The Firm (33 page)

Mitch smiled grimly and stared at the traffic racing past them on the I-240 loop. Abby watched for a sign, a signal, a grunt or groan, anything to indicate good news or bad. She said nothing.

The voice continued: “We’ll take care of you, Mitch. You’ll have access to FBI protection anytime you think you need it. We’ll check on you periodically, if you want. And if you want to move on to another city after a few years, we’ll take care of it. You can move every five years if you want, and we’ll pick up the tab and find jobs for you. Good jobs with the VA or Social Security or Postal Service. Voyles said we’d even find you a high-paying job with a private government contractor. You name it, Mitch, and it’s yours. Of course, we’ll provide new identities for you and your wife, and you can change every year if you desire. No problem. Or if you got a better idea, we’ll listen. You wanna live in Europe or Australia, just say so. You’ll get special treatment. I know we’re promising a lot, Mitch, but we’re dead serious and we’ll put it in writing. We’ll pay a million in cash, tax-free, and set you up wherever you choose. So that’s the deal. And in return, you must hand us the firm, and the Moroltos. We’ll talk about that later. For now, your time is up. Voyles is breathing down my neck, and things must happen quickly. Call me at that number Thursday night at nine from the pay phone next to the men’s rest room in Houston’s on Poplar. So long, Mitch.”

He sliced a finger across his throat, and Abby pushed the STOP button, then REWIND. He handed her the earphones, and she began to listen intently.

It was an innocent walk in the park, two lovebirds holding hands and strolling casually through the cool, clear moonlight. They stopped by a cannon and gazed at the majestic river inching ever so slowly toward
New Orleans. The same cannon where the late Eddie Lomax once stood in a sleet storm and delivered one of his last investigative reports.

Abby held the cassette in her hand and watched the river below. She had listened to it twice and refused to leave it in the car, where who knows who might snatch it. After weeks of practicing silence, and then speaking only outdoors, words were becoming difficult.

“You know, Abby,” Mitch finally said as he tapped the wooden wheel of the cannon, “I’ve always wanted to work with the post office. I had an uncle once who was a rural mail carrier. That would be neat.”

It was a gamble, this attempt at humor. But it worked. She hesitated for three seconds, then laughed slightly, and he could tell she indeed thought it was funny. “Yeah, and I could mop floors in a VA hospital.”

“You wouldn’t have to mop floors. You could change bedpans, something meaningful, something inconspicuous. We’d live in a neat little white frame house on Maple Street in Omaha. I’d be Harvey and you’d be Thelma, and we’d need a short, unassuming last name.”

“Poe,” Abby added.

“That’s great. Harvey and Thelma Poe. The Poe family. We’d have a million dollars in the bank but couldn’t spend a dime because everyone on Maple Street would know it and then we’d become different, which is the last thing we want.”

“I’d get a nose job.”

“But your nose is perfect.”

“Abby’s nose is perfect, but what about Thelma’s? We’d have to get it fixed, don’t you think?”

“Yeah, I suppose.” He was immediately tired of the humor and became quiet. Abby stepped in front of
him, and he draped his arms over her shoulders. They watched a tug quietly push a hundred barges under the bridge. An occasional cloud dimmed the moonlight, and the cool winds from the west rose intermittently, then dissipated.

“Do you believe Tarrance?” Abby asked.

“In what way?”

“Let’s suppose you do nothing. Do you believe one day they’ll eventually infiltrate the firm?”

“I’m afraid not to believe.”

“So we take the money and run?”

“It’s easier for me to take the money and run, Abby. I have nothing to leave behind. For you, it’s different. You’ll never see your family again.”

“Where would we go?”

“I do not know. But I wouldn’t want to stay in this country. The feds cannot be trusted entirely. I’ll feel safer in another country, but I won’t tell Tarrance.”

“What’s the next step?”

“We cut a deal, then quickly go about the job of gathering enough information to sink the ship. I have no idea what they want, but I can find it for them. When Tarrance has enough, we disappear. We take our money, get our nose jobs and disappear.”

“How much money?”

“More than a million. They’re playing games with the money. It’s all negotiable.”

“How much will we get?”

“Two million cash, tax-free. Not a dime less.”

“Will they pay it?”

“Yes, but that’s not the question. The question is, will we take it and run?”

She was cold, and he draped his coat over her shoulders. He held her tightly. “It’s a rotten deal, Mitch,” she said, “but at least we’ll be together.”

“The name’s Harvey, not Mitch.”

“Do you think we’ll be safe, Harvey?”

“We’re not safe here.”

“I don’t like it here. I’m lonely and scared.”

“I’m tired of being a lawyer.”

“Let’s take the money and haul ass.”

“You’ve got a deal, Thelma.”

She handed the cassette tape to him. He glanced at it, then threw it far below, beyond Riverside Drive, in the direction of the river. They held hands and strolled quickly through the park toward the BMW parked on Front Street.

    24    

For only the second time in his career, Mitch was allowed to visit the palatial dining room on the fifth floor. Avery’s invitation came with the explanation that the partners were all quite impressed with the seventy-one hours per week he averaged in billing for the month of February, and thus they wished to offer the small reward of lunch. It was an invitation no associate could turn down, regardless of schedules and meetings and clients and deadlines and all the other terribly important and urgently critical aspects of careers at Bendini, Lambert & Locke. Never in history had an associate said no to an invitation to the dining room. Each received two invitations per year. Records were kept.

Mitch had two days to prepare for it. His first impulse was to decline, and when Avery first mentioned it a dozen lame excuses crossed his mind. Eating and smiling and chatting and fraternizing with criminals, regardless of how rich and polished, was less attractive than sharing a bowl of soup with a homeless down at the bus station. But to say no would be a
grievous breach of tradition. And as things were going, his movements were already suspicious enough.

So he sat with his back to the window and forced smiles and small talk in the direction of Avery and Royce McKnight and, of course, Oliver Lambert. He knew he would eat at the same table with those three. Knew it for two days. He knew they would watch him carefully but nonchalantly, trying to detect any loss of enthusiasm, or cynicism, or hopelessness. Anything, really. He knew they would hang on his every word, regardless of what he said. He knew they would lavish praise and promises upon his weary shoulders.

Oliver Lambert had never been more charming. Seventy-one hours a week for a February for an associate was a firm record, he said as Roosevelt served prime rib. All the partners were amazed, and delighted, he explained softly while glancing around the room. Mitch forced a smile and sliced his serving. The other partners, amazed or indifferent, were talking idly and concentrating on the food. Mitch counted eighteen active partners and seven retirees, those with the khakis and sweaters and relaxed looks about them.

“You have remarkable stamina, Mitch,” Royce McKnight said with a mouthful. He nodded politely. Yes, yes, I practice my stamina all the time, he thought to himself. As much as possible, he kept his mind off Joe Hodge and Marty Kozinski and the other three dead lawyers memorialized on the wall downstairs. But it was impossible to keep his mind off the pictures of the girl in the sand, and he wondered if they all knew. Had they all seen the pictures? Passed them around during one of these little lunches when it was just the partners and no guests? DeVasher had promised to keep them to himself, but what’s a promise
from a thug? Of course they’d seen them. Voyles said every partner and most of the associates were in on the conspiracy.

For a man with no appetite, he managed the food nicely. He even buttered and devoured an extra roll, just to appear normal. Nothing wrong with his appetite.

“So you and Abby are going to the Caymans next week?” Oliver Lambert said.

“Yes. It’s her spring break, and we booked one of the condos two months ago. Looking forward to it.”

“It’s a terrible time to go,” Avery said in disgust. “We’re a month behind right now.”

“We’re always a month behind, Avery. So what’s another week? I guess you want me to take my files with me?”

“Not a bad idea. I always do.”

“Don’t do it, Mitch,” Oliver Lambert said in mock protest. “This place will be standing when you return. You and Abby deserve a week to yourselves.”

“You’ll love it down there,” Royce McKnight said, as if Mitch had never been and that thing on the beach didn’t happen and no one knew anything about any photographs.

“When do you leave?” Lambert asked.

“Sunday morning. Early.”

“Are you taking the Lear?”

“No. Delta nonstop.”

Lambert and McKnight exchanged quick looks that Mitch was not supposed to see. There were other looks from the other tables, occasional quick glances filled with curiosity that Mitch had caught since he entered the room. He was there to be noticed.

“Do you scuba-dive?” asked Lambert, still thinking about the Lear versus the Delta nonstop.

“No, but we plan to do some snorkeling.”

“There’s a guy on Rum Point, on the north end, name of Adrian Bench, who’s got a great dive lodge and will certify you in one week. It’s a hard week, lot of instruction, but it’s worth it.”

In other words, stay away from Abanks, Mitch thought. “What’s the name of the lodge?” he asked.

“Rum Point Divers. Great place.”

Mitch frowned intelligently as if making a mental note of this helpful advice. Suddenly, Oliver Lambert was hit with sadness. “Be careful, Mitch. It brings back memories of Marty and Joe.”

Avery and McKnight stared at their plates in a split-second memorial to the dead boys. Mitch swallowed hard and almost sneered at Oliver Lambert. But he kept a straight face, even managed to look sad with the rest of them. Marty and Joe and their young widows and fatherless children. Marty and Joe, two young wealthy lawyers expertly killed and removed before they could talk. Marty and Joe, two promising sharks eaten by their own. Voyles had told Mitch to think of Marty and Joe whenever he saw Oliver Lambert.

And now, for a mere million bucks, he was expected to do what Marty and Joe were about to do, without getting caught. Perhaps a year from now the next new associate would be sitting here and watching the saddened partners talk about young Mitch McDeere and his remarkable stamina and what a helluva lawyer he would have been but for the accident. How many would they kill?

He wanted two million. Plus a couple of other items.

After an hour of important talk and good food, the lunch began breaking up as partners excused
themselves, spoke to Mitch and left the room. They were proud of him, they said. He was their brightest star of the future. The future of Bendini, Lambert & Locke. He smiled and thanked them.

About the time Roosevelt served the banana cream pie and coffee, Tammy Greenwood Hemphill of Greenwood Services parked her dirty brown Rabbit behind the shiny Peugeot in the St. Andrew’s Episcopal School parking lot. She left the motor running. She took four steps, stuck a key into the trunk of the Peugeot and removed the heavy black briefcase. She slammed the trunk and sped away in the Rabbit.

From a small window in the teachers’ lounge, Abby sipped coffee and stared through the trees, across the playground and into the parking lot in the distance. She could barely see her car. She smiled and checked her watch. Twelve-thirty, as planned.

Tammy weaved her way carefully through the noon traffic in the direction of downtown. Driving was tedious when watching the rearview mirror. As usual, she saw nothing. She parked in her designated place across the street from the Cotton Exchange Building.

There were nine files in this load. She arranged them neatly on the folding table and began making copies. Sigalas Partners, Lettie Plunk Trust, Handy-Man Hardware and two files bound loosely with a thick rubber band and marked AVERY’S FILES. She ran two copies of every sheet of paper in the files and meticulously put them back together. In a ledger book, she entered the date, time and name of each file. There were now twenty-nine entries. He said there would eventually be about forty. She placed one
copy of each file into the locked and hidden cabinet in the closet, then repacked the briefcase with the original files and one copy of each.

Pursuant to his instructions, a week earlier she had rented in her name a twelve-by-twelve storage room at the Summer Avenue Mini Storage. It was fourteen miles from downtown, and thirty minutes later she arrived and unlocked number 38C. In a small cardboard box she placed the other copies of the nine files and scribbled the date on the end of the flap. She placed it next to three other boxes on the floor.

At exactly 3 P.M., she wheeled into the parking lot, stopped behind the Peugeot, opened its trunk and left the briefcase where she’d found it.

Seconds later, Mitch stepped from the front door of the Bendini Building and stretched his arms. He breathed deeply and gazed up and down Front Street. A lovely spring day. Three blocks to the north and nine floors up, in the window, he noticed the blinds had been pulled all the way down. The signal. Good. Everything’s fine. He smiled to himself, and returned to his office.

At three o’clock the next morning, Mitch eased out of bed and quietly pulled on a pair of faded jeans, flannel law school shirt, white insulated socks and a pair of old work boots. He wanted to look like a truck driver. Without a word, he kissed Abby, who was awake, and left the house. East Meadowbrook was deserted, as were all the streets between home and the interstate. Surely they would not follow him at this hour.