Move to Strike (42 page)

‘Shit,' said Joe. ‘Monday the thirteenth is twelve days away.' And then David saw Joe's eyes light up with a new sense of realisation. ‘That means right in the middle of the trial you will be . . . How does Sara feel about all this?'

‘We argued,' said David. ‘Yesterday, after I told her. But she came around last night, said she would do everything she could to help, from home – until the baby comes. It's just that Logan gets under her skin and . . .'

‘She has every right to be scared of him, David – and maybe you should take a leaf out of her book. You don't have to do this, you know. There are other lawyers, who will have more than enough grounds to have the case postponed.'

‘No, Joe. Stephanie asked for me. She cried out for help in that video, she sent that newspaper clipping and brochure to tip us off.' Joe had called Arthur while David was AWOL yesterday – confirming the fingerprints on the Chatham brochure belonged to Stephanie.

‘And maybe there was more. Maybe there were other clues that I still haven't picked up on, messages she left that I'm not smart enough to see.'

Then Joe did something David did not expect. He picked up the second magazine, the one with what looked to be a picture of a young Julia Roberts on the cover, before sliding that towards him as well.

‘
Vanity Fair
, October 1993 – Stephanie was reading it when she died. Not this copy, of course. That blood-covered piece of evidence is under lock and key at headquarters. I had this one couriered from Condé Nast late yesterday after Katherine de Castro made her call.'

‘De Castro?' said David. ‘I don't understand.'

‘De Castro is showing some signs of coming around,' said Joe, ‘. . . which could play to your advantage. But before I get to that, flip to the middle – the page where I bent back the corner.'

David did as his detective friend asked, landing on an article by the renowned celebrity columnist Dominick Dunne. It was a story on Sunny von Bülow – the mega-wealthy socialite who fell into a mysterious coma back in 1980.

‘The magazine was open at that page when Stephanie was shot,' said Joe, and immediately David knew that Stephanie had been calling for his help once again.

‘Sunny von Bülow's husband Claus was accused of attempting to murder her,' said David, the pieces falling into place. ‘They arrested him for allegedly poisoning her with insulin. But he got off on appeal and inherited her millions and he . . .'

‘Still roams free today,' said Joe.

David said nothing, until: ‘She was telling me her husband was her killer, Joe. I have to find a way to do this.'

‘I know. But if you go down this road, David, you have to remember something else that Stephanie has taught you – about what happens when you take on the enemy, when you climb way out on that limb.'

‘And what is that?' asked David, not sure he really wanted to know.

‘That everything comes at a price, my friend. Everything.'

‘I
'm sorry I'm late,' said Katherine de Castro as she took a seat across from Jeffrey Logan. Jeffrey had called late the night before and left a message on her home voice mail saying that he wanted to meet her for breakfast at the upmarket Fairmont Copley Plaza Hotel at eight to discuss their lucrative new network deal and the equally as substantial syndication deals that would follow. And despite her reservations – hell, her downright anxiety – at accepting such an invitation, Katherine knew there was no way she could not, for she was still Jeffrey's business partner and these new deals, negotiated under such highly unusual circumstances, were nothing short of miraculous.

‘Don't apologise,' said Jeffrey. ‘Although, I have to admit, given we missed each other at the studio yesterday, I feared you were, you know, a little embarrassed by my recent gift and as such perhaps a trace uncomfortable about meeting me here this morning.' He smiled.

‘Uncomfortable?' she said, wiggling in her seat. ‘Of course not, Jeffrey. We have known each other for close to half of our lives. But I must say, in regards to the gift, I don't think I can . . .'

‘Nonsense,' he said, waving his hand in protest. ‘You deserve it, Katherine.'

And Katherine found herself wondering if a Cartier diamond bracelet
was what most executives gave their business partners as thank you gifts.

‘Jeffrey,' she said, ‘honestly, it is too much. Your money – it should be going towards your children's defence.'

‘I told you, Katherine,' he lowered his voice a little. ‘We have decided to plea.'

‘For their ongoing care then.'

‘Sadly or not, Katherine, the good US taxpayers are up for that hefty bill.'

Katherine sat back in her seat, unsure as to how to take this last comment.

‘Look,' said Jeffrey, perhaps reading her confusion, ‘you know how much I love my kids, but truth be told, they did plan and carry out the murder of my wife. They are sick, Katherine – terribly, terribly sick. And I fear that unless they are incarcerated they might try something like this again.'

‘You think your kids would turn on you?' she asked in shock.

‘No, no, of course not. But those years of abuse, they had to take their toll in some fashion. They are disturbed, Katherine – deeply, deeply disturbed, and until they learn to deal with their feelings I would suggest it is better for all concerned that they are securely removed from the general public – for their own sakes.'

And for yours
. The thought stole into Katherine's brain.

‘Besides.' He smiled, before leaning across the table. ‘Money is not an object. Stephanie's share in Rockwell Wineries has finally been transferred to me. So I have more than enough – to help my children, and show my gratitude and . . . devotion to you.'

‘Jeffrey, I . . .' she began, the bile now rising in her throat.

‘No,' he interrupted, taking her hand and squeezing it. ‘I am embarrassed to say, Katherine, that this is more than just a little hard for me.
Me
,' he lifted his other arm to his chest in a dramatic gesture of irony, ‘. . . Doctor Jeff, relationships expert extraordinaire.' He smiled again.

‘But if you will indulge me, if you will deign to hear me out, I think I can finally voice what I desperately need to say.'

Jeffrey met her eye, and Katherine felt herself shudder, and then Jeffrey smiled – either in delight at her physical reaction, or perhaps, at the power he had to unsettle her.

‘For many years, Katherine, I lived in a house filled with fear and trepidation. My entire existence was devoted to protecting my children, my every thought was of how I might negotiate the minefield that was life with a woman filled with anger and frustration and rage. And, rightly or wrongly, I forgot what it was like to feel the simple comforts that come from an affinity with someone with a good and generous heart.

‘It has been so long,' he said, waving away an approaching waiter so that he might finish what he had started, ‘that I have allowed myself to relax.'

Katherine wondered how in the hell that was possible given his two teenage children were currently facing life sentences for murder.

‘But, now that Stephanie is gone, I realise that I feel – perhaps
have
felt for a very long time – an attraction to you, Katherine – to your kindness, your intelligence, and, in all truthfulness, your beauty as a strong and vibrant woman.'

Katherine felt her stomach turn.

‘I want our relationship to change, Katherine,' he said, caressing her fingers then. ‘I want it to grow. I want you to know that now that I have secured the inheritance, now that
I
have consolidated these deals . . .' and sadly, that part was true, Jeffrey had negotiated the latest broadcast contracts with little assistance from her – largely because he had not made her aware of the meetings or telephone conversations that had been conducted in the course of such negotiations, ‘. . . that you never have to worry about financial security for the rest of your life. I can look after you, Katherine. I
want
to look after you.'

‘Jeffrey,' she said, pulling her hand away. She was starting to panic – half of her wanting to run, the other half terrified of what such a reaction would trigger. ‘This is so very . . . unexpected. We have a working relationship, a good one, and I am not sure if you are perhaps confusing my recent support – of you, of your children – for something else.' It was the best she could manage.

‘Nonsense,' said Logan. ‘Of course I have appreciated your support but this is not about Chelsea or J.T. We have an opportunity here, Katherine, to start a new and wonderful life alone.'

Alone
.‘

And, call me old-fashioned, but I want the woman in my life to be
able to relax, to fulfil the passions she has not had the time to explore because of the rigorous nature of her work. Which is all my fault, by the way – the hours you have been working. You have built me up to become an all-American phenomenon, Katherine, and supporting you – giving you some freedom – is the very least I can do in return.'

And then, just as Katherine felt her head begin to spin, just as the waiter approached again, this time with à la carte menus and a pitcher of iced water, Jeffrey's cell phone rang – the unmistakable jingle of
The Doctor Jeff Show
theme, amusing nearby patrons who had recognised the famous celebrity in their midst, but had the ‘I take breakfast in one of Boston's finest hotels' upper-class decorum not to approach him.

‘Logan,' he said, lifting his right pointer finger to Katherine as if to say ‘
this is just a pause in our negotiations
'.

‘Yes, what is it, Charles?' he asked.

And then there was silence, as the voice on the other end of the line delivered what appeared to be some very disturbing news.

‘I don't believe this,' he said, his face now filling with colour. ‘You are my attorney and I hired you to handle this, Charles. How is this possible? Did the man breach his restraining order?

‘
What do you mean it was reversed?

‘The children? But I am their parent. They do not think for themselves, for God's sake.'

Katherine recoiled from the table.

‘For fuck's sake, Charles.' Jeffrey lowered his voice. ‘Don't tell me there is nothing you can do. This is completely unacceptable.'

Another pause, as Jeffrey ran his white-knuckled hand through his smooth, dark hair.

‘All right, I've heard enough. You go and find out where I stand legally as the man who is supposed to fit the bill for this cockamamie defence and see where my children stand when they are left without a penny.

‘And as for Cavanaugh,' he added, as Katherine saw his hand bunch tightly into a fist. ‘You can leave that asshole to me.'

Other men would have reacted differently – other, lesser men driven by the neanderthal impulses of rage.
But not Jeffrey Logan, no, sir
, he thought to himself as the valet brought his car around to the front of the hotel, for
despite his
considerable
displeasure it had only taken seconds for Logan to contain his anger and formulate a plan of attack.

That being said, his train of thought continued as he tipped the valet a tenner and climbed into his new Mercedes CLK class cabriolet, this latest piece of news had unnerved him. If he was truly honest with himself, which he had always had the wisdom to be, he would acknowledge the fact that the old (and pleasant) low-lying urge, the one that he had forced into dormancy so long ago, had reared its head – just a little.

It came in the form of the guns – visually, sensually – the way they felt when he caressed them, ran his fingers down their barrels, enjoyed the weight of them in his hands. And then there was the psychological cross-referencing – the source of the irritation with the means to eradicate it. Cavanaugh, guns, guns, Cavanaugh – and so on.

All right
, he told himself as he headed towards his intended destination,
you have had your fun for the day
. And he gave himself another mental pat on the back for being able to turn this ‘negative' into a pleasant mini fantasy.

Not that it would be a negative for long
, he reminded himself,
for I know how to flip, slide and turn with the best of them, and the guns would not be needed – at least, not yet
.

‘Okay,' said David, removing his jacket to pace around Arthur's office. ‘So what do we know?'

After leaving Joe's, David had headed directly for the office. Sara was going to work from home until the baby came, which meant she was on conference while David, Arthur and intermittently Nora were formulating the ‘game' plan from Arthur's now sun-filled office.

‘We know that Jeffrey Logan was born Jason Nagol,' Arthur began. ‘And grew up to be an obsessive young gun enthusiast with a dire need to control those around him – namely his mother and father, both of whom he has attempted to kill – his father, so far, successfully.'

They all took a breath, instinctively knowing that poor Nora still felt responsible for her role in the events that led up to Deirdre McCall's shooting.

‘I called Ms McCall's friend Tracey late yesterday and she said her
condition was still unchanged,' said Nora, the slightest trace of distress in her voice.

David nodded for Arthur to go on.

‘We also know that Nagol must have what appears to be an extremely impressive collection of weapons – judging by the number Mr Blackmore suggests he has sold him, and the other guns we can assume he has purchased from additional sellers around the country. We know that he is fond of using aliases that are an anagram of his last name – with a penchant for choosing the letter ‘J' as the first letter in his Christian name. And we also know that he laundered his own rifle – the personalised Mark V Deluxe – so that he might use it to murder his wife.'