Smash Cut (17 page)

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Authors: Sandra Brown

Tags: #Legal, #Suspense, #Fiction, #General, #Georgia, #Thrillers, #Rich people, #Atlanta (Ga.), #Trials (Murder), #Legal stories, #Rich People - Georgia

BOOK: Smash Cut
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When they reached Julie’s car, she unlocked it, opened the door, and tossed her handbag inside, then turned to face him. “You listened well, but I sense that you still don’t believe me wholeheartedly.” When he was about to speak, she said, “I know I’m right. Don’t bother answering.”
So he didn’t. He placed his hands on her arms and rubbed them up and down. He lowered his head for a kiss, but she turned away. “Julie.” He placed his hand in the small of her back and drew her forward until her lower body was pressed intimately against his. Nudging aside her hair, he sighed directly into her ear. “I think about it all the time. About us. Like this.” She pushed against him, and he groaned with disappointment. “Don’t pull away.”
But she did. Her expression was hard, closed. “With one breath, you accuse me of lying. With the next, you whisper erotically and try to kiss me. It can’t be like that, Derek. Not with me it can’t.”
“I don’t think you’re lying.”
“You just don’t think I’m telling the truth.”
“There’s a difference,” he said.
“Maybe someday I’ll figure out the distinction.”
She tried again to pull away and get into the car, but he held her. “The distinction is in the shading, Julie. The detectives sense it, too, or you would already have been dismissed as a possible suspect. You’re telling us what you want us to know. What are you leaving out?”
“Nothing.”
“Something.” He placed his finger beneath her chin and forced her to look at him. “I don’t believe for one minute that you came on to Creighton in that pool house.”
“After what I did on the airplane, why should you find that hard to believe?” When he said nothing, she laughed, but it was a bitter sound. “Wait, I know. Having sex with Creighton might have been a turn-on, but greedy fortune hunter that I am, I wouldn’t have jeopardized my setup with Paul by doing something so foolish.”
He said nothing, which actually spoke volumes.
“Don’t try and see me again.” She pushed herself away from him and quickly got into the car.
“Julie-”
“I mean it.” After a brief tug-of-war, she managed to loosen his hold on the car door and slam it closed. As soon as she got the car started, she drove away. He stood looking after her taillights until they disappeared around the nearest corner.
Cursing beneath his breath, he turned just as a form peeled away from the dark trunk of a nearby tree and took the shape of a man. “Next time, when you’re having a tiff, I recommend you use the club-and-cave method. It worked well with the lady Neanderthals, or the species wouldn’t have propagated and none of us would be here.”
Creighton Wheeler, hands in his pants pockets, stepped out of the deep shadows beneath the tree and walked toward him with an ambling gait, as though out for a Sunday stroll. Tuneless whistling was all that was lacking.
Derek tried to cover his dismay and to sound as nonchalant as possible. “Somehow I don’t think the caveman tactic would woo a woman like Julie.”
Creighton broke a smile, his teeth looking brilliantly white even in the darkness. “You’re probably right. Too bad you can’t consult my late uncle on what woos her best. He should know. They were a couple for two years, so he must have been doing something right. Of course, there was the…” Leaning in, he whispered, “M-o-n-e-y. Maybe he tickled her clit with hundred-dollar bills. What do you think?”
Derek thought he might commit murder. His body was trembling with fury—at himself for having placed himself in this absurd situation, at this bastard for being so goddamn smug. “Who were you following, Julie or me?”
“Tonight? You.”
Derek caught the qualifier, and Creighton saw that he’d caught it. He laughed and raised his hands in surrender. “I confess, this isn’t the first time I’ve done some amateur sleuthing. Last night, wasn’t that thunderstorm romantic? The lightning, the thunder, the pounding rain. Very primitive. Did it bring out the animal in her?”
“You son of a bitch. Today, when we talked, you were well aware I was with Julie last night.”
“You were with her, all right.” Creighton fanned his face. “I got turned on imagining what was going on behind those steamed-up car windows. A lot of heavy breathing, to say the least.”
“Which of us were you following last night?”
Creighton shrugged indolently. “I never did buy that claptrap about you having too many clients, no time for us Wheelers. Don’t you think I would have thoroughly checked you out? Well, I did, and what I gleaned from my research is that your talent is exceeded only by your ambition and greed. Which makes you the perfect defense lawyer.
“So why, I asked myself, would you decline to let us throw lots of money at you for doing virtually nothing except field a few questions from the media? And you adore the spotlight, Mr. Mitchell. See? For several reasons it just didn’t make sense, and I hate holes in the plot, to say nothing of lame motivation for a lead character. I determined to find out the real reason you’d turned us down.”
“You started following me.”
“Nobody says no to a Wheeler, Mr. Mitchell. Especially not to this Wheeler. But I wasn’t just pissed. I was intrigued. I sensed…” He waggled his fingers in the air. “Illicitness. Eroticism. Maybe you were emanating a primal mating musk.”
“Isn’t that taking the prehistoric analogies a little far?”
“Whatever.” Creighton lowered his voice again. “Lo and behold, at whose house do you turn up last night? Imagine my astonishment. But suddenly all your dodging and weaving as to why you can’t represent me makes sense. You, my defender, are fucking my accuser. Truthfully, I would never have guessed that. As a plot device, it was worthy of Scorsese.”
He glanced in the direction Julie had gone. “I’m sure she’s filled your head with sordid tales about me and my misguided youth, passed along to her—and greatly exaggerated—by my late uncle Paul.
“Did she tell you that he insisted I get psychiatric counseling? Yes? Did she also tell you that, after months of treatment, it was decided that I was perfectly normal, while Uncle Paul, in his obsession over me and my shortcomings, was the one the doctor suspected of being mentally unstable and emotionally maladjusted?”
He laughed. “Sometime, you must tell me how you and Julie met. Was it before or since Uncle Paul met his tragic end?” Then he held up his hand, palm out. “You know what? I don’t want to know. I’d rather make up my own naughty scenarios.
“The truth is, Mr. Mitchell—Can I call you Derek? The truth is, if you’d told me straight off why you had to decline my business, I’d have been amused. You and Uncle Paul’s mistress. What a stitch.”
Suddenly he dropped the pleasant pose and his entire aspect became menacing. “But you didn’t tell me. So now, I’m telling you. If you’ve been double-crossing me, you’re good and fucked, and I don’t mean by the fair Julie. When I get through with you, you won’t be able to look at a courtroom, much less go into one.”
Derek had heard enough. He stepped up to Creighton and poked a finger into his chest, causing a dent in his starched oxford cloth shirt. “Don’t threaten me. I’m not your lawyer. I told you that the first day you came to my office. I’ll see whoever I want to, and you can’t do a friggin’ thing to stop me.
“And you couldn’t know that I was at Julie’s house last night unless you were there yourself. If I catch you near her or me again, I will go to the police and have them slap your pansy ass in jail and keep it there until they’ve run a thorough investigation of her house to see if someone did indeed make themselves at home there, moving stuff, handling her things. I’m talking complete fingerprinting, collecting DNA evidence, lab tests that take a good, long time.
“It may never result in an indictment, but in the meantime, you’ll spend some uncomfortable weeks behind bars. I’ve got clients currently in jail whose destinies depend on how well I do for them in court. One visit from me and they’ll see to it that you’re made miserable. They can mess you up bad, in ways you can’t even imagine.” Derek came another step closer. “Do we understand each other?”
Creighton shivered, whispering, “‘Wow. I’m sexually aroused, Commander.’ Tom Cruise.
A Few Good Men.”
He grinned, winked. “No wonder Julie creams over you.”
The hardest thing Derek ever had to do was walk away from him, leaving all his shiny teeth intact.
As soon as Julie returned home, she called Kate. The younger woman’s voice was hoarse when she answered, as though she’d been crying for hours. No doubt, having seen Julie’s number on her LED, she also sounded wary.
Julie relieved her immediately. “I know about your visit to the police station today, and it’s okay.”
“Oh my God.” Kate sobbed and blubbered an explanation.
It was several minutes before Julie could work in a word. “I don’t blame you, Kate. Not at all. You did what you had to do, and it took a lot of courage. I want to assure you that I’m not angry, but also assure you that I don’t know that man. What he was doing in the gallery asking for me, I have no idea. But I swear to you, you don’t need to feel conflicted about talking to the detectives. You didn’t damage me by telling them about him, because I don’t know him.”
“Lord, Julie, you don’t know how relieved I am. I was sure you would hate me.”
“That could never happen.”
“They made me feel even guiltier by asking me not to tell you that I’d talked to them. I’ve been worried sick, wondering how I was going to behave normally. I’m so glad it’s out in the open.”
Lest Kate be misled, Julie said, “The detectives didn’t tell me.”
“Then how’d you know?”
“I can’t answer that without breaching a confidence.”
“Then don’t answer. But as long as you know about my conversation with them, I guess it’s okay for you to know that they don’t think this guy’s coming to the gallery is a coincidence.”
“I don’t believe it’s a coincidence, either.”
“You think he was the one who shot Paul?”
“I don’t know. Tonight, I’m too tired to think about anything. I’m going to bed. See you in the morning.”
Before she could hang up, Kate rushed to say, “I didn’t tell them about the hotel, about you spending the night out last night.”
“Oh. Well, that has nothing to do with anything.”
“I didn’t think so, either. So I left that part out when I told them about your housecleaning binge.”
Julie was about to ask how Kate knew about that, but the younger woman was gushing her gratitude for Julie’s calling. “I’ll be able to sleep now.”
“Rest well,” Julie told her. “We’ll both feel better tomorrow.”
Julie went to bed shortly after that call, but she was too restless to sleep. She was in turmoil, wondering what Kimball and Sanford were doing with this new information and how they were going about trying to link her to Billy Duke. She wondered if they had made any headway toward finding him.
And, despite her determination not to think about Derek, her thoughts revolved mostly around him, as they had done since the moment she’d sat down beside him on the airplane. Sabotaging him had been her goal, but something totally unexpected had happened: she’d started liking him.
He had appealed to her immediately, and more than just the way he looked. Beyond his engaging smile and arresting eyes, she liked his quick, self-deprecating wit and confident, easy manner. He wasn’t nearly as conceited as she had thought he would be. Rather, he’d poked mild fun at himself. He hadn’t dominated the conversation with stories of his celebrated cases and courtroom victories but was a good listener who seemed genuinely interested in everything she said.
She hadn’t anticipated finding such an agreeable, likable man inside the handsome package. Nor could she ever have forecast being so sexually attracted. Within minutes of sitting down beside him, she had decided what she was going to do.
She could admit to herself now that the seduction hadn’t been solely about compromising him. It had been about
her
. All the sadness, fear, frustration, and rage that had been simmering inside her since Paul’s death had reached a boiling point when Derek joined her in the lavatory. The eruption of this emotional brew had been explosive.
With the first kiss she must have communicated that she wanted to be taken immediately, completely, and possessively, because his hands, strong and warm and commanding, had slid beneath her hips and rocked her forward to meet each thrust and then had secured her tightly against him when he gasped his release.
Once it was done, she’d wanted to forget it. Mission accomplished.
But she’d been a fool to think that she could be that objective, or that she could convince herself, even for one instant, that it wasn’t about the sex. Tonight she’d rebuked him for telling her he thought about it constantly. But he wasn’t alone in that preoccupation. Her mind wouldn’t let it go, instead returned to it frequently. The episode was like a recording that had been looped to play over and over again inside her head. At odd times, some of them most inconvenient, she would join it in progress, catching a memory that was sharp and sweet and drenched with sensuality.
Worse, each time she was with him, those recollections came up full with surround sound and in Technicolor. Her reaction to being near him was shamefully and intensely physical. Even when she was angry with him, she couldn’t deny the unique ache of longing. And of wishing that things could be different. Because anything coming of this mutual attraction was unthinkable, of course. The timing couldn’t be worse. The circumstances were impossible. And yet—
Her telephone rang.
She groped for it in the darkness and flipped it open. “Hello?”
“Julie.”
“Derek?”
“I believe you. Everything. All of it.”
She threw off the covers. Something was wrong. She could tell by his voice. “What’s the matter? What’s happened?”
“The son of a bitch killed Maggie.”

CHAPTER
16

B
ILLY DUKE STARED AT HIS REFLECTION IN THE CRACKED, MOTTLED mirror and wondered where in hell was the cocksure, good-looking, snappy-dressing, smooth-talking man he’d been just a few short weeks ago.
His hair had grown out some since he got the buzz cut. He missed his wavy mane, which had been unfashionable but one of his trademarks. He missed his smart clothes, replaced now by T-shirts and jeans that had seen better days.
“Lose the look,” Creighton had said. “You can’t stand out. You must become, for all intents and purposes, invisible.”
So he’d lost his “look,” but it was the man himself who seemed the most changed and unfamiliar. Where was his swagger? The guy in the mirror looked nervous and anxious, disheveled and desperate. He barely recognized himself.
Billy Duke wondered what had happened to him.
Creighton Wheeler, that’s what.
He bent over the stained sink and splashed cold water onto his face. The water smelled faintly of sewage. The towel was thin to the point of being see-through. The place was a dump, but the accommodations were the least of his problems.
Creighton had paid an unexpected visit to the motel this morn ing. Billy had spent each of the hours since then reviewing everything that had been said, everything that had passed between them.
The first thing he remembered was waking up with a powerful thirst. To delay having to get up, he remembered trying to work up enough spit to swallow, but his mouth had been arid. Reluctantly, he’d pried his eyes open.
His heart had nearly burst with fright. “Fuck!”
A hand had clamped down on his windpipe, trapping the screamed expletive. “‘How bad you want to survive?’”
Billy couldn’t have told him. He couldn’t have uttered anything except inarticulate choking sounds. He’d thrashed his legs and bowed his back, he’d tried to dislodge the hand around his throat, but Creighton Wheeler had had all of his one hundred and seventy-something pounds bearing down on it, and it didn’t budge. He’d pressed down so hard, Billy had feared his Adam’s apple would pop like a Ping-Pong ball.
“‘You want to survive bad enough to stop me, pussy? Or are you relying on my generosity, my love of humanity, to stop me from killing you?’”
Billy’s eyeballs had begun to bulge. His face had become distorted and congested with blood. Inside his head yellow skyrockets had begun to explode against an expanding field of inky black. His extremities had started to tingle. His brain had begun shutting down. Synapses had ceased to connect.
However, a small part of his brain had still been capable of reasoning, and with it he’d been thinking how remarkably calm Creighton was despite his evident fury. If Creighton had been yelling, he wouldn’t have been nearly as frightening. It was that malevolent whisper, that cold control that had convinced Billy that the guy might actually kill him, that these might be his last few seconds on earth, and that he would die staring into Creighton’s handsome, composed face as he slowly but inexorably squeezed the life out of him.
But just as suddenly as he had attacked, Creighton had released him. He’d removed his hand from around Billy’s throat as though throwing him off. Billy, on his back, had clutched his neck, gasping and coughing. When he’d been able to push air past his swollen larynx, he’d wheezed, “What the fuck? You scared the shit out of me.”
“Is that what I smell?” Unruffled, Creighton had sat down in a chair and calmly wiped his hand with a pocket handkerchief, as though touching Billy had left it dirty. Replacing the handkerchief in the breast pocket of his linen sport jacket, he’d said, “Louis Gossett, Jr., won an Oscar for those lines in
An Officer and a Gentleman.
He was choking David Caruso.”
“Fuck you and Louis whoever.” Billy liked movies okay, but this guy’s obsession with them had begun to get on his nerves. “I’ve got to pee.”
In the bathroom, he’d done his business, drunk a glass of water, and inspected his neck for bruises. He’d thought then what a bastard Creighton was. But as he was to learn, Creighton Wheeler was only getting started.
He’d dressed and gone back into the main room, a combination living and sleeping area separated from the kitchenette by an el-shaped bar of chipped, rose-colored Formica. In the center of the ugly room, looking like a magnolia blossom atop a heap of dung, had sat the golden boy, who looked so fucking perfect, it had made Billy resent even more the motel room in which he’d been sequestered.
“They have your picture.”
Billy’s heart had given a little bump at the tone in Creighton’s voice. Or rather, the lack of tone. To cover his concern, he’d sat down on the edge of the bed to put on his shoes.
“They have your picture,” Creighton had repeated. “It was on TV last night.”
“I saw. So what?” Shoes on, he’d got up and sauntered into the kitchenette.
“I came here this morning to assure myself that you had left. But here you are, two weeks after the…event. You should have left Atlanta that afternoon, Billy. That was the plan.”
“You think I like it here?” He’d looked around the motel room with disgust, making his guest aware of its deficiencies. “I would have split according to
plan
. I would’ve been long gone. Except for the matter of the money. Which was also part of the
plan
. Every day I use my laptop to check the balance of that Cayman bank account. So far, zilch. Has it slipped your mind to make the deposit? Have you conveniently forgotten that part of the
plan

“No,” Creighton had replied calmly. “But your memory of the terms is fuzzy. The terms were that when you had left Atlanta, without anyone hot on your trail, the money would be deposited. I had to wait a reasonable amount of time to guarantee that you weren’t being sought as a suspect. When I’m satisfied of that, you’ll be paid.”
Billy had snorted. “I wasn’t born yesterday.”
“You don’t trust me to keep my word once you’re gone?” Creighton had tipped his head down coyly. “That’s not cool. Not after what I did for you.”
The reminder had been subtle but effective. Billy hadn’t taken it further. “Coffee?”
“No.”
Billy had set about brewing a pot for himself. “That photo they’ve got of me is a joke. Useless.”
“It was clear enough for me to recognize you.”
“Because you’re the only person in Atlanta who knows me.”
“Your former girlfriend knows you.”
The reference to her came like a bolt from the blue. Billy had hoped Creighton had forgotten she lived in Atlanta. “Emphasis on ‘former,’” he’d said, making a dismissive gesture. “Besides, she has no idea I’m here. I’ve completely changed my appearance. Hair. Clothes. She wouldn’t recognize me from that blurry picture as the Billy Duke she knew. And even if she did, the last thing she’d do is get involved in another police matter. Not after what happened the last time she did.”
“You could be wrong about her.”
“I’m not. I know her. She wouldn’t. You can relax.”
Creighton had looked relaxed, sitting there idly tapping the air with his tasseled loafer. Relaxed in the way of a reptile just before it struck.
“Didn’t I warn you about security cameras?” he’d asked.
“You did. But how was I supposed to get into the hotel without getting my picture taken? There are cameras at every entrance. At least that older hotel had an outdated security system. The newer ones have cameras in the elevators, on each floor, all over the damn place. If your uncle Paul had been banging his girlfriend in the Buckhead Ritz…By the way, why were they in that hotel? Why not someplace newer and fancier?”
“It’s one of the few privately owned hotels in the city. The owner was an old friend of Uncle Paul’s. He died a few years ago. Uncle Paul had a sentimental streak.”
“Hmm. Well, it worked to our advantage. If they’d been somewhere more newfangled and busier, I’d have had to come up with another plan.”
“In hindsight you should have.”
Billy had dismissed that with a shake of his head. “His Tuesday lunches with her were infallible. I knew he’d be there. I knew the time frame. That information allowed me to plan. And, you wanted her there when I popped him. You were very specific about that.” When enough coffee had dripped into the carafe, he’d taken it off the burner long enough to fill half a cup, glad that he had a prop, something to hold on to. “Are you sure you don’t want some?”
“No thank you.”
Creighton’s stare had been disconcerting. Billy, not to be outdone, had stared back through a cloud of steam as he blew on his coffee to cool it. He’d decided it was time he went on the offensive.
“I’m surprised you came here, Creighton, even if you didn’t expect to see me. We agreed that we absolutely, positively, could never have contact. After weeks of being alone, I’m grateful for the company, but frankly, I’m pissed that you broke the agreement.”
“Your TV debut last night changed that. I had to take the risk. I had to know that you’d gone. But since that’s not the case, it gives me an opportunity to tell you that you’ve overstayed your welcome, and to ask you what the fuck you were thinking.”
His tone had been as sharp as a needle. Billy had reacted as though he’d been jabbed. “About what?”
“The robbery. That ridiculous mask.”
“You said to be creative. You said it couldn’t look like a hit.”
“You didn’t fool anybody.”
Billy had noted then that, even though Creighton hadn’t moved, he’d seemed to be vibrating inside, as though his temper was being held in check only by his skin. Who the hell was
he
to get upset with
him?
Billy had resented him acting like he was the boss. He might have more money than God, but he wasn’t
that
special.
“I told you, you can relax. I’m not Billy Duke for nothing, you know. They won’t catch me. I was completely covered, head to toe. I disguised my voice. I burned the clothes I was wearing, including the mask. I broke up the sunglasses and tossed them into a Dumpster.
“The pistol is in pieces, scattered in storm drains all over the city. Even if the police found all the parts and pieced them back together—the chances of which are slim to none—the gun’s untraceable. I filed off the serial number, and the first shot ever fired from it was at your dear ol’ uncle’s skull.” Creighton had remained unimpressed. Irked, Billy had added, “Look, they can’t link me to the crime. All right?”
“They can place you in the hotel.”
“Along with hundreds of other people. If I’m ever identified and questioned, I have a perfect explanation. I went in to use the telephone.”
“To use the phone?”
“The pay phones off the lobby. I was looking for a job, answering want ads in the newspaper.” Reaching behind him, he’d picked up a stack of folded newspaper pages from the bar and held them where Creighton could see them. “Ads, circled in red ink. Ads with asterisks beside them. Contact names jotted down. I was concentrating on jobs in the area of the hotel. Because my cell phone was on the fritz, the hotel was a convenient, air-conditioned, quiet place from which to make calls. I used it as an office for several days leading up to and including the day Paul Wheeler was shot.
“If the police check those phones off the lobby, they’ll see that I placed several calls to local businesses on each of those four days, numbers listed in these marked ads, inquiring about the jobs they were advertising.
“I even went to two of them and picked up applications, although I never filled one out. So, see, I have a reason for being there, and it can be backed up by irrefutable phone records and the office people I talked to.
“And, on the day of the so-called robbery, I made an appointment with one of the prospective employers for three-forty-five. You’d told me your uncle and the woman were usually out of there by three. She must’ve given him seconds that day, because they didn’t leave the suite until three-ten. Seemed like forever I was waiting in that stairwell, watching the door to their suite. Soon as I saw them leave, I put on the mask and glasses, and bolted down one flight to the eighth floor to stop the elevator. Wasn’t easy. But it worked, didn’t it?”
Creighton had been smiling now. “It did.”
“Did you ever doubt it?”
Creighton had shrugged, leaving Billy to think that maybe he hadn’t had complete confidence in Billy’s abilities to pull it off.
Billy didn’t like Creighton Wheeler, but he wanted his approval. “I waltzed out of the lobby seconds before all hell broke loose. Made it to my appointment with time to spare.”
“You actually went?”
“I was interviewed by the human resources gal. She liked me. Said my credentials were impressive. I think if I’d had all the paperwork filled out, she’d have offered me the fucking job.”
They’d shared a laugh, then Creighton had said, “Give me the stuff.”
Billy’s laughter had faltered. “What stuff?”
“The jewelry you took off the people in the elevator. It wouldn’t do if you were caught with my uncle’s wristwatch.”
“Hell, Creighton, I didn’t know you wanted it. I threw it all away. Tough call, too. That watch alone was probably worth twenty grand.”
“Fifty.”
“Fifty? Jesus. Well, it’s not worth shit now. I threw it into the back of a garbage truck while the trash men weren’t looking. I watched them compact it. The other things were dropped into trash bins all over the city. I suppose there’s a chance a homeless person might find a ring, or a watch, but even if they turned it in to the police—oh, that’ll happen—it could never be traced back to me.”
Creighton had still been looking at him with eyes that seemed never to blink. Billy remembered now wanting to make a dent in the millionaire’s mask. So he wouldn’t feel inferior, like he was the subordinate in their partnership, he’d wanted to awe and dazzle Creighton. He’d asked, “When the police were questioning you, were you shown photos of the murder scene?”
“Why?”
“Just wondering,” he’d said, making it sound casual.
“No, I wasn’t. I believe they were shown to my father.”
“I think you would’ve enjoyed seeing what that elevator looked like.” Billy had got excited while describing to Creighton the exhilaration he’d experienced when he pulled the trigger. “I thought I knew what to expect. I watch movies, too, you know.” He’d grinned. “But, man! It was louder, more…” He’d used his hands to indicate an explosion. “Made a hell of a mess of that elevator, let me tell you.”
The son of a bitch hadn’t even commented on the gory scene Billy had created. “When do you plan to leave, Billy?”
“I told you when.”
“When the funds are deposited into the Cayman account?”
“Cover that last detail, and I’m
adios
. We never see each other again.”
“Perfect.”
“Just like we planned.”

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