The Doll Brokers (21 page)

Baby Talk N Glow had come to them from an inventor in Hong Kong. Despite the doll's many merits, they had encountered serious problems. Still, Ann had persevered. And with each additional step taken, the obstacles had become greater. And now this. It suddenly occurred to Jonathan that this latest incident involving his brother may have been another attempt to keep this project from moving forward. Perhaps Pat's situation had nothing really to do with Pat at all, and everything to do with Baby Talk N Glow? Jonathan realized how crazy that seemed. Did it have something to do with the inventor? The competition? Or was someone out to get Pat, as he suggested? That did seem to be the most viable scenario. Pat had alienated a lot of people over the years. Not only in business, but in his personal life as well.

Jonathan shook the cobwebs free. With some speed he took hold of the remaining files in the bottom drawer. He slapped them down on Patrick's desk and reclaimed his seat. Then he began to thumb his way through, uncovering one contract after the other. He was nearing the end when he pulled out the Baby Talk N Glow file. Opening it, he practically jumped back in alarm. The folder that should have contained the contract was empty.

A
nn woke at twenty past three in the morning with screams slicing her throat like razors. The dream always came when she felt most vulnerable. Not since Felicia picked her off the street could she remember a time when she was this defenseless. She had forestalled sleep as long as she could—pacing, drinking Scotch. At some point in the night she had finally dragged herself into bed. Now she fisted the comforter in her hands and threw it to one side. She flew from her bed, almost tripping on her way to the bathroom. She made it to the toilet, fell on her knees, and heaved.
You're hot, baby.
It hadn't—not really—been a dream.

It was a memory. He'd stunk the way Patrick had smelled tonight, of sour liquor and sweat. He'd had perfect teeth but a very mean mouth. His hand had gone to her breast and she froze. Unlike the other times, when he would simply stand and stare at her, his intention was obvious. She wanted to reach for the butcher knife she kept sequestered beneath the mattress. Yet fear paralyzed her limbs. It was only after his other hand went between her legs that she tried to reach out for it, but it was too late.

His first blow struck her forehead because she'd ducked. Some survival instinct had made her dive under his hand.
He'd connected near her temple, however, and it had stunned her, flattening her.

She'd gone belly down on the dirty plank floor and he'd taken her right there, from behind, shoving up her nightgown and ripping off her underpants. The friction had been bone-dry and excruciating. He continued to pound at her until she passed out.

She'd never even known his real name, Ann thought now, spitting into the toilet. Her mother had referred to him as Mad Dog, and the name had stuck. After that terrible night, Ann berated herself for being a coward. She had been sleeping with the butcher knife for months. Yet, when it came time to use it, she was unable to act, unable to protect herself.

Ann now flattened her palms on the bathroom rug and pushed herself to her feet. She tugged her sweat-soaked nightgown over her head and turned on the shower. She would not go back to bed. She never went back to sleep once Mad Dog bit his way into her mind. She brushed her teeth and stepped into the shower, letting the hot water pelt her skin. When she got out she felt clean but unsteady. She was standing in the kitchen with a towel wrapped around her, taking her first strong, sweet mouthful of caffeine—black with three sugars—when the phone rang.

It startled her and she swallowed wrong. Coughing, she moved to the living room to answer it. It wasn't until she reached for the phone that she noted that it was close to four o'clock in the morning. Worry creased her brow as she lifted the receiver.

“Wake up,” Jonathan answered to her hello.

Ann closed her eyes. Damn it, she would
not
show that she was glad to hear his irritating, familiar voice. Instead, she said, “How dare you call me in the middle of the night?”

“I wanted you to know what I've found,” Jonathan said.

“Found where?”

“In your off … or at least, Patrick's office.”

“Patrick's office? Jonathan, how did you get in there?”

“My mother gave me a set of keys a few weeks ago. I came here right from the police station. I wanted to see what I could dig up on this whole mess.”

Ann rubbed her temples. “And?” she asked.

“Well, I didn't find anything, except for the fact that the Baby Talk N Glow contract seems to be missing.”

“Missing? What are you talking about?”

“Would the contract be kept in the file cabinet in Patrick's office?”

“Yes, he keeps all of our contracts. It's up to his department to see that royalty payments are made on time, et cetera. Are you sure you looked in the right place?”

“No,” he said, obviously taking her question as an insult, “I took one perfunctory glance around his office and then called you.”

“Jonathan—”

“I found the file folder, goddamnit! It's empty.”

“Okay, okay.” She chopped off her next thought, trying to avoid confrontation. At this late hour she knew she had to think with a clear head, to make some sense of this and decide on a course of action.

“Do you have a copy?” Jonathan asked.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Do you have a Xerox copy of the contract?”

“Why—no. We never make copies. It's a contract. We never lose contracts.”

“Well, you might consider some other system in the future. I would bet this particular contract wasn't lost; it was stolen.”

Ann hesitated. Talk of the contract reminded her of the man she had signed it with—Edmund Chow. She looked at the phone for a moment. “Look, I'll call you right back,” she said, and she disconnected.

She stood where she was, frowning. The doll was brought to them by Edmund Chow, with Koji Sashika's help. Koji had been
an integral part of Hart Toy's business for over twenty years. The man had been around long enough to see a large portion of toy manufacturing leave first Japan, then Korea, Taiwan and Hong Kong, eventually ending up in Mainland China. And this was where Chow entered the picture, quickly proving his worth with his contacts.

Ann now glanced at her watch. Hong Kong was thirteen hours ahead, which made it almost five in the afternoon, their time. And it was a city very much like New York; it seldom slackened off. Edmund was usually on call twenty four/seven. She went to get her purse, removed her BlackBerry.

Koji lived in Japan and she wanted to speak to him first. She tried his cell phone; there was no answer. She left a message and hung up. After dialing Edmund's office in Hong Kong, she waited impatiently but nothing happened. It rang and rang. Voicemail did not pick up. Thinking she had dialed wrong, she disconnected and tried again. No luck. She retrieved Edmund's cell number and dialed it. Eight rings. Nine rings. Ten…

Her skin began to crawl. Something was wrong. Very, very wrong. She called Jonathan back and explained the situation.

“And why is this unusual?” he asked.

“Because it's never happened before. You would have to know the mentality in Hong Kong, the work ethic. In all the years I've known him, Edmund Chow has never been unavailable, even for a minute.”

“Then why don't you send him an e-mail,” Jonathan suggested. “And we'll see what happens in the next twelve hours.”

She held back from expressing her frustration. The e-mail would go out but something told her it would do them no good. “I'm going to book a flight to Hong Kong,” she said and paused, waiting for his response, knowing it suddenly mattered.

“Then count me in,” Jonathan said, not disappointing her.

P
atrick stepped into the court room, his mind churning. Ann was there, with Jonathan beside her. No sign of Irene, he thought with relief. For the most part, the gallery was full of strangers, people there for different cases, not his alone. And in that crowd only one sane face, one comforting presence—Frank Ketch, at the defense table.

The prison guards delivered Patrick into the lawyer's care. Patrick was sure that Ketch believed him. They'd talked relentlessly that morning, going over the evidence and the fact that the D.A. didn't have much of a case. Ketch pulled out the other chair at the table for him. “Sit down.”

Patrick did, clumsily. The guards left.

“You're squared away here?” Ketch asked him. “You know what to say?”

“I want to go home,” Patrick said.

“In due course.”

“I
need
to go home.”

Ketch ignored the comment, then stood suddenly and identified himself to the court.

A ferret-faced woman at the next table, skinny, in a dark blue suit, did the same, declaring she was the Deputy District Attorney
representing the people of the State of New York. Patrick's skin started to feel clammy.

He was finding it difficult to concentrate. Last night in his cell, he'd gone through the DT's. It had been inevitable and he'd anticipated them. He couldn't recollect a single day in the last year and a half that he hadn't had a drink. Maybe longer. Maybe three years, or five. By now, today, his craving for cognac had grown teeth.

“What?” he jolted when Ketch elbowed him. Then he remembered what he was supposed to do. Patrick stood. “Not guilty, your Honor.”

Of course, I'm not fucking guilty.

He started to sit again. Ketch kept him upright. “That was the DUI charge,” the lawyer said in an undertone. “Keep going.”

Pat recited the words two more times as the other charges were read.

Ketch offered no argument on the DUI matter. He was giving the prosecution a bone, he'd said, mostly because a 2.2 was indefensible anyway. The not-guilty plea was standard, and for appearances' sake. It would give them the option of plea-bargaining with the issue somewhere down the line.

The judge moved on to the cocaine charge. Ketch asserted that the substance had not been Patrick's. The prosecution chewed on that for awhile; they had the edge there, too. It had been in Patrick's possession, plain and simple.

They finally got around to the fraud charge. Ketch stood and went into gear.

“Your Honor, I'll be filing a motion this morning to dismiss that charge. It has no merit. My client is an executive at a reputable firm in the toy industry. He has no prior criminal record and has lived an exemplary life. This particular charge involves a new product that has not yet been released on the market. It was acquired through legitimate means. We contend, and will prove
in court, that there is a conspiracy against my client, and that it involves a plot to discredit him as well as his company, thereby rending this new product worthless. A product, I might add, that was purchased for an advance of one point five million dollars.”

The judge looked only mildly interested. He shuffled through papers as though to remind himself of something. “The State has concrete evidence, correct?”

“Incorrect,” Ketch argued. “They do not have anything but a sworn affidavit accusing my client of conspiracy to commit fraud. This is based on a groundless subpoena issued in Hong Kong, by Lord knows what authority.”

The Deputy D.A. stood. “Your Honor, it's our position that the subpoena is legitimate. We will prove in court the merit of its validity.”

“Then let the court return to these charges when this proof is provided,” Ketch insisted. “Until then, I'd suggest my client deserves to be released on his own recognizance.”

The Deputy D.A. stood her ground. “We have three separate charges here, Judge!”

“No, in fact, we do not,” Ketch said. “This so-called fraud was not even committed on American soil. In all honesty, I fail to see how the State of New York has any jurisdiction in the matter at all.”

“We're not only permitted to hold the defendant for extradition,” the judge said, “but we're bound to do so by international law.” He took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose, looking both thoughtful and frustrated. “I can't let the defendant walk out of here, giving us nothing but his word that he'll return for the preliminary and extradition hearings. The drug charge alone makes that an impossibility. And, if I remember correctly, he attempted to run from the arresting officers in the first place. I'd say he's something of a flight risk. I'll set bail at two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, but I will hear your motion to dismiss, Mr.
Ketch, as soon as you file it.” He reached for his gavel and seemed to relish clunking it down.

Patrick stood and grabbed Ketch's arm. “I'm not a flight risk!”
Where the hell was he going to come up with that kind of money?
“You said you could get me out today!”

“I said there was an excellent chance of that. You'll be free to go once bail is posted. They'll take you back to the holding cell until that happens.”

“Let me say something to the judge. I was drunk. I didn't understand what was going on when I tried to run.”

“I don't think so. You'd only make matters worse.”

Patrick felt dread move into his veins like cold sludge. There were many kinds of hell, and he was well-acquainted with a number of them. There was his wife's blistering tongue and his brother's arrogant perfection. There was his mother's chiding eyes, always judging him and finding him lacking, especially when compared to Jonathan. But this hell, the very personal hell he found himself in now, was completely unfamiliar to him.

Then he saw his brother—and Ann—standing behind the attorney. “Jon.” Patrick wanted to hug him. Jonathan had saved him before; he'd get him out of this now. “Do something about this. Please.”