'Don't you?'
'No. I think it was all a hoax perpetrated by Falco to hype his research and attract more funding. Researchers do that, you know. Hell, it worked. The Chinese paid him millions to move his research over there.'
'I talked to Falco.'
'You went to China?'
'Yes. I need that name.'
'Falco wouldn't reveal it?'
'No.'
'Did you offer him a donation?'
'Yes.'
'That's Tony. Well, Mr. Smith, I'd take your money and give you the name, but unfortunately for both of us, I don't have the names of Falco's research patients.'
'They're not in the hospital records?'
'No. Falco insisted on absolute privacy for his patients. Only he knew their names.'
'But it's your hospital.'
Dennis snorted. 'That's not how things work, Mr. Smith. Falco brought in hundreds of millions in research grants. Three West was his kingdom.'
'Well, Dennis, I have fifty million dollars to offer you, if you can give me that woman's name.'
'What woman's name?'
'Patient X.'
Dennis sat back and thought about what Mr. Smith knew and what he did not know. Which made him smile. Because what Mr. Smith did not know had just saved Dennis Lott's career.
'Mr. Smith, I have something much more valuable than a woman's name. But it will cost your client one hundred million dollars.'
Larry Smith was sweating profusely. How could he end up here, kneeling on the concrete floor of an abandoned warehouse in Ithaca, New York, with two thugs standing over him and a gun pointed at his head? He had graduated summa cum laude from Yale Law School and had been recruited by prestigious law firms from New York to L.A. Ten years later, he was a partner making $800,000 a year. Sure, that required he handle somewhat sleazy assignments from time to time, but even sleazy clients were entitled to a lawyer, right? Well, if they had enough money.
'What did the nurse tell you?'
'Nothing. I swear.'
'What about Lott? Did he give you her name?'
'I can't tell you that. My God, that's attorney-client privileged information!'
The man named Harmon touched the barrel of the gun to Larry's head.
'This is a Glock 9. It doesn't recognize the attorney-client privilege, Mr. Smith.'
To hell with the privilege.
'In my briefcase.'
'Open it.'
Larry opened the briefcase. 'There.'
The man removed the papers Lott had given Larry and thumbed through them.
'Very good. Is this all he gave you?'
'Yes.'
That was a lie.
'Who else knows this?'
'I can't say.'
'Give me a name.'
Larry tried to think. He had already sent the items he had purchased from Lott to his client by overnight delivery. So he had completed his assignment. If he revealed his client's identity to this creep, and if that got his client killed, his career would be over because his richest client would be dead; on the other hand, if he revealed his client's name and his client survived, his career would still be over-he would have violated the attorney-client privilege and could be disbarred. He would certainly be fired. Either way, it was so long $800,000 salary. So there seemed to be no upside to revealing his client's identity. But his only chance of survival was to give the man a name. So he gave him the name of someone whose life he would readily trade for his own.
'Andy Prescott.'
'Who's Andy Prescott?'
'A lawyer in Austin.' Larry looked up at the man named Harmon. 'Please don't kill me.'
'Motion denied, Mr. Smith.'
ELEVEN
A rich client changes a lawyer's life.
Six weeks to the day after Russell Reeves had walked into his little office above Ramon's tattoo parlor in SoCo, Andy Prescott woke with a mane of blonde hair across his face and a slender arm across his chest-and not his hair or his arm. He smiled, as he often found himself doing these days.
He had closed three deals, billed one hundred fifty hours, and collected $60,000 in legal fees from Russell Reeves. Consequently, he was not waking up that Monday morning in the cheap $600-a-month rent house on Newton Street. (Although he was still renting the house; he wasn't sure why.) He was waking up in a king-sized bed on the top floor of a $3,000-per-month tri-level loft on Fifth Street in downtown Austin. With a girl. A beautiful girl. One of those superficial but incredibly fit Whole Foods girls, like Suzie.
In fact, Suzie.
He propped himself up on his elbow and admired her. She was awesome. Perfect face, perfect body, perfect smell. She didn't snore. She was like a dream, lying there in his bed. He gently touched her bare bottom; she was real. The touch of his skin against hers, especially that particular patch of her skin, felt even better than that day when he had first run his hands over the new Stumpjumper. Suzie stirred and opened those blue eyes.
'I had a great time last night, Andy.'
They had gone to Qua, the trendy lounge with a shark tank in the floor.
'You were right,' Andy said.
'About what?'
'About being an expensive date.'
An $800 date. Only two billable hours.
'But I'm worth it.'
He rolled over on top of her.
'Oh, yeah.'
Andy Prescott was the happiest man on the planet.
The bedroom on the third level had a fabulous view of Lady Bird Lake. The bathroom had granite countertops, a Jacuzzi tub, a two-person, four-jet, walk-in steam shower, and a bidet. The kitchen and living room were on the second level, and the first level was a one-car garage half-sunk into the ground. The place had come fully furnished. All for only seven and a half billable hours per month. The owner was a friend of Tres; he had been temporarily relocated. Andy was renting month-to-month, but who knows-if the owner didn't come back, he might be able to buy the place. Living in a downtown loft was indeed sweet.
An hour later, Suzie was gone and Andy was dressed in a stylish sports coat, a wrinkle-free button-down shirt, a tie that didn't clip on, slacks, and leather shoes and riding the Stumpjumper the two blocks to Whole Foods. He couldn't bring himself to buy a car because of the pollution and high gas prices, but he was wearing new clothes, riding a new trail bike, living in a new place, and dating a new girl. Andy Prescott was a new man. The man he had always dreamed of being.
Thanks to Russell Reeves.
