32
MICHAEL DENSMORE stepped out of his office carrying his briefcase. It was late—after ten o’clock—but he wore his suit coat with the middle button closed and his tie straight. He was disciplined about the way he presented himself, even when he was only taking the elevator down to the parking level where his car waited in its reserved space. Over the years, he had found that even if the only person he met on the way was a young secretary working late or a janitor on the night cleaning crew, his appearance gave him an advantage. His look made it clear that he was the boss, not just because he had good clothes, but because his standards were not a facade that he let down at five o’clock. When he was in his private office making telephone calls or reading legal files, he always hung his coat on a proper wooden hanger behind the door—or at least a chair—so it would not wrinkle, but he put it on before he gave his secretary permission to admit anyone he didn’t know well. There was a padded hanger downstairs in the Mercedes that matched the interior of the car. He would use it to hang the coat behind him in the back seat while he drove.
He was a successful, wealthy man, and he wanted to look like one. He had been prosperous since he had become a partner in Dolan, Nyquist and Berne. He had saved money, and also, by degrees, broadened his offering of services, so his income had continued to grow. He had begun as a straight criminal-defense attorney specializing in white-collar crime. Then clients began to pay him for acting as negotiator or consultant in a few delicate business deals that needed legal adjustments to remain viable. A few times, it had meant drawing up papers for a limited partnership that did not list one of the partners because his name might attract the wrong kind of attention. There were a few deals in which getting the necessary permits and licenses had been expedited by his personal assurances and a few envelopes full of hundred-dollar bills. After that, he’d begun to arrange introductions, putting together people who had projects with people who had money to invest. Soon he was forming pools of investors who couldn’t explain where their dollars had come from, and wanted profits without having their names written down. Now he earned more money making these arrangements for clients than defending them in court.
Densmore was largely satisfied with his public self, but there were still certain parts of his private life that shocked and disappointed him. He was approaching the end of his fourth marriage, and that period was always a depressing and dispiriting time. Lawyers learned a great deal about unpleasant corners of the human psyche, but there was nothing like divorce to complete their education.
Being divorce-prone was like having a bee-sting allergy. The first couple of breakups had hurt a little. The third had been severely painful because he’d had so much more to lose, and he had gone into shock. He didn’t know how he was going to get through the fourth.
Densmore had met his current wife, Grace, five years ago, just as his third marriage had entered its guerrilla-warfare phase. His third wife, Chris, had begun sneaking around, looking at receipts and financial records. She had begun paying attorneys and private detectives to look into the size and shape of his fortune in preparation for her all-out attack.
Grace appeared in front of his eyes when he arrived at a charity event for arthritis at the Beverly Hills Hotel, and suddenly the divorce became urgent. Within a month, he had begun trying to expedite his divorce from Chris. He agreed to give in to some of her ridiculous demands just so he could get the process over, but appeasement was a foolish strategy. Chris and her lawyers became more greedy and inquisitive about what he was hiding. After a few months, their prying and spying alarmed a couple of Densmore’s most difficult clients.
Densmore went to the house to meet with Chris, who had by then learned he was spending every night at the Peninsula Hotel with Grace and had stopped speaking to him. When he arrived, he listened tolerantly to a long, irrelevant diatribe about what a bad husband he had been. Then he approached his problem carefully and delicately. “As you know, I am an attorney specializing in the defense of people who are charged with criminal infractions. Many of these clients are innocent. Others have, at some point or other, made serious mistakes, and I must guide them in their dealings with the legal system. My arrangements with them are, by law, privileged and confidential. Your snooping into my professional affairs in search of hidden money is upsetting some very important clients.”
“You know what, Michael? I find that I no longer give a shit about your problems. My detectives have already found four or five accounts that you absentmindedly forgot to mention in your settlement papers. My lawyers tell me I could get you in big trouble.”
“If your people think they’ve found anything like that, they’re mistaken,” he retorted. “Accounts that don’t belong to me sometimes have my name on them because I have power of attorney, or I’m holding funds in escrow. I don’t own them.”
“Bullshit!”
“Look, Chris. I’ve never talked to you about the details of my law practice, so you’ll have to trust me. If I lose these clients, it will cut into the value of my practice and the value of my personal assets. That means I will lose half and
“Trust you?” Her expression was unspeakable, a mixture of revulsion and ugliness. “I trusted you not to humiliate me.”
When he saw that expression, he almost lost hope, but he didn’t dare to give up. “I haven’t humiliated you, Chris. If it takes a goddamned detective to find out about it, then I’m being discreet.”
“Not discreet enough, I can tell you.”
“Chris, the reason I came here is that several clients in question are upset. In addition, any one of them is capable of being paranoid, angry and defensive about being investigated. Any one of them could react in very scary ways.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Are you threatening me?”
“No, I’m not, Chris,
“This discussion is over.” She stood up, turned, and stomped off into the bedroom. When he followed her, he discovered that it had been fitted with a deadbolt.
Two days later, Chris’s lawyer, Alvin Holstein, was found dead. His office had been gutted. Files, computers, disks, tapes, and even scratch pads had been loaded into a truck during the night and carted away. Pieces of the private detective Chris had hired were found over the course of a week along Interstate 15 between Barstow and Baker.
Chris became hysterical. She threatened to tell the police that Densmore had arranged for one of his clients to kill her lawyer and detective, but he pointed out to her that his legal defense would likely cost most of their joint assets.
He got out of the elevator on level B-1 and walked toward his reserved parking space. He was thinking about Grace now. She was his present wife, and she would be more difficult than Chris had been. Her smoldering hostility had not reached the explosive stage, but he could see that the time was coming. He had much more money now, and she knew it.
He felt the hands on him before he saw anything. He tried to turn to face the man, but the grip prevented him. Then Sylvie Turner stepped from behind a tall SUV parked in front of him and pulled her right hand out of her jacket pocket just far enough to show him the gun.
He smiled at her in relief, even though the grip on his arm was painful. “Sylvie. How are you?”
“You need to come with us.”
“I’ve been trying to get in touch with you two.”
“Get in the car.” This time it was Paul. He was already pushing Densmore toward the rear of the SUV.
Densmore said, “Good idea,” but he was sweating and his eyes were darting around above his smile because he couldn’t keep them on any one object. He could see that the windows were tinted and the license plate had a plastic cover that was nearly opaque. People like the Turners used covers like that to make the plates unreadable on surveillance tapes. He had to keep talking, keep it friendly. “I like to be inside a car and moving when I have a personal discussion.”
He heard the lock button pop up and he opened the door behind the driver’s seat. Paul didn’t move away. He stayed right behind Densmore as he stepped up and sat on the back seat, then climbed in after him.
Sylvie got in the front and drove. The vehicle was moving before Densmore noticed the empty place on the door panel where the handle had been. They had made sure he couldn’t open the door from the inside. He said, “It’s
