Private Sector (19 page)

Jessica pondered this advice for a moment, then said, “Drummond, you’re good.”

Barry said, “That’s why you come to this firm, Jessica. We know how to tackle the hard ones.”

I think this meant I was becoming part of the team. I actually thought about reaching over and exchanging high fives with Barry. I felt really bad about wanting to strangle him.

Barry then said to Jessica, “Last issue—the resubmission of your financials. We’ll just send the old one and the problem’s settled.”

Unfortunately, the word “financial” prompted Marshall to glance up from his calculator and mutter, “Nope.”

“What?” Barry replied.

“Won’t work. The original was based on an in-house audit.”

“So what?”

“Before the Pentagon awards a multiyear contract like this, it’s required to ensure that the winner possesses the financial fundamentals to stay in business long enough to perform the work. Now that it’s been challenged, we have to produce a much more indepth audit and cash flow analysis . . .” and so forth, and so on.

I was stretching and yawning, and in fact, my forehead was slamming off the table as Marshall began discussing EBIDTA and amortization and a host of other appalling issues. Well, this went on awhile, and all four lawyers began dozing off.

Suddenly, Marshall was loudly asking, “Excuse me . . . excuse me . . . once again . . . are there any questions?”

Well, there were a few nervous coughs and we all four exchanged wary glances. This could be fatal.

I finally said, “In shorthand, Marshall, this means, what?”

“Well, based on—”

“In English.”

He studied our three faces and, I think, grasped the risks. Another word of that financial mumbo-jumbo and we’d rip his lips off. He said, “Uh . . . well, an external audit.”

“Please explain that.”

“Yes, I’m afraid so. An outside accounting firm needs to confirm that we’re profitable and likely to remain that way for the foreseeable future.”

Barry asked him, “And how long will that take?”

“Well, you know, we were expecting this, and therefore have everything organized for a speedy audit. Assuming we get—”

“How long?” I asked menacingly.

“Uh . . . perhaps two weeks.”

Barry said, “Next week at the latest.”

“Oh my. I. . . well, I don’t think that will be . . .” He fingered his calculator, then suggested, “Maybe, if we double the number of auditors and work twenty-four/seven. Then . . . maybe. . . I don’t know, maybe ten days.”

Barry said, “Drummond, you’re in charge of the audit. You get seven days.”

“What?”

He said, “Sally and I will handle this matter about Nash.”

“No. For one thing, I am legally incompetent to handle an audit. Second, I’m going to remain that way.”

Sally said, “Neither you, nor we, have a choice. It’s the only thing you can work on that’s not a conflict of interest.”

Jessica, smiling, said, “Don’t be such a pussy, Drummond. The real work’s done by the green eyeshades. If a legal issue arises that’s beyond your competence, refer it to Barry.”

Boy, it sure looked like I missed a major agreement being late.

Barry gave me a nice screw-you smile and said, “Sink or swim around here, Drummond. This is the big leagues. But if you’re scared, I’ll find another junior associate to handle it.”

No smart lawyer accepts a task that exceeds his legal competence. Nor did I have the slightest doubt
why
Barry wanted to stuff this audit down my throat. But the proper response was both obvious and irrefutable. Ignore his infantile goading, and tell him to stuff this job.

So I got up, grabbed my legal pad, looked them all dead in the eye and said, “Sure, no problem.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

H
e had watched with amused detachment the news coverage of his murders. Two brief articles on page 3 of the metro section of the
Post,
and a couple of oddly casual mentions by the local TV stations was all.

The police were working overtime to avoid a frenzy. They had withheld the connection between his murders, not to mention a few very glaring and meaningful details. This amused him more than anything.

They were hoping he’d fled, or had fed his craving and stopped. They were telling themselves that staying mum about those details was in the best public interest—the only responsible thing to do, really. Getting the locals all worked up would serve no good purpose. Besides, release everything, every last dirty detail, and the copycatters would make careful notes and regard it as an invitation for a free-for-all. Bodies would start popping up all over, and after exposing all the trademark secrets you can’t tell the real deals from the fakers. Couldn’t have that, they were persuading themselves.

Truth was, they’d invent all sorts of silly excuses and theories, and hang with them as long as circumstances permitted. Human nature and bureaucratic instinct was what it was.

Their luck was about to crash. He assumed they’d already formed a task force to dissect his methods and catch him. They always do. As yet, the cell would be small, a group of local flat-foots scrumming and doing their best, though their expertise in such matters was pathetically limited. They’d likely made a few phone calls to the FBI but weren’t yet on their knees begging for help. Nor were they getting much, he guessed.

Odd how it always took the third. The first nearly always was regarded as an everyday thing or an aberration unlikely to be repeated. Too bad, tragic and all that, but hey, shit happens. Standing over that second corpse, they stroked their chins a bit more doggedly and gave consideration to going frantic, but somehow they always reined back the urge. Three just was the golden number that kicked the scaffold from under their feet.

And what a memorable third she’d be. By afternoon, the local cops would feel hopelessly out of their depth and like all mortals would turn to a higher authority, for guidance, for expertise, for someone else to share the blame. The calls would be frenzied and the Fibbies would start crawling over everything. Their Director lived here. He likely got the
Washington Post
delivered to his house each and every morning. Right there, on his front doorstep, before he even had that first sip from his morning coffee, it would be rubbed in his nose—a sexually perverted murdering maniac was performing his filthy deeds in his backyard. His wife and kids would see it on TV, for Godsakes.

Truth was, the sooner the FBI got into this thing the better. According to his script their time had come.

Carolyn Fiorio—she’d bring them, stampeding and tripping all over themselves. She would remove any last vestige of doubt that a depraved monster was tormenting Washington.

At that very moment, in fact, he was admiring her cool poise on the tiny TV screen in the back of the big stretch limo. The death sentence was the issue and the debate was passionate and fierce. Only twenty-nine years old, and there she sat with two silver-tongued senators and a fat, tart-mouthed Republican tout, holding her own quite nicely.

The fat Republican was rude and obnoxious, an advocate who interrupted frequently and howled every point. One of the senators, another dyed-in-the-wool advocate, kept trying to exploit his age and prestigious title to condescend to Carolyn, a slyer but similarly poisonous form of rudeness. The other senator was a fence-sitter, too weaselly to take a stand, his head and eyes swiveling back and forth, leaving Carolyn to tote the position of opposition on her own. No problem—she required no help, as best he could tell.

She was lovely and angelic-looking, and the ruder the Republican tout got, the better she looked. Hers was the power of contrast, and every time he got to loudly spouting his crap, the camera veered between them, making him appear somehow fatter, and meaner, and his position became not the one you’d want to associate with. Every time the condescending senator said “Wellll, miss,” in that languorous way he did, she peered into the camera, and somehow, the audience couldn’t help but see him for a pompous, bullying idiot.

She was cunning and her opponents paid savagely for underrating her. CNN tossed her six million big ones a year to orchestrate the most watched talk show on TV, the liberals’ version of that
O’Reilly Factor,
and she was worth every penny. She banged the Nielsen ratings right out of the park and advertisers lined up and threw in the big dough. She was bunnylike perky, had a fly-trap mind, and murdered her guests with a patina of innocence assassins would die for.

America’s Girl, they called her on the ads.
Newsweek, TIME, People,
and an assortment of lesser rags had splashed her on their covers, the smart girl everybody just loved to love. She had come out of nowhere and taken the journalistic world by storm. She was some phenomenon, that girl.

He watched her close the show, turning to the camera with those pleading blue eyes and a rueful smile. “The issue is the death sentence. Is it right for a civilized nation to kill as revenge? Remember, when that executioner pulls the lever that sends fifty thousand volts coursing through another human being, he represents you and me. If what he does is wrong, aren’t we all guilty?”

He shook his head, reached forward, and shut off the five-inch screen. Oh yeah, she was good—had the golden touch, that girl. He lifted the black hat off the seat beside him, shoved it over his wig, and climbed out of the backseat. Two minutes later, he was standing attentively in a pitch-dark suit beside the long black car outside the studio.

Carolyn Fiorio was being honored as Newsperson of the Year at a big, fancy dinner at the National Press Club. The royalty of American journalism had flown in from far and wide for the big bash, to bask in the glow of her lovable glory. Her show ended at 7:00, and the dinner kicked off at 7:15, so she frantically dodged out the studio entrance and jogged straight toward the rear door of the shiny black stretch limo.

He held open the door and very politely said, “Evening, Miss Fiorio. Fine show this evening.”

“Thanks,” she murmured and climbed inside. Never gave him a second look. None of them ever did. The limo came from a service that shuttled lookalike cars and anonymous drivers to rich customers throughout the city.

He gently shut the door, admired his own reflection in the blackened windows, then walked swiftly around and got into the driver’s seat, turned the ignition key, and pulled smoothly away from the curb. Miguel Martinez, the service driver, was stuffed on the floor by his feet, a bullet hole in his forehead.

He briefly glanced back and said, “National Press Club, right, miss?”

“That’s right. And I really need to be there in ten minutes.”

He chuckled. “So I gotta hurry, huh?”

“Yes, I’d appreciate it.” She dug into her purse and began pulling things out. “There’s a welcoming party, and some camera crews waiting for my entrance.”

He allowed a respectable minute to pass before he said over his right shoulder, “Tough life you got.”

Her laugh sounded more melodic than on TV. “I’m sitting in the back of a big stretch limo, raking in a fortune, and you think my life’s tough?”

“Yeah. Guess you’re right.”

He allowed another moment of silence to pass, one of those perfectly natural pauses between the hired help and the fat wallet in the backseat.

He said, “I, uh, I watched your show on the TV back there while I was waitin’.”

An alcohol pad was pinched between her fingers and she was furiously scrubbing off the thick studio makeup. She glanced up at him briefly, then returned to staring into the small mirror gripped in her other hand.

He said, “You really believe that? ’Bout the death sentence being immoral and all that?”

“Yes, I do. I never take a stance I don’t believe in.”

“Reason I asked is, I like the death sentence.”

“A lot of people do. That’s why it’s law.”

“I guess.” He adjusted his rearview mirror and studied her. “But see, I come at it different from you.”

She was applying liner around her eyes and still focusing on the mirror. “How’s that?”

“Figure it this way. Say you got caught doin’ somethin’ real bad and they give you a choice—life or the death sentence. What would you pick?”

“Life,” she answered.

“Too quick, Miss Fiorio. Some things are worse than death.”

“Like what?” she asked, not really focused on the conversation, painting her face and going through the motions of accommodating an overly opinionated and talkative driver. She was paid the big bucks to debate these things with big-time pros on the tube and wasn’t all that enthused about giving freebies to rookies.

“Well, like bein’ in a cage where your only company for the rest of your life is a buncha murderers, crooks, and street scum. You read these books . . . Christ, the things some of them criminals do behind those bars.” He glanced into the rearview mirror again. “Sickening stuff, you know? A painless death’s gotta be better’n that, ain’t it?”

“I don’t look at it from the criminal’s perspective,” she replied, swiping a tube of cherry-red lipstick across her lips.

“Well maybe you should.”

“No. They’re responsible for their actions, and I’m responsible for mine. If I support the death penalty, then I bear the burden of guilt.”

“Yeah,” he replied. “Heard you say that at the closing. Real eloquent.”

Another long pause, then he said, “Thing is, you ever get to thinking there might be some people that just are addicted to killing? I mean, like, it’s what they do. Over and over. Only way to stop ’em is to kill ’em.”

“You mean sociopathic individuals?”

“Well, I don’t know the right educated word for it, but I guess, yeah.”

“They’re mentally disturbed. They should be treated, not killed.”