The Firm (29 page)

“Did Tarrance grab his arm and force him into the store?” Nathan Locke asked slowly, precisely.

“Hell no. And that’s the problem. McDeere went voluntarily, and when he said the guy grabbed his arm, he’s lying. My man says he thinks they would’ve stayed in there for a while if they hadn’t seen us.”

“But you’re not sure of that,” Nathan Locke said.

“I wasn’t sure, dammit. They didn’t invite me into the store.”

DeVasher kept pacing while the lawyers stared at the floor. He unwrapped a Roi-Tan and crammed it into his fat mouth.

Finally, Oliver Lambert spoke. “Look, DeVasher, it’s very possible McDeere is telling the truth and your man got the wrong signals. It’s very possible. I think McDeere is entitled to the benefit of the doubt.”

DeVasher grunted and ignored this.

“Do you know of any contact since last August?” asked Royce McKnight.

“We don’t know of any, but that doesn’t mean they ain’t talked, does it now? We didn’t know about those other two until it was almost too late. It’s impossible to watch every move they make. Impossible.”

He walked back and forth by his credenza, obviously deep in thought. “I gotta talk to him,” he finally said.

“Who?”

“McDeere. It’s time he and I had a little talk.”

“About what?” Lambert asked nervously.

“You let me handle it, okay? Just stay out of my way.”

“I think it’s a bit premature,” Locke said.

“And I don’t give a damn what you think. If you
clowns were in charge of security, you’d all be in prison.”

Mitch sat in his office with the door closed and stared at the walls. A migraine was forming at the base of his skull, and he felt sick. There was a knock at the door.

“Come in,” he said softly.

Avery peeked inside, then walked to the desk. “How about lunch?”

“No, thanks. I’m not hungry.”

The partner slid his hands into his trouser pockets and smiled warmly. “Look, Mitch, I know you’re worried. Let’s take a break. I’ve got to run downtown for a meeting. Why don’t you meet me at the Manhattan Club at one. We’ll have a long lunch and talk things over. I’ve reserved the limo for you. It’ll be waiting outside at a quarter till.”

Mitch managed a weak smile, as if he was touched by this. “Sure, Avery. Why not.”

“Good. I’ll see you at one.”

At a quarter till, Mitch opened the front door and walked to the limo. The driver opened the door, and Mitch fell in. Company was waiting.

A thick, bald-headed man with a huge, bulging, hanging neck sat smugly in the corner of the rear seat. He stuck out a hand. “Name’s DeVasher, Mitch. Nice to meet you.”

“Am I in the right limo?” Mitch asked.

“Sure. Sure. Relax.” The driver pulled away from the curb.

“What can I do for you?” Mitch asked.

“You can listen for a while. We need to have a little talk.” The driver turned on Riverside Drive and headed for the Hernando De Soto Bridge.

“Where are we going?” Mitch asked.

“For a little ride. Just relax, son.”

So I’m number six, thought Mitch. This is it. No, wait a minute. They were much more creative than this with their killing.

“Mitch, can I call you Mitch?”

“Sure.”

“Fine. Mitch, I’m in charge of security for the firm, and—”

“Why does the firm need security?”

“Just listen to me, son, and I’ll explain. The firm has an extensive security program, thanks to old man Bendini. He was a nut about security and secrecy. My job is to protect the firm, and quite frankly, we’re very concerned about this FBI business.”

“So am I.”

“Yes. We believe the FBI is determined to infiltrate our firm in hopes of collecting information on certain clients.”

“Which clients?”

“Some high rollers with questionable tax shelters.”

Mitch nodded and looked at the river below. They were now in Arkansas, with the Memphis skyline fading behind them. DeVasher recessed the conversation. He sat like a frog with his hands folded across the gut. Mitch waited, until it became apparent that lapses in conversation and awkward silence did not bother DeVasher. Several miles across the river, the driver left the interstate and found a rough county road that circled and ran back to the east. Then he turned onto a gravel road that went for a mile through low-lying bean fields next to the river. Memphis was suddenly visible again, across the water.

“Where are we going?” Mitch asked, with some alarm.

“Relax. I want to show you something.”

A gravesite, thought Mitch. The limo stopped on a cliff that fell ten feet to a sandbar next to the bank. The skyline stood impressively on the other side. The top of the Bendini Building was visible.

“Let’s take a walk,” DeVasher said.

“Where to?” Mitch asked.

“Come on. It’s okay.” DeVasher opened his door and walked to the rear bumper. Slowly, Mitch followed him.

“As I was saying, Mitch, we are very troubled by this contact with the FBI. If you talk to them, they will get bolder, then who knows what the fools will try. It’s imperative that you not speak to them, ever again. Understand?”

“Yes. I’ve understood since the first visit in August.”

Suddenly, DeVasher was in his face, nose to nose. He smiled wickedly. “I have something that will keep you honest.” He reached in his sport coat and pulled out a manila envelope.

“Take a look at these,” he said with a sneer, and walked away.

Mitch leaned on the limo and nervously opened the envelope. There were four photographs, black and white, eight by ten, very clear. On the beach. The girl.

“Oh my god! Who took these?” Mitch yelled at him.

“What difference does it make? It’s you, ain’t it?”

There was no doubt about who it was. He ripped the photographs into small pieces and threw them in DeVasher’s direction.

“We got plenty at the office,” DeVasher said calmly. “Bunch of them. We don’t want to use them, but one more little conversation with Mr. Tarrance or
any other Fibbie and we’ll mail them to your wife. How would you like that, Mitch? Imagine your pretty little wife going to the mailbox to get her
Redbook
and catalogues and she sees this strange envelope addressed to her. Try to think of that, Mitch. The next time you and Tarrance decide to shop for plastic shoes, think about us, Mitch. Because we’ll be watching.”

“Who knows about these?” Mitch asked.

“Me and the photographer, and now you. Nobody in the firm knows, and I don’t plan to tell them. But if you screw up again, I suspect they’ll be passing them around at lunch. I play hardball, Mitch.”

He sat on the trunk and rubbed his temples. DeVasher walked up next to him. “Listen, son. You’re a very bright young man, and you’re on your way to big bucks. Don’t screw it up. Just work hard, play the game, buy new cars, build bigger homes, the works. Just like all the other guys. Don’t try to be no hero. I don’t want to use the pictures.”

“Okay, okay.”

    21    

For seventeen days and seventeen nights, the troubled lives of Mitch and Abby McDeere proceeded quietly without interference from Wayne Tarrance or any of his confederates. The routines returned. Mitch worked eighteen hours a day, every day of the week, and never left the office for any reason except to drive home. Lunch was at the desk. Avery sent other associates to run errands or file motions or appear in court. Mitch seldom left his office, the fifteen-by-fifteen sanctuary where he was certain Tarrance could not get him. If possible, he stayed out of the halls and men’s rooms and coffee room. They were watching, he was sure. He was not sure who they were, but there was no doubt that a bunch of folks were vitally interested in his movements. So he stayed at his desk, with the door shut most of the time, working diligently, billing like crazy and trying to forget that the building had a fifth floor and on the fifth floor was a nasty little bastard named DeVasher who had a collection of photographs that could ruin him.

With each uneventful day, Mitch withdrew even
more into his asylum and became even more hopeful that perhaps the last episode in the Korean shoe store had scared Tarrance or maybe gotten him fired. Maybe Voyles would just simply forget the entire operation, and Mitch could continue along his happy way of getting rich and making partner and buying everything in sight. But he knew better.

To Abby, the house was a prison, though she could come and go at will. She worked longer hours at school, spent more time walking the malls and made at least one trip each day to the grocery store. She watched everyone, especially men in dark suits who looked at her. She wore black sunglasses so they could not see her eyes. She wore them when it was raining. Late at night, after supper alone while she waited for him, she stared at the walls and resisted the temptation to investigate. The phones could be examined with a magnifying glass. The wires and mikes could not be invisible, she told herself. More than once she thought of finding a book on such devices so she could identify them. But Mitch said no. They were in the house, he assured her, and any attempt to find them could be disastrous.

So she moved silently around her own house, feeling violated and knowing it could not last much longer. They both knew the importance of appearing normal, of sounding normal. They tried to engage in normal talk about how the day went, about the office and her students, about the weather, about this and that. But the conversations were flat, often forced and strained. When Mitch was in law school the lovemaking had been frequent and rowdy; now it was practically nonexistent. Someone was listening.

Midnight walks around the block became a habit.
After a quick sandwich each night, they would deliver the rehearsed lines about needing exercise and head for the street. They held hands and walked in the cold, talking about the firm and the FBI, and which way to turn; always the same conclusion: There was no way out. None. Seventeen days and seventeen nights.

The eighteenth day brought a new twist. Mitch was exhausted by 9 P.M. and decided to go home. He had worked nonstop for fifteen and a half hours. At two hundred per. As usual, he walked the halls of the second floor, then took the stairs to the third floor. He casually checked each office to see who was still working. No one on the third floor. He followed the stairs to the fourth floor and walked the wide rectangular hallway as if in search of something. All lights except one were off. Royce McKnight was working late. Mitch eased by his office without being seen. Avery’s door was closed, and Mitch grabbed the doorknob. It was locked. He walked to the library down the hall, looking for a book he did not need. After two weeks of the casual late-night inspections, he had found no closed-circuit cameras above the halls or offices. They just listen, he decided. They do not see.

He said goodbye to Dutch Hendrix at the front gate and drove home. Abby was not expecting him at such an early hour. He quietly unlocked the door from the carport and eased into the kitchen. He flipped on a light switch. She was in the bedroom. Between the kitchen and the den was a small foyer with a rolltop desk where Abby left each day’s mail. He laid his briefcase softly on the desk, then saw it. A large brown envelope addressed with a black felt marker to Abby McDeere. No return address. Scrawled in heavy black letters were the words PHOTOGRAPHS—DO NOT BEND.
His heart stopped first, then his breathing. He grabbed the envelope. It had been opened.

A heavy layer of sweat broke across his forehead. His mouth was dry and he could not swallow. His heart returned with the fury of a jackhammer. The breathing was heavy and painful. He was nauseous. Slowly, he backed away from the desk, holding the envelope. She’s in the bed, he thought. Hurt, sick, devastated and mad as hell. He wiped his forehead and tried to collect himself. Face it like a man, he said.

She was in the bed, reading a book with the television on. The dog was in the backyard. Mitch opened the bedroom door, and Abby bolted upright in horror. She almost screamed at the intruder, until she recognized him.

“You scared me, Mitch!”

Her eyes glowed with fear, then fun. They had not been crying. They looked fine, normal. No pain. No anger. He could not speak.

“Why are you home?” she demanded, sitting up in bed, smiling now.

Smiling? “I live here,” he said weakly.

“Why didn’t you call?”

“Do I have to call before I can come home?” His breathing was now almost normal. She was fine!

“It would be nice. Come here and kiss me.”

He leaned across the bed and kissed her. He handed her the envelope. “What’s this?” he asked nonchalantly.

“You tell me. It’s addressed to me, but there was nothing inside. Not a thing.” She closed her book and laid it on the night table.

Not a thing! He smiled at her and kissed her again. “Are you expecting photographs from anyone?” he asked in complete ignorance.

“Not that I know of. Must be a mistake.”

He could almost hear DeVasher laughing at this very moment on the fifth floor. The fat bastard was standing up there somewhere in some dark room full of wires and machines with a headset stretched around his massive bowling ball of a head, laughing uncontrollably.

“That’s strange,” Mitch said. Abby pulled on a pair of jeans and pointed to the backyard. Mitch nodded. The signal was simple, just a quick point or a nod of the head in the direction of the patio.

Mitch laid the envelope on the rolltop desk and for a second touched the scrawled markings on it. Probably DeVasher’s handwriting. He could almost hear him laughing. He could see his fat face and nasty smile. The photographs had probably been passed around during lunch in the partners’ dining room. He could see Lambert and McKnight and even Avery gawking admiringly over coffee and dessert.

They’d better enjoy the pictures, dammit. They’d better enjoy the remaining few months of their bright and rich and happy legal careers.

Abby walked by and he grabbed her hand. “What’s for dinner?” he asked for the benefit of those listening.

“Why don’t we go out. We should celebrate since you’re home at a decent hour.”

They walked through the den. “Good idea,” said Mitch. They eased through the rear door, across the patio and into the darkness.