Andy's rich boss. He sat back. Okay, this was all a bit weird-Andy gave it a seven on the Weird-Shit-O- Meter-of-Life-but then, his mother always said, 'Rich people are different than you and me.' And Dave said he had read about a black rapper who took a bubble bath every day and an Irish movie star who coated himself in honey then took a steam bath-and female stars who did regular body cleanses to stay skinny. Heck, compared to that, Russell Reeves wanting to find a few old girlfriends seemed almost normal. Almost. Andy realized his boss was staring at him.
'Something bothering you, Andy?'
Something was.
'Russell, can I ask you something?'
'Sure, Andy. What?'
'Is there more to this than you're telling me?'
Russell considered him a moment, then stood and walked to the window. He looked out a while before speaking.
'Andy, do you read the obituaries?'
'No. Do you?'
'Every day.'
'Why?'
'Because of my son. You know about him?'
'Just what I've read in the paper.'
'He's a great kid. And brave. He's dying, but he faces each day with a smile.' He paused. 'I killed my own son, Andy.'
'Killed your son? How?'
'I'm a carrier.'
'Of what?'
'A mutated gene-a cancer gene. I gave it to Zach.'
'Russell, it's not your fault. You didn't know you had the gene-did you?'
'No. But that doesn't change the fact that Zach is dying because of me. That I sentenced him to death.'
'Your scientists… they can't save him?'
'No, Andy, they can't. My only son is going to die.'
Jesus. Andy felt like an absolute jerk. In the six weeks since Russell Reeves had hired him, he had not once thought about his client's personal pain-his only son was dying. Andy had never thought of his client beyond the fees he had paid and the fees he would pay. Russell Reeves had given his lawyer Suzie and the Stumpjumper, the loft and lounges, standing in Muny Court and at Whole Foods. Andy had not given his client a second thought. He had looked upon Russell Reeves solely as a source of income. Andy Prescott had become a bona fide lawyer.
'I'm sorry, Russell.'
He thought his client might cry, but Russell caught himself.
'I'm sorry for you, too, Andy. For your father.'
'You know about him?'
Russell nodded. 'I listen to his CDs in the limo. He's good. Should've been a big star.'
Now Andy thought he might cry.
'He never got his big break.'
Attorney and client regarded each other. They shared a common fate. Russell blew out a breath.
'So I read about dead people. About their lives. What they did, who they loved, who loved them. It's made me think about my own life… what I've done, who I've loved, who loved me. How I've treated other people in my life. I want to make things right… with my son, with these women, with my life… before I…'
His client looked as if all the strength had left him. He turned to his lawyer.
'Andy, will you help me?'
'Yes, Russell. I'll help you.'
'Thanks.'
Russell Reeves walked to the door, but turned back.
'Andy, my secrets are safe with you, right?'
Andy nodded. 'I'm your lawyer.'
TWELVE
Lawyers keep secrets. Their clients' secrets. It's called the attorney-client privilege. You learn about the privilege in your first year of law school. By your third year, without ever making a conscious decision, you have accepted the argument as truth: that everything a lawyer learns about a client must remain secret. It is your legal duty.
Andy Prescott was Russell Reeves' lawyer.
He read the first name on the list: Sue Todd. Her last known address was in Houston. Andy pulled out his cell phone and called long-distance information in the Houston area code. He asked for Sue Todd's number and gave the operator her address; the operator said no Sue Todd was listed at that address. He hung up.
How do you find someone?
Hollis McCloskey's private investigation firm maintained offices in the Frost Bank Tower at Fourth and Congress in downtown. When McCloskey strode into the reception area that same afternoon, Andy felt as if he should assume the position-lean into the wall, hands above his head, feet back and spread-so McCloskey could frisk him.
The guy was intimidating.
He looked every bit the ex-FBI agent: mid-fifties, broad-shouldered, square-jawed, sharp suit, and shiny shoes. His hair was blow-dried perfection with streaks of gray on the sides. He even smelled like a cop; Brut aftershave, Andy figured. McCloskey stuck a big hand out, and they shook.
'Hollis McCloskey. What can I do for you?'
'I'm Andy Prescott. I need to find seventeen people.'
'We don't find people, Andy,' McCloskey said. 'We ferret out corporate malfeasance.'
Malfeasance? Andy vaguely recalled that word from law school.
'Mr. McCloskey, what's your standard rate?'
'Two hundred an hour.'
'I'll pay you four hundred.'
McCloskey sized up Andy, then said, 'Let's talk in my office.'
Andy followed Agent McCloskey down a corridor to an expansive corner office with a grand view of the capitol and the UT tower. Diplomas and FBI certificates covered the walls, along with photographs of McCloskey with politicians Andy recognized and even a president. Handguns sat encased in glass boxes on shelves. Mounted on the wall was a Tommy gun like FBI Special Agent Elliot Ness carried in that movie, The Untouchables.
'Sit down.'
It sounded like an order; Andy obeyed.
'So you're a lawyer?'
'Yes. You were highly recommended by one of your clients.'
'Who?'
'Confidential.'
McCloskey folded his arms across his broad chest.
'Your client wants to locate seventeen people?'
'Women. ASAP.'
'That would require overtime.'
'I'll pay five hundred an hour, twenty-four/seven.'
Andy felt like a politician, spending other people's money freely and without concern.
'Why do you want to find these women?'
