Sasha McCandless 03 - Irretrievably Broken (14 page)

“The files you requested are here.”

He blinked. “Already?”

Caroline thought he sometimes failed to realize his power. When she’d invoked his name with the off-site archivist, the man had practically hung up on her in his hurry to pull Mr. Prescott’s files.

She nodded and said, “Shall I bring them into your office?”

He wrinkled his nose, and she knew he was picturing all that paper cluttering up his pristine private space.

“No. I’ll work through them one by one. Please hold my calls,” he said, as he hefted the top box from the pile and disappeared into his office.

Caroline fielded his phone calls all afternoon. He emerged periodically only to return a box to the pile and take the next one.

She couldn’t recall the last time he’d worked so long without interruption. Most days, she would receive multiple calls from people who urgently needed Mr. Prescott to authorize a decision or resolve some dispute, but the afternoon was oddly quiet—particularly given the news about Clarissa.

There had been a handful of calls from people outside the firm, but Mr. Prescott’s internal line was silent. Caroline wondered who was dealing with the attorneys and their inevitable questions. She presumed Mr. Porter, since Clarissa had been in his practice group.

Right at five o’clock, Mr. Prescott dropped a pile of redwelds on her desk, and she jumped. She hadn’t heard his office door open.

She blinked and looked down at the stack.

“Filing?”

“No,” he said. “Shredding.”

“Very good,” Caroline said, reaching for the intraoffice mail pouch under her desk. She would put the documents to be shredded in her outgoing bin for delivery to the document center, where the contract employees who made the firm’s copies, delivered the faxes, and ran the industrial shredders would handle the actual shredding.

Mr. Prescott put a hand on her shoulder to stop her. “Actually, Mrs. Masters, I’d like you to shred these documents personally. Don’t send them to the document center.”

She looked up. He had never, not once in twenty-odd years, asked her to shred anything herself. Not his income tax returns, not the drafts of the settlement agreement the firm had entered into with Noah Peterson’s widow, not anything.

He met her eyes. “These documents are highly confidential. Please handle the shredding yourself.”

“Of course,” she said automatically.

“Please don’t mention this to anyone.”

“Of course not.”

“Thank you. Why don’t you take care of that and then call it a day?  Today has been so ... trying. I’m going to be leaving shortly myself,” he said and returned to his office.

She watched him go and tried to recall the last time either of them had left the office before six-thirty. He’d long ago decided that six-thirty was the appropriate time for the chair of the firm and his personal secretary to end their day. It was late enough to show that he was a serious business person, but early enough to allow him to sit down to dinner at a civilized hour. The schedule meshed nicely with her husband’s work hours, so it had suited Caroline just fine. Leaving at five?  It seemed decadent.

She looked down at the redwelds, all filled with documents that Mr. Prescott had instructed her to destroy.

She tapped her fingernails on the tower of folders, then she lay her palm flat on the top folder, hesitating.

Finally, she reached inside and pulled out the first item: a familiar white Tyvek mailing envelope with a border of green triangles. She slid her hand into the envelope and took out the photograph she knew she would find: Ellen, Clarissa, and Martine. Two red Xs over the dead women’s faces. And the threat—or was it a warning?—across the bottom. She shoved it back into the envelope. Beneath the envelope was a second, identical envelope, which presumably contained the first picture.

Her pulse jumped. Weren’t these photographs possible evidence of a crime? It didn’t seem right to shred them. The police would want to see them.

Caroline cut her eyes toward Mr. Prescott’s closed door and then flipped through the rest of the papers in the top redweld: a folder containing Ellen’s performance evaluations dating back to her first year with the firm; similar folders for Clarissa and Martine; and, lastly, all three women’s partnership candidacy packets. All of the remaining redwelds contained the case files from a 1996 pro bono representation. Caroline paged through them and saw pleadings, internal memoranda, and client correspondence.

She restacked the files and thought, twisting a pearl earring between her finger and her thumb. Mr. Prescott was the chair of the firm. It was his prerogative to shred firm materials. But those photographs were a different story. She shook her head. And, truth be told, destroying the dead women’s personnel files before their bodies were even in the ground seemed disrespectful and callous. She didn’t feel good about this. Not at all.

Before she had a chance to second-guess herself, she slid open her bottom desk drawer and removed an oversized green, pebbled leather tote bag. She swept the documents inside, tossed her wallet on top of them, and buzzed Mr. Prescott.

“Yes?”

“Are you sure it’s okay for me to leave for the day? And do you need anything before I go?”

“Yes, go ahead. And I don’t need anything. Thank you. Good night, Mrs. Masters.”

“Good night,” she said in reply.

“You’ll take care of those files before you go?”

“I’ll take care of them.”

“Thank you.”  He hung up.

Caroline zippered the tote bag closed, switched off her desk lamp, and shut down her computer. She grabbed the bag and hurried out of the office.

CHAPTER 27

Cinco shook his rocks glass, tinkling the ice against the sides of the glass.

“Stop that,” Marco said.

Cinco looked at him and jiggled the glass again. He didn’t work for DeAngeles.

“Please,” Marco added. “I meant, please stop that.”

Cinco put down the glass and looked around the table. The most powerful members of the firm were gathered around an elegant table in a private room in the most powerful club in town. Behind the Duquesne Club’s staid facade, titans of industry had been gathering to conduct their business in private since 1873. The Club’s founders, clients of the firm, had invited Cinco’s great-great grandfather to join, and the Prescotts had belonged ever since. With the exception of Fred, who was frugal in the extreme, the others at the table were all members of the Club as well.

The Club was known for its delicious cuisine, its state-of-the-art fitness center, and, most of all, its discretion. And, tonight, the five members of Prescott & Talbott’s Management Committee were interested principally in the discretion. And the alcohol.

They’d sent their menus away with the tuxedoed waiter and instructed him to keep the drinks fresh, but the interruptions minimal. It would be a delicate balance, given the speed with which their beverages were disappearing, but the Club’s wait staff was up to the task.

John took a long swallow of his vodka gimlet, then said, “So?  We’re here, Cinco. Do you want to fill us in on all the cloak and dagger?”

Cinco took a moment to gather his thoughts and run through the talking points he’d crafted on his walk to the club.

“Of course. And, John, as an initial matter, I take issue with the characterization of this meeting as ‘cloak and dagger.’  I think we all recognize the delicacy of the current situation.”

Cinco caught Fred rolling his eyes but elected to ignore it. He went on, “That said, we have a serious problem.”

John snorted. “Do you think, Cinco?  Two dead attorneys in the space of a week?  Killed by a maniac who’s blackmailing the firm?  Is that a serious problem?”

Kevin, who was seated next to John, put a hand on his arm.

“Calm down. We know you’re upset about Clarissa, but getting hysterical isn’t going to accomplish anything.”

Kevin’s tone was neutral, devoid of emotion or any hint of his personal views. It was his specialty; he was the dispassionate business litigator.

John swallowed hard. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

Cinco said, “Let me address John’s statement. For one thing, I don’t think it’s accurate to say we’re being blackmailed. The messages written on those pictures could be construed as threats, but there has been no other communication. No suggestion that if we do X or pay Y, he will stop. For another thing, whoever the killer is, it’s not Malcolm Vickers.”

That caught their attention. Even Fred sat up a little straighter.

“What do you mean, it’s not Vickers?  Who else could it be?”  Marco demanded.

Cinco spread his hands apart and said, “I don’t know who it is, but Vickers died in 2008. It’s not him.”

“Are you sure?” Kevin pressed him.

“Positive. I asked Samantha to run some discreet inquiries. I thought if we could locate Vickers, we could find out what was driving him and work something out,” Cinco said.

“Who the devil is Samantha?” Fred asked.

“Sam Davis, Fred. She’s the firm’s security officer,” Kevin explained.

“Since when?” Fred asked.

Cinco ignored him. “In any event, Malcolm Vickers was active in the fatherhood rights movement during the late ‘90s and early 2000s and died in a hospice of lung and bone cancer in June of 2008.”

Silence fell over the table.

“So, gentlemen, anyone have any thoughts?”

“If it’s not Vickers,” Marco said, slowly, thinking it through, “who could it possibly be?”

“I don’t know,” Cinco admitted. “I pulled the case file and read through it. No other names jumped out at me.”

Kevin frowned. “There will be a record of your assistant calling up the file from the archives. You realize that, don’t you?”

“Of course, I do,” Cinco lied.

He decided not to mention that he instructed Caroline to destroy it, among other things.

Fred raised his glass of bourbon. “Let’s toast Clarissa and Ellen, shall we?  Two fine lawyers, taken from us too young.”

He drained his glass as the others lifted theirs.

John followed suit, then added, “She was pregnant, you know.”

“Who?” Marco asked, tossing back his martini.

“Clarissa. The medical examiner told her mother.”

Another blanket of silence covered the room.

Cinco thought of Clarissa’s last moments; he wondered if she knew there was a life inside her and realized she was unable to protect it. He shivered.

Then Fred asked, “They’re looking at her husband, too?”

“Yes,” Kevin said. “He’s a carpenter. She was killed with a hammer. Not too many dots to connect there.”

“What’s this going to mean for the Lang case?” Marco asked. “Shouldn’t the fact that there have been two killings so close together work in both Lang’s and Costopolous’s favor?  It seems to indicate one killer, doesn’t it?”

Cinco watched them preen and posture, feeling removed and detached, as if the scene were playing out in a movie. No one in the room had one whit of criminal law experience. But, they weren’t about to let such a minor detail as that interfere with their speculating and expounding.

John shook his head. “No. The methods of killing were very different—Ellen’s throat was slashed, and Clarissa was bludgeoned to death with a hammer. The acts themselves have nothing in common.”

Kevin chimed in. “Not exactly. While the modus operandi differed, both killings were personal, even intimate. But, that doesn’t point to one killer, necessarily, so much as it points to each of them being killed by someone she knew intimately, such as a husband.”

Fred leaned forward. “Who gives a good goddamn?  We all know these women weren’t killed by their husbands. Now, we thought they were killed by Vickers, but Cinco here tells us that’s not so, not unless he’s some sort of zombie. So, we face the following issues: Who killed them?   What does the killer want from us?  Do we warn Martine?  And, how much, if anything, do we need to tell Sasha?  We can’t let another woman go to the slaughter, gentlemen. And we can’t let Nick and Greg go to prison.”

He sat back, looking satisfied with himself, folded his hands over his belly, and waited for them to agree with him.

There was a soft knock on the door, and then it swung inward. The waiter entered, carrying a buffed and polished silver tray, heavy with a third round of fresh drinks. The talk turned to golf handicaps and college football while he quickly switched out their empty glasses for full ones.

“Thank you, Jason,” Cinco said to his back as he departed.

“You’re quite welcome, sir,” he answered with a small head bob.

After the door closed, John looked at Cinco and said, “His name is Carson, not Jason, you self-involved ass.”

Marco and Fred roared with laughter.

Kevin frowned. “Gentlemen, we need to stay united and focused on the problem at hand. Sniping at Cinco over a mistake isn’t going to accomplish anything.”

Cinco stared at the closed door for another moment, then said, “It’s Carson? Really?  I’ve been calling him Jason for at least a decade.”

John shook his head. “Forget it. Kevin’s right. It doesn’t matter. Fred raised the issues, so let’s figure out what to do.”

Marco took charge. “Let’s start with Martine. If those pictures aren’t a demand, they’re certainly a threat or, at the very least, a warning. Does the firm have a duty to advise a former partner that her life may be in danger?”

“Yes,” John said.

At the same time, Kevin said, “No.”

Cinco sipped his scotch and waited for someone else to jump in.

“Why do you say no, Kevin?”  Marco asked.

“Mainly, because right now we don’t have anything to tell her. What’re we going to say? ‘Perhaps you’ve noticed your former colleagues are dropping like flies?  We don’t think their husbands are offing them. We thought it might be that guy, Vickers, who you three screwed over back when you were just pups, but it turns out he’s dead himself. So, you might wanna check your doors at night and make sure they’re locked.’ What good is warning her when we don’t know who the killer is?”

Marco nodded. “Good point.”

John stiffened.