Irreparable Harm (36 page)

“This is me,” she said. She aimed her remote key fob at the vehicle and opened the doors.

The SUV was clean inside, too. The burled wood on the console gleamed and the cream leather upholstery was spotless. No change rolled around in the compartments, no empty coffee cups sat abandoned in the cup holders. Everything was orderly.

Vivian started the car, and Sasha strapped her seatbelt across her chest.

Vivian stopped at the booth and handed her ticket and a twenty dollar bill over to a chubby college-age woman, who paid no attention to them, keeping her eyes glued on the small television in the booth while she made change and gave Vivian her receipt.

Vivian nosed the Mercedes out into the street and turned left onto Grant Street. She crept into the mid-morning traffic behind a bus.

Sasha’s mind raced as the car inched along. Vivian seemed to be taking Judge Cook’s order much better than Sasha had expected. So far, she’d shown no signs of her legendary temper.

Sasha considered the possibilities: maybe Viv was on some sort of mood-leveling medication, or maybe she was relieved the judge had taken the decision to ground the planes out of her hands. Hemisphere Air could do the right thing and she wouldn’t have to put herself out on a limb.

More likely, though, Vivian planned to use Sasha as cannon fodder at the board meeting and was just biding her time to humiliate her. Getting reamed out in front of the decision makers at one of Prescott & Talbott’s most important clients would make her day complete.

They traveled to the end of the block and then stopped, stuck at a red light. As they sat there, waiting for the light to turn, Sasha tried to think of something to say to her exceedingly quiet client.

The light changed to green. Vivian nudged the Mercedes forward, going slow, still behind the bus. Vivian cut her eyes over to Sasha then pressed the button to lock the car doors.

Sasha cleared her throat. “So, you wanted to talk about our strategy for the board call?”

“We have plenty of time to talk.” Vivian inched forward placidly, making no effort to get around the diesel-belching PAT bus.

Vivian’s sustained silence was beginning to unnerve Sasha. She reached into her bag and pulled out her phone to check her voicemail and e-mail messages. She had a missed call from Connelly. She frowned down at the display, wondering why her phone hadn’t rung.

It was still set to vibrate. She turned the ringer back on. She couldn’t tell Connelly about Harold Jones, not with Vivian sitting next to her, so she settled for responding to his earlier text.

She thumbed away at the miniature keyboard:

“Lost” motion; en route to meet with client. Found something in docs. Need to talk when you can.

Vivian’s eyes flicked from the street ahead to Sasha.

“What are you doing?”

“Responding to a message?”

Sasha bit her lip; angry that she’d answered Vivian with a question and not a statement. She needed to project competence, not uncertainty.

Vivian slapped the steering wheel with her palm. “You need to be focusing on this case!”  Her voice rose and agitation seeped through.

Sasha wasn’t sure how to respond to that. How could she focus on the case if Vivian wouldn’t talk to her?

“I mean,” said Vivian in a clipped tone, making an obvious effort to control her anger, “you and I need to work together to make this palatable for the Board. If we can smooth this over, it will go a long way toward your partnership evaluation in the spring, don’t you agree?”

Sasha stared at her. How did Vivian know she was up for partner in the spring? As far as Sasha knew, no one at Prescott & Talbott had stayed in touch with Vivian after they’d pawned her off on Hemisphere Air.

And, the notion that Vivian would go out of her way to be helpful to Sasha was just beyond belief. The most positive associate evaluation Vivian had ever written when she was at Prescott & Talbott was “this memorandum is no worse than I would expect from a high school dropout.”

The associate who had written the memo in question, now a partner himself, was a former clerk to a United States Supreme Court Justice. He kept Vivian’s assessment tacked up on his wall over his computer like a badge of honor.

They’d finally reached the end of the street. Vivian crossed the Fort Pitt Bridge to Route 376 West, but instead of staying on 376, she immediately slid across and merged onto the Fort Duquesne Bridge; shot over into the far left lane; and took the exit for Route 65 North.

Sasha twisted in her seat and checked the exit number. They had gotten off on Ohio River Boulevard exit.

The handful of times Sasha had been to Hemisphere Air’s headquarters in Coraopolis, she’d taken the 376 West to 22, as if she were going to the airport. Hemisphere Air occupied an ugly office park one exit short of the exit for Pittsburgh International.

Sasha hesitated. Presumably, Vivian knew how to get to her own office.

But, they were definitely on the wrong side of the Ohio River. Not to mention, they were traveling a bit on the fast side, considering this stretch of Ohio River Boulevard was infested with speed traps. Noah had traveled this route every day and complained bitterly about the police cars that dotted the shoulder with radar guns.

She tried to think of a tactful way to mention either or both of these points to Vivian.

Her eyes still on the road, Vivian said, “Isn’t it interesting that the four planes you asked me to ground yesterday were on Mickey’s list?”

Sasha looked at her. Vivian’s face was blank and her tone had been mild, but for all her legendary flaws, the woman wasn’t stupid.

“Um … were they?”

It was feeble, but it was the best she had.

Vivian’s right eye twitched.

“Yes, Sasha. They were.”

Vivian’s knuckles on the steering wheel were white, as she gripped it hard and accelerated.

Sasha stole a glance at the speedometer. Vivian was doing sixty-five miles per hour. Sasha was pretty sure the speed limit was forty.

 Sasha cleared her throat and was about to comment on their speed, when Vivian’s key ring caught her eye.

 Given their pace and the condition of the road, the SUV was bumping along, and the key ring bounced in time with the car. A small silver ring, hooked onto the larger main ring, dangled from the ignition cylinder. A familiar crystal globe hung from the smaller ring.

Sasha looked away, out the passenger window. They were entering the village of Sewickley. They passed by tasteful, pricey shops in a blur as Vivian increased her speed even more—a holistic book store, the bridal boutique where Sasha’s sister-in-law had found her wedding gown, a specialty children’s store that sold haute couture for babies to spit up on.

Sasha couldn’t figure out where they were going, but she was distracted by that key chain. She leaned forward and craned her neck, straining against the seatbelt across her chest to get a look at the back side of the globe.

As Vivian took a corner too fast, the key chain swung and Sasha spotted it: a small airplane fashioned out of a ruby hovering over North America.

She stared, waiting for her brain to catch up to the input her eyes were sending.

There was exactly one globe like that in the world. Noah Peterson had earned it by defending Hemisphere Air from a predatory pricing lawsuit filed by United and Delta more than a decade ago.

Sasha looked up as the SUV turned off the street and crunched across a gravel driveway that ran alongside a well-maintained, white colonial house. It belonged to Noah and Laura Peterson.

Vivian killed the engine.

Chapter 42

Leo sat in the visitor’s chair at the U.S. Marshal’s Service, willing himself to exhibit patience. He noticed his right leg jittering and stilled it. He knew how this game was played. If he displayed impatience, the interagency jockeying currently underway would simply take longer.

He risked a quick peek at his watch. It had been twenty minutes since he’d left Judge Cook’s courtroom to check in with Tactical Operations. Before he’d reached the office,  Gregor’s cell phone had rung. He’d answered, not quite sure how he was going to play it, but it had turned out to not matter. Irwin had just barked out an address and told “Gregor” to meet him there with the files before hanging up.

Ever since, Leo’d been cooling his heels while the Special Agent in Charge of the Federal Air Marshals Pittsburgh Field Office and the Chief Deputy U.S. Marshal for the Western District of Pennsylvania worked out who was going to get the credit for collaring Irwin. The Supervisory Deputy United States Marshal had been coming back and forth between his own office and the chief’s office, eyeballing Leo each time he passed through the waiting area.

While he waited, the courtroom deputy trotted in to make copies of the order granting Mickey’s TRO and then trotted back out to disseminate the copies. Leo rapped his knuckles on the arm of the chair. No magazines, no art on the walls, no window. The waiting area seemed to be designed specifically to bore a person out of his skull.

Leo passed the time staring at a long, jagged crack in the plaster on the opposite wall. Finally, the door to the chief deputy’s office opened and the SDUM came out. Leo stood.

The SDUM was red-faced and resigned. The machinations had not worked out they way he’d wanted.

“You can make the arrest, but our office is taking custody of Irwin after you do so. We’ve got two Inspectors who just came off a witness protection detail. They’re going out with you.”

Leo didn’t react to the news. He said, “Sir, I’m going to need to borrow Irwin’s vehicle.”

“They don’t issue you fly boys vehicles?”

Leo started to explain that he’d left his official car out at the airport but the SDUM wasn’t interested in his story.

“Whatever, son. You can hitch a ride with Morgan and Pulaski.”

Morgan and Pulaski were probably the inspectors.

“Sir, I need to go in alone first—in Irwin’s car.”

The SDUM stared at Leo with tired, milky blue eyes.

“Work it out with Morgan and Pulaski. They’re next door.”

He gestured toward the door and went back into the chief’s office.

Leo checked his watch again. It had been twenty-seven minutes since Irwin called. He went next door to find the inspectors.

Morgan was a stocky white guy, average height, with brown eyes and brown hair, which he wore in a buzz cut in an attempt to hide the fact that he was balding. He deferred to Pulaski, who did all the talking.

Pulaski was the shorter of the two and bulkier. He had the physique of a guy who had spent years weight lifting, but his muscle was starting to grow soft with age and lack of use. He was completely bald and wore wire-rimmed glasses. Connelly thought he was probably still strong, just on the edge of out of shape. In another year to eighteen months, he would be doughy.

They both wore nondescript navy blue suits. Morgan’s tie was red. Pulaski’s was light blue. They were waiting for him, eager to go.

After the introductions were out of the way, Pulaski pushed back his chair and jerked a thumb toward the door.

“It’s been thirty-plus minutes since your boy called and we’re another twenty-five away from your rendezvous. Let’s hit this.”

He and Morgan holstered their guns under their jackets. Morgan opened a supply closet.

“You want a vest?” Pulaski asked, as Morgan pulled two bulletproof vests from a stack in the closet.

“I do. Thanks.”

Morgan reached back into the closet, grabbed a third Kevlar vest, and tossed it to him.

“I need a car, too.”

Pulaski gave him the stink eye. “Why?”

“Because he’s expecting his guys to come in their car. Someone needs to drive the silver Camry, and it doesn’t have a cage. I’ll drive the Camry, and you two follow me in a pool car to transport him back.”

They looked at each other. Morgan shrugged. He was right and they knew it.