No Time To Run (Legal Thriller Featuring Michael Collins, Book 1) (13 page)

He had almost given up hope of ever finding him, and then by chance, Vatch saw a photograph of Helix Johannson at a bar in Mexico. It sat with a half-dozen other photographs on the desk of another field agent. Vatch didn’t even know why the photograph caught his eye as he passed by, but it did.

There sat Michael Collins in full color, staring back at him from a glossy 8x10. Collins was in the background of the photograph holding a beer; a woman was speaking with him. He looked so tan and rested, relaxed, like a guy who had gotten away with murder, which Collins had every right to believe. 

Vatch smiled, reliving that day. Then, there was a rap on his window.

“
Open up.” A boy on the fire escape knocked on the window, again. “It’s cold.”

“
Anthony.” Vatch rolled back from the desk, irritated by the disruption. “Your mother know you're here?” He shouted as he rolled over to the window and opened it. Cold air flooded the room.

“
She’s working. You gonna let me inside?”

“
It’s late.” Vatch pointed at the clock on the wall. “You should be in bed.”

“
Well, I’m up. Can I come inside or what?”

Vatch grumbled and allowed the eleven-year-old boy to crawl through the window.

“
Shut it when you're in.” Vatch rolled back over to his desk. “I’m working.”

“
You stressin’ over that dude, again?” Anthony climbed inside, turned, and shut the window behind him. “Why you hate him so much, anyway?”

Vatch stopped writing, and turned toward Anthony.

“
Because.” He set his pen down on the desk and looked up at his collage of photographs and documents. “He represents everything that’s wrong. That’s why. That’s always been why. It’s the same reason I’ve given you a hundred times. That’s going to be the answer every time you ask.” Vatch picked up his pen, again, and started scribbling in his notebook.

“
Got nothing to do with that pretty lady on the corner of your desk?”

Vatch looked at the photograph of Agent Pastoura.

“
No.”

“
You want to play cribbage, then?”

“
No, Anthony, I do not.”   

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

During the night, Kermit never moved. He was sprawled out on the floor wearing only a pair of jungle-print Jockeys. Kermit was also surrounded by two dozen cash register receipts. In his hand, Kermit clutched a small notebook that appeared to be filled with various mathematical equations.

Michael did not want to know why. If Kermit wanted to tell him, then Michael would listen, but he was afraid that the wrong question might send Kermit even further into his own world. Andie had told him that in the late 1960s, Kermit had been a Jakobs Scholar at MIT, and had nearly completed his dissertation in mathematics at Berkeley when the draft board called him up. The military taught Kermit Vietnamese and put him in the jungles to conduct interrogations and break codes. When he came back, his thoughts were unclear and the formulas didn’t come as easy. He was a burnout at 21, bouncing around, and eventually ending up at the Sunset.

“
He came with the resort,” Andie had said. “An unwritten term of the purchase agreement.”

Michael left a note for Kermit about lunch, and then got out of the hotel before the sun had an opportunity to rise above the wall of New York skyscrapers.

The air was crisp, and Michael walked a few blocks before catching a cab.

“
Where to?” The cabbie punched the meter, and the numbers began to roll.

“
Rikers Island,” Michael said, “but with a little detour.”

###

The restaurant in Little Italy was called Nicolias, but the absence of regular business hours, a full-time cook, or the availability of reservations resulted in a fairly unpopular and unprofitable restaurant. That, however, was irrelevant. The restaurant served another purpose.

The back room of Nicolias was one of the worst-kept secrets in New York. It was there that Mario Deti conducted his business, and that was all Nicolias needed to keep the lights on and its owners living comfortably in Phoenix.

The cab stopped.

Michael looked at the dark and worn-down façade of Nicolias Italian Food and Restaurante. Three large men stood smoking outside the front door. If Michael truly wanted to make a stand, this was where it would happen.

“
I don’t think it’s open, man.” The driver shifted the cab into park. “If you want the real tourist deal, I can take you up to Lombardi’s just down the road here. They got this guy named Arturo that sits at this keyboard and just croons for the crowd, like all the Sinatra and Bennett tunes. Everybody sings along. It’s a lot of fun. You should go there.”

Michael continued to stare at the restaurant, running through scenarios in his head.

“
Hey,” the cabbie said. “You okay?”

“
Fine.” Michael turned back toward him. “Let’s just go.”

###

Once he arrived at Rikers Island, it took another twenty minutes before the door to the cramped attorney-client conference room opened and Andie was let inside.

“
Look at you.” Andie ran her hand down the seam of Michael’s suit. “Still going all fancy on me.” She pecked his cheek with a little kiss, and Michael turned red.

“
You don’t think I enjoy this?”

“
I don’t know,” Andie said. “Close call. You’re looking a little too sharp, but we’ll see if you iron these new shirts.” Andie nodded her head. “To iron or not to iron, that will be the ultimate test.” She continued to play with him for a while, and then finally let Michael off.

“
Any news?” She asked, and Michael was forced to admit that there wasn’t any.

“
I’ll file my brief later this morning, and then who knows when he’ll rule, maybe a few weeks.”

“
A few weeks.” Andie’s mood turned flat, and Michael decided not to tell her that “a few weeks” was a best-case scenario. Some judges took months to rule.

“
I’m working on it.”

“
I know you are.” Andie pecked his cheek with another little kiss, and then they sat down.

Michael thought about telling her about the Professor and Mario Deti’s bonus, but instead, he kept that information to himself. She deserved to know, but the right words never came. The disclosure would lead to questions, and he wasn’t ready to answer those questions. Not yet.

###

When he arrived at Wabash, Kramer & Moore, a stack of pleadings and legal research folders were piled on Michael’s desk. Pleadings were in red folders, legal research in green.

On top of the stack, there were two notes from Patty Bernice. The first note was a phone message from Tammy Duckstein, requesting a return call. Michael had no idea who she was, and set it aside. The second note stated that Lowell wanted to meet at eleven for coffee and that he wanted Michael to start reviewing the file in preparation.

Michael checked his watch. It was a little after ten-thirty in the morning. Lowell wanted him to be fully up to speed in a half-hour. That wasn’t going to happen.

He took a breath, and then tossed his suit jacket over a chair in the corner. As he sat down behind the large mahogany desk, Michael pushed Lowell Moore’s precious files off to the side.

He needed to give the memorandum opposing the stay of Andie’s case one more read-through and get it filed before anything else. That was more important than Lowell’s research projects.

Michael printed a copy and started reading the memorandum out loud. He wanted to hear how it sounded. The final read-through wasn’t just about catching a stray typo, it was also about flow.

He read, edited, and then read the document again. Half an hour quickly passed, and Michael was late for coffee with Lowell. He stood, and then there was a knock at the door.

It was Rhonda Kirchner.

“
Hey.” Michael reached for his suit jacket. “How are you?”

“
Just fine.” Rhonda’s eyes darted from side-to-side, down the hallway, and then back at Michael. “Do you have a minute?”

Michael looked at his watch, and then picked a fresh notepad off of his desk.

“
Actually, I need to go see Lowell. I’m already late.”

“
Oh.”

“
Something important?”

Rhonda’s eyes ran the circuit a second time.

“
We can talk about it later.” She waved her hand as if she didn’t care.

“
Just shoot me an email, okay?”

“
Yeah.” Rhonda hesitated. “I could do that.”

Michael patted her on the shoulder, and took a step out the door.

“
Has Lowell said anything about me?” Her voice skipped.

Michael turned. It was an odd question.

“
He didn’t say anything to me.” Michael figured that Rhonda had applied for partner.

“
Nothing?”

“
Nothing.” Michael shook his head. “I’m going to grab coffee with Lowell now. Should I mention your name, see what happens?”

“
No.” Rhonda forced a smile. “Just come see me when you have more time.” She gave a nod, and then turned and walked away.

Michael watched her go. It was difficult to believe that she was the same person he knew in law school. Rhonda Kirchner used to be confident and aggressive. She was editor of Columbia Law Review, Order of the Coif, and had already secured a prestigious federal clerkship when the other law students were still learning that a tort was a personal injury and not a puff pastry. Now Rhonda seemed pale, almost frail.

Michael turned away from her and walked in the opposite direction toward Lowell’s office.

When he arrived, Lowell’s door was shut and Patty wasn’t at her cubicle. Michael took a red cherry Lifesaver out of Patty’s candy jar, and then noticed the yellow Post-It note on the side of her monitor. A signal that Lowell was in one of his “moods.”

Michael looked at Lowell’s office. The door still shut, he wondered whether to just skip the coffee. Then, he heard the yelling.

Not quite able to understand what was being said, he took a step forward. Michael could tell that Lowell was angry. Patty screamed back at him, then Lowell came at her louder than before.

Michael got even closer, pressing his ear up against the door. He heard Lowell say, “It’s a disaster. This is all a disaster.” Then there was the sound of paper fluttering to the ground.

“
It’s not. Calm down.”

“
This is me,” Lowell said. “My life, not to mention the reputation of the firm at stake, everything I worked for.”

It was a rant that Michael was all too familiar with, and the worst part was that nobody ever knew when it was going to happen. Whether it was good news or bad news or no news, Lowell could go off at any time.

Michael had read somewhere that the way you train an animal to be subservient is not through a rational system of rewards and punishment, but by being erratic, constantly changing the rules without notice. Sometimes certain conduct would result in a whipping or a kick to the ribs, and, the next day, the same conduct would result in a gentle pet. The animal, never knowing when it would be hit, keeps its head low and always tries to obey, the moments of reward oddly becoming that much more important.

That was why Patty stayed. And that was why he had stayed for so long. He had been cast under the spell, seeking that rare moment of praise, a moment of feeling like the great Lowell Moore needed you.

“
Think I don’t know that?” Michael heard Patty say. “I’ve killed myself for this place from the beginning.” File drawers slammed and papers fluttered, and then the door opened.

Michael stepped back, and Patty walked by him. She was calm, but tears streamed down her face.

Lowell started to chase after her, but saw Michael. He wiped the sweat from his forehead, and then forced a pearly white smile. It was a jackal’s smile.

“
Ready for some coffee?” His voice was calm.

“
I am,” Michael nodded, “if you are.”

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

After a long conversation with Agent Frank Vatch, Tammy Duckstein hung up the phone, checked the clock, and decided to straighten up her sparse government office before going to lunch.

Staff attorneys for the Attorney Disciplinary Committee rarely skipped lunch. They weren’t paid enough to skip lunch, or come in on the weekends for that matter. Working past five was also rare, and everybody seemed to be okay with that. The people who worked for the committee had other interests. Some coached their sons' baseball teams and others ran marathons, and still others were active in their PTAs. The job was just that: a job, nothing more. Other attorneys around town had difficulty grasping that idea.