Hailey buzzed me on the intercom. “That was the attorney for Benton Dynamics on the phone. E.J. Nielsen wants to meet you right away.”
Opposing counsel apparently wanted an impromptu chat about the case. Rubbing my temple, I said, “Put him through.”
“Sorry, he’s not on anymore.”
“Okay, got his number?”
Hailey said, “He wouldn’t give it to me. Blocked on caller ID.”
“Let me have the number for the legal department at Benton.”
“He’s not there. He’s at the driving range at Willow Branch Golf Course. Said to meet him there, if you can. Then he hung up.”
Slowly exhaling, I said, “Nice guy. I’ll be out in a sec.”
Back at Hailey’s workstation, I handed her the new article about the Remora Shadow for Marisa’s file. “A driving range? Seriously? Guess I can go, but what do you make about him not leaving a cell number?”
Hailey frowned and shrugged. “Don’t know, but he seemed pretty dismissive of a paralegal like me.”
“Typical, and sorry to hear that. Well, it’s almost quitting time. I won’t be back before you leave, so make sure you shut everything down and lock up before you head home.”
“All right. Always do,” Hailey replied as she slid open a desk drawer. “It’s been a long Monday, and we’re done with clients. My feet are killing me.” She crossed her long legs, slid off her high heels, and put on comfortable shoes. For some reason, I thought about Sheriff Tompkins on the shoreline the night her team pulled the body of Richard Kostas from the bay. I had no idea why.
“See ya tomorrow, Bryce.”
“G’night, Hailey.”
The drive to Willow Branch Golf Course took no more than twenty minutes along the rural backroads of the Eastern Shore. The engine of my Barracuda purred as I pulled into the mostly empty parking lot. The huge clubhouse was a gleaming white colonial with ionic columns, black trim, and bluestone walkways. The October chill had not dulled the green fairways dotted with pale sand traps. Long stringy branches of willow trees drooped like jellyfish tentacles. The sun dipped toward the western horizon, leaving only about half an hour of light before darkness seeped across Chester County.
Willow Branch was more than just a golf course. Members and guests could enjoy spa treatments, tennis, and a swimming pool. The annual fees of the country club kept the local farmers and fishermen away. Elites from the Baltimore-Washington corridor would cross the Bay Bridge for relaxing weekends of idle luxury here, but today was Monday. The links were empty this cold afternoon.
As I walked purposefully into the clubhouse, no staff was around to ask me for a country club card, which of course I did not have. Wearing a tie and blazer helped me look at home in this atmosphere of privilege and exclusion, although from the moment I entered the complex, I knew I did not belong here. E.J. Nielsen, however, would fit in perfectly.
Smoky glass windows offered a glimpse into a restaurant with white tablecloths, glowing candles, and wineglasses already in place. The aroma of an Italian buffet in chafing dishes drifted into the hallway. The tables were vacant. A few sour-faced preppies and some old-money snobs populated the bar along the back wall. They were throwing back liquor and watching golf tournaments on multiple television screens. No one was eating. Perhaps the stock market took a nose-dive today, and the bear market squashed their appetites.
Exiting the clubhouse, I heard the swoosh of a club and the crack of the ball. A red awning covered the driving range to my right. A lone person hit balls into the field. E.J. Nielsen teed up and launched a shot as I approached.
“Afternoon, E.J.,” I said to announce my arrival.
He looked up, more surprised than startled, as if I had broken his deep concentration on his swing. “Oh, hey, Bryce. Great. You made it. Except you’re emptyhanded. I was hoping you’d have golf clubs in one hand, and my client’s flash drive in the other.”
“Sorry. Just me.”
E.J. straightened his woolen argyle sweater and gave me his toothy, self-confident smile. “Grab a bucket of balls, on me. I’ll lend you a driver.”
My golf experience was limited to putting the ball around windmills and concrete dragons on mini-golf courses as a kid, but there was no way I would admit that. “No, that’s all right. It’s almost dark.”
“Suit yourself.” E.J. set up another ball, raised his club above his shoulder, and swung with sudden ferocity. The ball arced over the open field and landed past the one hundred fifty yard sign. “So Ms. Dupree has had all weekend to stew over this case. Where are we, Bryce? Are we going to work out a settlement or slug it out in court on Wednesday?”
“I want to settle, E.J. I really do, but she doesn’t have the missing files. We need to figure this out without the flash drive. She’ll come in and tell your client what she knows, but that’s about as far as I can go.”
E.J. set another ball on the tee. “And you actually believe her?”
I nodded, perhaps trying to convince even myself.
He said, “Benton has got to have the flash drive, that KEL drive. I assume my client still has all its proprietary data, though I haven’t seen it. They’re secretive about intellectual property, even with outside counsel like me, but the flash drive is the only way. They need to know exactly what she took and who accessed it.”
“She’ll sit for an interview and let the cybersecurity team scan her devices and home computer. Come on, let’s settle this.”
“I’d like to, but Benton was clear. That KEL drive is mandatory. Besides, they’ve got no reason to believe a thing your client says. I guess we’re going to have a hearing.”
“Suppose so,” I replied, trying not to sound already defeated. “Wish there was some other way.”
“Bryce, the evidence has Marisa Dupree
