watch your mouth, asshole. You want more trouble? Just fuck with me.” Hal’s manners and charm apparently took a turn for the worse when his minders weren’t around.
I laughed. “Janet… save me from this guy… please.”
“Smart people don’t ignore my warnings, Drummond.”
“Smart people ignore you, Hal.”
“Fuck you.”
I said, “Move your ass, errand boy. Your bosses are waiting.”
“We’ll see who’s laughing in an hour, asshole.”
“Every time I see you, I laugh, pal.”
He unlocked the doorway to the stairwell and led us up the stairs to the next floor. I couldn’t resist informing Janet, “No, that’s not the Goodyear blimp, that’s Hal’s ass.”
Hah-hah. Boy, I was hot. I had Hal worked into a nice frothy fury, which was exactly how we wanted him.
We entered the ninth floor hallway, where Hal led us to the big conference room in the center of the floor. He banged open the door and stomped inside. The room was large, thirty by fifty feet or so, expensively furnished with leather-backed chairs around a very long, carved conference table.
Cy, Harold Bronson, and two other gentlemen were seated side by side at the far side of the table, the picture of intimidation. Barry, but a lowly associate, was hunched over in a chair along the wall. Hal tromped over and joined him. They made a lovely pair of matched idiots.
For the benefit of the two other gentlemen, Cy said, “Major Sean Drummond, if you haven’t met him.” He said to me, “Sean, we’ll have to ask your friend to leave. This is a private hearing.”
“Wrong. She’s my attorney… Miss Janet Morrow.”
The other three partners stared inquisitively. Cy squirmed uncomfortably in his seat. I mentioned to Cy, “You were well acquainted with her sister Lisa, weren’t you?”
Given Janet’s unexpected presence, he understood the underlying context.
“She was a friend,” he replied innocuously. I did notice, however, that my comment drew nosy stares from the other partners, who were inevitably aware of Cy’s reputation with the ladies, though apparently not with the particular lady in question.
Of course, the purpose of this little repartee was to dry-fire a warning shot across Cy’s bow that I knew about his affair, a serious breach of professional ethics in the workplace. And regarding his behavior in a session that concerned my professional ethics, he might want to balance my needs with his own. But what’s a little blackmail among friends? Though, actually, we weren’t really friends. And in any regard, what is blackmail to one man is often insurance to another.
Cy recovered his composure and said to Janet, “Miss Morrow, I’m truly sorry about Lisa’s death. We all thought very highly of her. And I… well, I intended to send the family a card expressing my condolences, but things have been very busy.”
Janet nodded coolly. “We look forward to getting it.”
Cy seemed to have gotten the point, so I said, “I’m afraid I haven’t met the other partners.”
One was middle-aged: dark, thinning hair shot with gray, gold-rimmed glasses, and a fleshy, pugnacious, pockmarked face. He looked like a Mafia cutthroat in a gray wool suit. He said, “I’m Marcus Belknap, managing partner at the New York office.”
The other was older, silver-haired, sort of a patrician face, heavy-lidded eyes, probably went to Harvard Law, married a millionaire’s daughter, enjoyed racquetball, fast Porsches, and three-martini lunches. He said, “Harvey Weatherill, Philadelphia office.”
Their names and titles were irrelevant to me; they were outsiders brought in to lend this thing a patina of fairness and balance it clearly did not merit. The outsiders would vote however Cy and Bronson told them to- assuming it got to that stage. The important point was that the other side of the table was stacked with corporate attorneys accustomed to the silky, elbow-rubbing environment of conference rooms and protracted debates over
