After a few long moments, he apparently found the right passage and tapped the parchment with a grim expression, then read it out loud. “‘And the prisoner doth further stand accused of intentionally inflicting
Tin Czerwona
on the great guild house of Cabal. Not a single illusion crafter family was spared owing to the prisoner’s careful infecting of the children and elderly at the weakest point of the neck, forcing the healthy to remain exposed to the malady out of duty and familial affection. The council of elders, righteously indignant that those we have sworn to protect were used in such a heinous manner, then laid their judgment on the prisoner. It was adjudged by this august assembly that the prisoner Vegrellion David Peircevil would not be put to death, but would instead be stripped of magic and imprisoned in such place as would contain him for the remainder of his life, or for a minimum of one human lifespan for each guild member lost by the malady he created.’”
Mila’s mind had swirled as she tried to follow the logic here. “So, you think
Vegre
infected Suzanne? For what purpose? And how would he even know who she was, and how did he find her?”
He rose to his knees and leaned back on his heels with a sigh and a shrug. “I wish I knew. But the circumstances bear a striking resemblance, don’t they?”
“Well, yeah. But bubonic plague still exists in some animals, and it’s not a big deal. We’ve got antibiotics now. How would infecting her do him any good? It just doesn’t make sense.”
A double chirp startled her and the image of Tal, shaking his head, disappeared into the flames with the other photos. “Alan’s not here,” she said to whoever was on the intercom. “He’s out until after the first, and so’s his staff.”
Rachel’s voice came out in a terse whisper. “Mila, it’s me. Pick up.”
She walked the rest of the way to the desk and put down the file, and picked up the handset. “I thought we agreed you wouldn’t bother me.” She tried to put some humor in the words, but a little growl came out nonetheless.
The words remained in a whisper and were now slightly muffled, like her hand was over the microphone attached to her headset. “I know. I know. But you really need to take this call.”
“Why are you whispering? What’s wrong?”
She sighed. “I’m whispering because Thomas Harris is standing over by the elevator talking to someone and I’m afraid he’ll hear me.”
That seemed odd. Normally Rachel got along fine with the elderly senior partner. But she didn’t get a chance to ask further, because Rachel kept talking.
“The concierge at the Palace Hotel is on line four. He claims someone accidentally double-booked the lobby for Friday night and they’re bumping our New Year’s party.”
Mila had heard of people feeling their heart stop for a moment after a shock, but she’d never experienced it. She sat down in the chair with a thud, her legs boneless. She’d spent weeks … no,
months,
planning this party. Every detail was perfect, intended to benefit and flatter every possible A-list client of the firm. Sparkling wine from one client’s Australian vineyard, cheese produced by another’s dairy cows. Crackers made from a particular field of wheat and even imported Beluga caviar for an expat Russian fishery owner. It had to be close enough for one of the partners to walk from his Lower Downtown loft, and have elegant enough rooms to house the entire staff of one Greek shipping magnate. Multiple grandfather clocks had to be rented, to chime the new year in each different time zone of the guests. Every delivery had been confirmed. Each agreement hammered out with a
damn the cost
mentality that was so unusual for the firm that she’d had to ask twice to be certain she’d heard right.
She reached for the button so fast she nearly overshot the whole top row. Taking a deep breath and letting it out slow was the only thing that prevented the words from coming out in a tiny squeak. “This is Mila Penkin.”
The caller seemed startled that someone answered. “Oh, um. Yes, Mila. This is Jean-Paul from the Palace. How are you today?”
She looked at her watch again. It was barely 7:15. Why would he be calling at a time that was virtually guaranteed to miss everyone? It turned her voice cagey, yet smooth. “Always wonderful to talk with you, regardless of the
time
, Jean-Paul.”
He made some odd noises that made her wonder if someone was standing over his chair with a gun to his head and she realized he was playing a game of chicken. First one to flinch won.
She let out a little chuckle. “The receptionist made the funniest joke when she buzzed me. She said you were canceling our reservation.” She laughed again brightly. “But I
know
that couldn’t be the case. We’ve had a contract in place for nearly a year. The lobby from eight to ten, the Arizona suite from ten-o-one to midnight and the entire top floor thereafter.”
Jean-Paul cleared his throat nervously. “Well, you see—” he began, but she cut him off by continuing to talk.
“But really, wouldn’t that be silly? I can’t
imagine
what David Pierce would say at your next board meeting about that—not being able to celebrate in his own grandfather’s hotel? Why, he’d be
humiliated.
It could ruin the hotel’s reputation.”
There was a pause, and then his voice dropped to almost a whisper. “Mr.
Pierce
is one of the guests attending?”
“Oh, he was one of the very first invited. It’s why we selected your fine establishment to house the party.” She kept the absolute confidence in her voice, feeling as though she was channeling Lillian—even though who would attend among the invited was far from certain.
“Could you excuse me a moment?” She smiled as she heard his handset being covered and then snatches of a terse, whispered conversation where Jean-Paul’s voice lost much of its usual polish. He sounded downright snippy. “No, absolutely not … didn’t you
hear
her? David
Pierce …
I don’t
care …
what about the Long’s Peak Room? Didn’t that group from … canceled? No! Levi, that’s
enough
. No more. We’ll talk about this later.”
Another pause and Jean-Paul was back, his voice once again the epitome of refinement and helpful courtesy. “Thank you so much for waiting. No, Mila. I merely wanted to call to let you know the strawberries you ordered had arrived. They’re still a little green though. They
might
be ripe by Friday, but I wondered if you would prefer our chef find some fresher ones?” He laughed, light but forced. “Cancel your reservations? I can’t imagine where your receptionist got that idea.”
Another careful chuckle. “Oh, I’m sure she just hasn’t had her coffee yet. I really appreciate knowing about the strawberries, though.
You
understand how very important this function is to our firm, and
I
really appreciate that. I’ll be certain to let Mr. Pierce know how helpful you’ve been. Tell you what. Let’s see how they look on Thursday morning. I’ll make a note on my calendar to give you a call. We do want everything to be just perfect after all.” God, her voice sounded so sweet it was making her teeth hurt!
He sounded like he was having a similar attack of sweet tooth—itis. “Of course.”I’m so glad we worked this out. Thank you again for your patronage of the Palace, Mila. I’m sure it will be a very special event.”
“Absolutely, Jean-Paul. Thanks for calling.” She hung up the phone, immediately planning ways to make
very
certain that was the case. With one press of the button, she powered on Alan’s computer and crossed her fingers while it booted and found the server. She would have crossed her toes if she wasn’t too afraid she’d start a fire or a flood with one of them. “Saints be praised! Houston, we have a network,” she called out to nobody in particular. But it merited a chuckle from someone walking down the hallway outside. She became aware of life coming to the office—lights flickering on over cubicles, the scent of coffee brewing, and voices. Not many voices, but probably all that would be coming in today. She immediately logged off from Alan’s account and entered in her own code. Soon she was back in her familiar work folders, scanning down the orderly list on her way to the Johnson subfolder. While she had every intention of typing her own motion first, she was a little worried about the brief still
being
there. So far, Bob the temp hadn’t put in a sterling performance and since that was the sole reason he was brought in—
But it was safe, and she suddenly realized why. She hadn’t really thought about it when she logged into her named network folder, but she’d entered a password. It was an additional level of security that she’d had installed by the techies when the network was first loaded. They’d agreed because her attorney, Rick Myers, was responsible for the firm’s personnel files.
Bet he was digging through my desk looking for it when he ripped the drawer off. I really should tell someone what my password is one of these days.
She set about transcribing the tape, putting the replay on the slowest possible setting. Even so, she had to type her fastest to keep up, and occasionally had to stop the tape and back it up to understand the wording. Mike had been right. It was only a couple of pages and when she finished, she saved it both to her folder and to Mike’s, so whoever he found to finish it up, could. She quickly went upstairs to deliver it and return the machine. Mike was away from his desk, so she left it on the half-wall, promising herself she’d check back with him before she left so he didn’t forget to sign it.
Then it was back down to Alan’s office to start on the brief edits. Normally, she’d just make them and be done, but they were extensive enough that she was worried. Some of the passages the associate removed changed the whole context of the argument for the new trial.
If it’s signed and sent in like this, it’ll be denied.
She just knew it, and Rick would be furious. They might even lose the client. She sat there, fingers tapping lightly on the keys, trying to decide what to do.
“There’s only one choice,” she said to the empty room. While she hated going over the associate’s head, she didn’t really work for
him
. Picking up the phone, she dialed a number she knew by heart.
“Hello?” She immediately recognized the six-year-old girl’s voice and as always, it was happy, full of recent laughter.
“Hi, Meagan. This is Mila. Could I talk to your dad?”
She had to pull the phone away from her ear as the receiver was dropped on the table with a clatter and Meagan yelled into the distance. “Daddy! Telephone!” Then the girl picked the receiver back up and started talking in a flurry of words. “He’s upstairs but I think he heard me. Did you have a good Christmas, Mila? I did. Got a new dolly, and a pretty new dress—red velvet with lots of lace.” Mila opened her mouth to reply, but there was no stopping the girl. “And I got a game, too! Have you ever played Trouble, Mila? I like the popper thing. Mommy won the first game but I won the second one!”
“That’s great, Meagan, but—”
She heard a click and then her boss’s voice broke in. “I’ve got it, Meg. You can hang up now.”
“’Kay, Daddy. Bye, Mila.” She put the phone down, but it must have been a portable unit, and she forgot to switch it off from the background noise of multiple children yelling and laughing that continued.
Rick sighed. “I’m going to have to train that girl better. What’s up, Mila? I’ve got a houseful, so keep it short.”
Mila nodded. “Just one quick question. I’m working on the edits that Robin made to the Johnson brief. I normally don’t question stuff like this, but he pulled out paragraph six … the whole thing, about the judge’s conflict of interest. Is that okay?”
Rick let out a swear that was loud enough for someone downstairs to notice the phone was on. There was a click and then the only voice was the one that was continuing to spout obscenities. “No. That’s
not
okay. Are you done with the edits? Read me what changes he made.”
She did, and could almost see his reaction in her mind. “What in the hell was he thinking? Damn it. I’m really glad you caught that. Someone else might have let this go in and we’d be screwed. Okay, let me find a quiet place somewhere and I’ll dictate some changes.”
She heard muffled scratching and a door opening as she turned on the speaker so she didn’t have to bend her neck into an odd position to be able to type.
She nearly laughed when she heard a door shut and an odd echo come over the line. The only place that happened was in the bathroom. But she thought it better not to comment. The conversation was reduced to snippets: “Weren’t, not wasn’t,” “Wouldn’t you rather say
we believe
that he had, rather than
he had?
” and “Put six back in, renumber, then read it again.” It wasn’t the first time she’d written entire papers this way, and it worked because both minds were working in unison. Ultimately, the changes Rick made put the motion back to nearly the same wording as it started.
But typing the defendant’s name over and over reminded her that Rick hadn’t been in for a few days. “Did you see that bit in the paper about Johnson?” She tried to keep the worried tone from her voice.