“Don’t give me that confidence act. How?”
“Might be that I have a few things I haven’t told you about. Things I won’t tell you about because I’m not an idiot and I don’t want to be cut out of the money.”
They spent a moment ignoring each other. Wallerman was letting his offer and terms sink in. Morgan was wondering if this thing was the real deal, or was Wallerman only a blowhard trying to lie and finagle his way to a big payday. But he had brought up Edith without prompting and he certainly seemed to know what he was talking about. And unlike Charles, Lew Wallerman had gone to no trouble to conceal his real identity or cover his tracks. If he screwed Morgan, TFAC could and would find him. The punishment would be severe. In this business, this was the definition of an insurance policy.
“What if it doesn’t work?” asked Morgan.
“Then I only get half. Up-front of course. If it succeeds, and it will, fork over the other million.”
“Let me make a call,” Morgan said. He got up, walked outside to the sidewalk, and, using his cell, called Martie O’Neal at headquarters.
As Morgan expected, the two million price tag prompted a long string of foul curses, but eventually the curses lapsed into quiet gags and groans, then Martie got over the sticker shock and the talk turned serious. Sure, it was a lot of dough. But after all these months of looking they still had nothing. Charles had given them a promising lead, but the son of a bitch had been too smart to allow the conversation to be taped. It was all hearsay from an anonymous source. Legally speaking, it was worthless.
Mitch Walters was now all over O’Neal’s ass. Walters was tired of empty promises, tired of lame excuses, tired of false leads that turned into disappointing dead ends, tired of throwing good money after bad. Worse, he was growing tired of TFAC. He was threatening to take his business elsewhere.
The two million wasn’t really an issue. A drop in the bucket for CG. Yes, Walters would approve it, O’Neal was sure. Oh, he’d bitch and curse up a storm, call O’Neal an array of filthy names, and unload a fresh vow to take his business elsewhere. But he’d pay.
With a cool billion at stake, Walters would pay any amount at this point.
The guard briefly gawked at the badge, then waved her by. After she passed and stepped into an empty elevator, once he knew she wasn’t looking, he grabbed the phone and punched the hotline. “A DCIS agent just came in,” he said into the phone.
“Headed where?” the shift boss asked.
“Upstairs. She just got in the elevator.”
“What floor, moron?”
He jumped out of his seat and made a mad dash to the elevator bank, in time to see it stop on the number 6, then he raced back to the phone. “Sixth floor,” he said, breathing heavily.
“Describe her.”
“Nice, red dress and short heels. Brunette, medium height, fine-looking… hot, actually.”
By the time Mia Jenson stepped off onto the sixth floor and spent a long moment waiting for the receptionist of the LBO section to get off her phone and pay attention to the shield jammed in her face, a lawyer from CG’s legal counsel’s office and a large uniformed guard were already standing behind her.
“What can we do to help you?” the lawyer asked. He was young and handsome in his superbly tailored, dandy dark suit; he carried himself like he knew it.
Mia turned around. Her smile was forced and stingy. “Agent Jenson, DCIS.” She held up her shield and allowed him a moment to examine it. “I’m here to meet with some of your people in the LBO section.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
“I don’t need one.” She waved the shield in front of his face.
“To meet with them about what?”
“To ask a few questions about the polymer.”
“You’re on the wrong floor, then. If it’s another complaint about the production in Iraq you need to talk to our business partnership group. Second floor.”
He took her arm to guide her to the elevator, but Mia forcefully plucked his hands off. “Touch me again without my permission, and I’ll slap your ass in cuffs.”
The hands dropped, and the lawyer took a fast step backward and reassessed the situation. The lady was young, beautiful, and definitely vicious.
“I choose who I want to speak with,” she said coldly. “What’s your name?” she asked with a notable edge.
“Thomas Warrington, from legal counsel. You’ll have to explain why you want to talk to our people.”
“Well, a moment ago, it was a friendly visit to ask about some of our contracting people. Why, do you have something to hide, Mr. Warrington?”
“No. Absolutely not.”
“Because if I suspect you do,” Mia threatened, as if he hadn’t said anything, “I’ll return with a subpoena and a few of my more curious associates and turn your company upside down.”
Warrington looked at her; from his expression he didn’t know what to do, how to handle this snarling lady with a shield. Did she mean it? Could she get a subpoena? He had already painfully underestimated her once; he wasn’t about to make the same mistake twice.
“Drop the ugly threats, Agent Jenson. We’re very open around here. I’ll accompany you if you don’t mind.” He tried out his best smile.
“And if I do?” She wasn’t smiling back.
“I’ll still accompany you.”
“Suit yourself. Who in your LBO section handled the takeover of Arvan Chemicals?”
The lawyer was unfamiliar with the details of the Arvan deal but wasn’t about to admit it. Not to her anyway. The receptionist and guard were staring at him, trying to suppress their amusement; he could feel the blood rushing to his face. “I’ll tell you when we get there.” He started to grab her arm, but quickly remembered what happened last time. The hand dropped to his side as if he had just touched a flame.
“Follow me,” he mumbled.
His first stop was the office of Samuel Parner, head of the LBO section. He ordered Mia to wait in the anteroom while he slipped into Parner’s office for a quiet, confidential chat.
What does she want? Parner whispered as if she might have her ear pressed against his door. She was vague but mentioned something about some contracting people in the Pentagon, and now the Arvan takeover, but that doesn’t make sense, does it? the lawyer answered. Nope, not if she wants to gab about the Arvan deal, so I’d better handle her myself, Parner insisted. Do we have anything to worry about? the lawyer asked. Not a thing, absolutely not, Parner assured him with a confident grin.
Don’t let the good looks fool you, the lawyer warned him; my balls are rolling around the floor by your receptionist’s desk.
Warrington stepped out and ushered Mia into the office. With a show of affected calmness, he offered her a seat. She fell into the rotating chair across from Parner’s big desk and carefully crossed her legs. Parner stayed in his chair, feet planted on the desk, and studied her with a pugnacious smirk. If she wanted to play macho games, she had come to the right place, the right guy. No introductions were offered, no handshakes extended. The lawyer moved to a corner, where he stood stiffly and tried his best to look threatening.
“What’s this about?” Parner demanded forcefully, switching his expression to a deep scowl.
“I’ll ask the questions,” Mia answered, not the least bit friendly or intimidated.
“Then I may not answer,” Parner shot back. He was not about to be pushed around by some pip squeak with a shield, no matter how great her legs-and they were indeed perfect, far as he could tell.
The lawyer quietly nodded his approval at Parner-that’s it, this is your turf, your office, and your rules, his nod said.
For a moment Mia said nothing. She also turned her eyes to the lawyer in the corner and, speaking at Parner, asked, “Did I read you your Miranda warning?”
“Not that I remember.”
“Because if I had,” she continued in a cool professional tone, “you would have the right to be silent, the right to have a lawyer present, and I have the right to use anything you say against you in a court of law.”
“I watch television. I know my rights.”
