The Jezebel Remedy (27 page)

“Downs's sister?” Joe asked. “Why?”

“Because, unlike you, I plan to cover all the possibilities.” Toliver licked his index finger and flipped through several pad pages. “Here we go. A little example of that principle for you. A freebie. Back in December, bunch of dumb-ass kids was pilferin' laptops from Walmart, so I'm there at the store watchin' the security video, and I see Lettie on the recordin'. This particular video is smack dab from around the time she officially went missing—had to be the night before the fire—and she's got a mound of crap at the register. Late, nearly midnight. Can't tell what it is, but with her just being found dead, I check the register tape and, no surprise, there's the camp fuel and matches and iodine for the meth, but why the hell is she buyin' a sleeping bag and toiletries? A plastic poncho?”

“So she can spend the night with her dope?” Joe speculated. “Monitor the brew? Maybe the poncho's like an apron or lab coat to protect her from the chemicals.”

“Possible, I suppose, but she was so damn tight; she lived off metal scavenging and a little check from her dead brother's pension, right? She's springin' for a quality sleepin' bag?”

“She got around twelve hundred bucks a month from her brother's railroad pension. She was his beneficiary.”

“Just something to keep in mind,” Toliver noted. “May be nothing. Not easy to get a read on a crazy woman with a meth habit.” Toliver shut his pad. “I'll be in touch when I'm done. Meanwhile, you might want to start ponderin' about some chaps in case you have to lay that high-octane moped beast down on the blacktop. Me, I'd suggest a pair with some major fringe.”

That same afternoon, Lisa spoke with Burke Loggins, who was threatening to file suit against M.J. on behalf of his client, Teddy Bear Brian.
Loggins's secretary had phoned, then placed Lisa on hold, resurfacing several minutes later to apologize because “Mr. Loggins has went to take an emergency call in the library.”

“No problem,” Lisa assured her. “I'm sure an important lawyer like Mr. Loggins is extremely busy. I'm grateful he's clearing space to speak with me.” Lisa had checked, and Loggins had a poor Martindale-Hubbell rating, the lowest grade the company used. “I just hate to run up his long-distance bill.”

“Oh, heck, we're on his cell phone. We use it as the main line here at the office. He has unlimited minutes.” The secretary paused. Lisa imagined her unwrapping a stick of gum to smack, or maybe readying her nail file. “Oh, okay, here you go. Mr. Loggins can talk with you now. Please stay on the line for Attorney Loggins.”

“Mrs. Stone, Burke Loggins here. Look forward to doing business. Sorry about the delay on hold. Megacase in federal court starting to boil, and I had to take a conference call from the judge.” The voice belonged to a sweaty, desperate, conniving and sketchy man, the words too gassed and falsely convivial, the rhythm a huckster's oily southern cadence, hawking tickets to a hoochie-coochie tent or peddling genuine Armani suits straight from the Italian factory at a 50 percent discount.

“No problem. Federal cases can be the worst.”

“Tell me about it,” Loggins said.

“So as I understand matters, you're planning to sue my client, M. J. Gold, based on various workplace claims.”

“Hate to have to do it, but what choice has she left us?”

“I understand your position. Let me communicate ours.” Her timbre changed. Lisa spoke precisely, sternly. “You and I both know you have absolutely no claim. Your guy never worked for Miss Gold, never—”

“Hey, now,” Loggins interrupted, “we aren't conceding that. That hound won't hunt for you. She wrote him checks and hired him onto her payroll. Nosirreebob, we believe he was an employee.”

“She also wrote checks to plumbers, the dry cleaners and her nieces and nephews for their birthdays. Be that as it may, we realize this is a shakedown.”

“Mrs. Stone, are you accusing me of something dishonest? Unethical?” Loggins pumped his voice with indignation. “ 'Cause if you are,
we may have other avenues to pursue. Are you saying I'm filing a bogus suit? We'll end this call right now and let a jury decide the merits of our claim.”

“Hear me out,” Lisa said calmly. “You have no case. No legal case. It'll never reach a jury.”

“You'll damn sure learn different, I can promise you. My draft complaint has seven separate counts. They're all legit. Winners.”

“Excellent. Add three more and make it an even ten. I have a saying: An aboveground pool will always be an aboveground pool, no matter how elaborate the deck and how expensive the chaise lounges.”

“Yeah, well, this pool is dug deep in the ground with concrete around the edges.”

“But, Mr. Loggins—if you'd just let me finish—please understand we
want
you to file your claim. We hope to make this a mutual and beneficial effort.”

“You do? Well, you'll get your wish.”

“All we ask is that we have some input into the press release, and that we know when you plan to hold the news conference.”

“Why?”

“I don't mind telling you that Miss Gold sees mostly upside to this suit, especially since she has no financial exposure in the courtroom. As matters stand today, she's rich and famous, but famous only at a certain level. She wants her profile raised, and this suit, if it's drafted properly and colorful enough and handled correctly, will accomplish her goal. Right now, she's Montel Williams. Maybe Ricki Lake. She wants to be Oprah, if you catch my drift.”

“Uh-uh. Not really.”

Lisa spoke faster and enthusiastically. “Simply stated, she becomes one of the guys, rich and powerful enough to warrant her own handsome younger boyfriend. She's broken through the last barrier. You see movie stars and entertainment industry women who can call these kinds of shots, but not in the business world. She'd be the first female captain of industry with a bimboy, if we can control the press and spin the story in that light. And we think we can. We have press contacts who've been alerted. We just want them there for your announcement.”

“Seems crazy to me.”

“Really? Crazy like Donald Trump and Marla Maples? Richard Branson was absolutely ruined by his sexual harassment suit, huh? Quite the opposite, it makes these guys look like rich-ass swashbucklers who can do as they please. They're invincible. They can buy, manage and control beautiful people. And that, Mr. Loggins, translates into a perception of power, especially with other men.”

“How would this be helpful to my client?” Loggins asked. “How would he be compensated for his damages?”

“He doesn't have any damages, okay? But at the end of the day, we'd be willing to pay you guys to be our Washington Generals. We of course will be the Harlem Globetrotters. But only if you take it all the way to trial. Part of the process, part of the illusion, is thrashing you in court. Not only does Miss Gold have sex with your attractive young client in exchange for a TAG Heuer and a trip to Barbados, but she also crushes him legally, which you and I both realize is inevitable. Settling would make her seem weak and undermine our long-term program. I'm definitely not asking you to intentionally tank the case. That
would
be unethical. Just make sure we get it before a judge, so it winds up dismissed. Don't white-flag it or withdraw it once it's filed.”

“What kind of number were you thinking of for us to become involved?”

“Maybe five grand at the end of the trial. We'd pay it under the pretext of preventing an appeal.”

“Have you lost your mind? We won't take less than a hundred thousand.”

“You mean pesos?” Lisa asked. “Or maybe baht? Certainly not dollars?”

“We'll just file suit,” Loggins barked. “Nothing to lose. We're playing with your money.”

“True, but you're playing with your own as well,” Lisa told him. “We'll absolutely wear your ass out in discovery. And in the end, two years from now and at the conclusion of all kinds of tedious work, you'll get nothing. We truly want this to go on forever. Miss Gold sees it as part of her advertising budget. Cheap publicity. You have to understand, she doesn't fear the publicity. She wants it. She didn't become rich by making orthodox choices.”

“Bullshit,” Loggins challenged her. “You think I'm that gullible?”

“What do you have after you file a suit that's a loser? You think your money's in the bluff. Normally, you'd be correct. But after you file, you're on the fast track to the sewer. Nothing but our beating you down and then humiliating you before a court on summary judgment. You'll never see a dime and you'll be tied up for years. Listen, maybe Miss Gold would kick in another grand or two to compensate your client for the pussy factor.”

“Pardon me? That's real professional, Mrs. Stone. Nice mouth.”

Lisa chuckled. “I just mean the embarrassment factor. He'll be a laughingstock and seen in many quarters as a pussy. Come on: A man gets a weekly allowance and travels around the world for free, and now he's suing the very attractive woman who made it possible? Have you seen Miss Gold? She's a pretty lady, and it's not as if there's some thirty-year age gap. And his job is to have sex? How do you think that'll play with the public? Or the men in Miss Gold's various heavy-equipment businesses? I can't wait to ask your boy Brian how he was able to produce erections under such awful duress. You'll come off as truly impressive too, for taking and promoting such a pathetic suit. The two of you will never sit on a barstool again without being ridiculed.”

“How about twenty-five now? We sign a confidentiality agreement.”

“How about you actually understand what I'm telling you? You have no value to us unless you go through with this, and we shape the media and the press runs with it and the whole production enhances Miss Gold's image. Why would we pay you to settle?”

“Fifteen?” Loggins wheedled.

“Six at the end, after the case is dismissed. Only then and not a dime more. Oh, and tell Brian to take his damn picture down from the plushie website. Miss Gold wants be seen as powerful, not as a character in ‘Goldilocks.' I'll fax you some details for the press conference. We hope you'll mention my client's net worth. We've exaggerated it a bit, but I think it'll fly.”

“The what site?” Loggins sounded confused. Lisa imagined him slumped against a desk in a two-room, strip-mall office, crestfallen and stymied, his cell phone at his ear, his name and occupation posted outside on the giant parking lot directory, sandwiched between the listings for a chain hair salon and a Dollar Tree store.

“FurNation,” Lisa told him. “He's sexually aroused by dressing in a teddy bear costume. Truth be told, that's why my client dumped him. He needs to delete his account and stay off the site.”

Loggins made a sound that was mostly a grunt.

“Mr. Loggins? Are you there?”

“Yep.”

“Do we have an understanding?” Lisa asked.

“I'll have to, uh, run it past my client. Seems like a long investment for a small payoff. And hey, Burke Loggins doesn't have a big interest in being somebody's stooge. Not how I operate.”

“Sure. And to make this happen, we won't try to humiliate you personally or anything, or chump you any more than is absolutely necessary—I probably stated the ridicule angle too strongly. We could negotiate those terms if need be.”

“I'll be in touch,” Loggins said, though he didn't even attempt to sound sincere, spit the words plain and rushed and dry.

Lisa hung up, dialed M.J. and informed her that she was fairly sure Bear Brian's whore lawyer had been buffaloed into abandoning the suit. “Once I convinced him you weren't afraid of the publicity, he lost his extortion leverage and we were in the clear. There's no chance he's going to hang around for two years while we go upside his head day after day and make him our courtroom bitch and media prop.”

“Brilliant. What a relief. Wonderful. You realize I'd be mortified if this really hits the papers. Lord above, it would be awful. I was thinking of the opposite strategy, loading up and threatening him with blood in the streets if he did file the stupid paperwork and started yakking to the media. Thank our lucky stars Brian picked this clown to represent him. Of course, my sources tell me he was turned down by just about every reputable lawyer in Raleigh, so this parasite had to be at the bottom of the barrel. Bless you. Send me a bill.”

“No charge, M.J. I'll put it in the favor book and then hold it over you for decades. That's what friends do.” Lisa laughed. “Or you can treat me to the VIP experience at the Ice Follies or whatever they call it now. I'll follow up with Loggins in a day or two, keep pushing like we genuinely want him to file the suit. I'll have Betty fax him some bogus info and our fake press release.”

“You, Lisa Stone, are the best.”

Seth Garrison's helicopter was impressive, much larger than Lisa had anticipated. A Benecorp employee named Arch Harvey met them at the Virginia Beach airport and accompanied them across the tarmac and introduced them to the pilot, who was dressed in a crisp white shirt and dark blue captain's uniform and had very little to say, though he did shake hands with her and Joe. His name was Alden—she was never certain if this was his given name or his last name—and he had the demeanor of a man who positively lived for the bottom to fall out, was eager for a stall or turbulent weather or a mechanical hiccup so he could dose up on adrenaline and show off his talent. “Would you prefer the quick route or the tourist trip to the ship?” he demanded, the inquiry blasé and impersonal.

“How much longer,” Joe asked, “is the tourist flight?”

“It's about sixteen minutes as the crow flies. So if I throw in some sights, probably closer to half an hour, maybe thirty-five minutes. Either way, you'll be on the ship in time for breakfast.”

“What would we see?” Joe asked.

“A lot more ocean. A lot more beach. The city.”

“Let's just get there,” Joe said and looked at Lisa. “You okay with that?”

“Same trip would cost you four or five hundred bucks if you paid for it on some tour,” Alden explained, still no inflection in his voice. “But it's your call.”

“I'd just as soon take the quick route,” she said.

“Fine by me,” Alden noted. “I'll radio the ship and let Mr. Garrison know our ETA.” He was looking toward Joe; it was impossible to see
Alden's eyes behind his dark glasses. “You planning on doing some bullet fishing? A short L-frame thirty-eight, right?”

Joe didn't flinch. He and Lisa had agreed on bringing the gun—who knew what might crop up? “Pretty difficult from a helicopter, even with 158-grain hollow points. My own reloads.” He smiled slightly. “More sport in a fly rod too. Who the hell would want to shoot a fish?” Joe glanced at the horizon, spoke with his attention at a distance, elsewhere. The pistol was holstered on his belt, draped by his blazer. He was also wearing a tie and gray slacks.

“You might be surprised,” Alden said, still impassive. “They'll collect your gun as soon as you board, or you can check it with me. Whatever you prefer.”

“You seem trustworthy enough,” Joe said. “You can hold it while we're visiting with your boss. By the way, what kind of helicopter is this?”

“Agusta AW109.”

“It's quite a trick. You mind my asking how much it sells for?”

“No secret,” Alden said. “You can find basic prices on the Internet. Around six million. This has some serious custom options, so add several hundred thousand more.”

“My friend M. J. Gold has a private plane,” Lisa remarked. “She says there's nothing to compare with flying under the right conditions. She claims it's addictive.”

“I'll help you both in,” Alden said, evidently done with the chitchat.

The passenger compartment was sealed off from the pilot's cabin, a separate, ritzy, flying room. She and Joe were by themselves, belted into comfortable leather seats with a polished wood console between them. Despite the console, they held hands for most of the trip. It occurred to her, as she looked down at the soft seam where water joined land, that for the very first time since Nassau, she hadn't immediately defaulted to thoughts of her infidelity as she'd admired her husband on the tarmac, counting on him to handle the situation with Alden, grateful he was his own man, feeling fortunate she was married to a badass who could build his own bullets if the store-boughts ran dry. It was a moment to mark: Realizing her affection for Joe hadn't served to merely set her cheating in vivid relief and amplify her guilt.
“I love you,” she mouthed, and he squeezed her hand. The helicopter zoomed ahead, all business.

Once on the ship, she and Joe were greeted under the dying chopper blades by a crouched, older man with
LEX, SECURITY
written in block letters on his name tag. Chipper and talkative, he dutifully wanded them—apologizing in advance for the intrusion—and then steered them through a metal detector. Joe informed him that he'd “stashed a couple vodka mini-bottles in my boot for the encore,” and Lex got the joke and laughed. He told them that Prince had performed a private concert for Mr. Garrison's last birthday. Lex also searched Lisa's purse, and the rummaging annoyed her, this man peeking into her belongings, opening a compact and taking the top off a lipstick tube, for crying out loud.

Seth Garrison was waiting for them in a conference room, and he was a polite host, met them at the door and thanked them for suffering the trip to see him. He was dressed in a black, collared shirt with the tail untucked, black jeans and black canvas boat shoes. Lisa knew from reading about him he was thirty-eight years old. His hair was black as well, thick and parted, surprisingly dated, reminded her of Emilio Estevez's clunky cut in
St. Elmo's Fire
. He wore a permanent three-day beard, the kind that came from a specialty razor, not inattention. There was an earring, too, a modest diamond. His watch was showy. His teeth were professionally aligned and chemically whitened, but his skin seemed appropriate for his age—no fillers or lifts as far as she could tell. He was slightly built, almost skinny, about an inch taller than she was.

“Please, have a seat. What can I offer you? Breakfast? Have you eaten already?”

“Just coffee for me, thanks,” Lisa said. It was a few minutes past eight.

“What're my choices?” Joe asked.

“Do you like seafood? Our chef cooks a great seafood omelet.”

“Sure,” Joe said. “This would seem to be the ideal place for fresh seafood.”

“Still only coffee for you, Mrs. Stone?”

“I'm good. Coffee's fine. Regular. Skim milk and half a packet of
real sugar.” She noticed that Garrison was not at all impressed or distracted by her appearance, didn't gawk or goober-smile or miss a beat in their conversation or freeze his face with hysterically fake apathy.

He used an intercom to send their order to the galley, also requesting a seafood omelet for himself. They settled around an oval-shaped table, she and Joe across from Garrison.

“I'm not familiar with how you do business,” Garrison said. “Would you prefer to begin, or wait until we've eaten? I'm at your disposal.”

“I'd say we go ahead,” Lisa suggested. There was a large window behind Garrison, and she could see the ocean. The ship sat steady, with no pitch or sway. “We don't want to waste your time.”

“I agree,” Joe said. “But we'll leave it to you to set the agenda. What exactly
is
our business, Mr. Garrison?”

“Cool.” He slid away from the table and crossed his legs. Oddly, he was wearing ribbed black cotton socks with the boat shoes. “It's simple, really. I'm interested in the late Miss VanSandt's VV 108. I want to own the rights. I thought I already did.”

“You bought the rights from Neal?” Lisa asked.

“Yes. The whole enchilada.” He shrugged. “But now I'm hearing we might not have what we'd hoped to purchase. I'd like to clean that up.” He was amiable and relaxed.

“Our problem,” Joe said, “is that we have no idea—”

“What the Wound Velvet is worth,” Lisa finished. “We don't know what it does or why you want it.”

“And I'm in no position to tell you.” Garrison spread his hands, palms exposed. “I'm sure that doesn't come as a big surprise.”

“No,” Joe said, “but it does leave us at an impasse. The pig in the poke might turn out to be the grand champion.”

A uniformed woman—probably eastern European, Lisa surmised—appeared and set the table with coffee cups, water glasses, cloth napkins and silverware. The ship's name,
Wave Length
, was sewn into the napkins.

“I understand,” Garrison said, speaking as the steward went about her tasks. “If you in fact own the pig and the poke. Our lawyers have checked the records in Virginia, and it seems possible that you're bluffing us.”

“Mr. Garrison,” Lisa replied, “you aren't meeting with us over some minor tweak to an in-house program.”

“True. You're bright people. You're smart enough to realize as much.”

“Why, then, did your employee, Mr. Pichler, tell us a cock-and-bull tale?” she pressed. “Lie to us?”

Garrison smiled. “Ah, the cross-examination starts. Listen, I regret that. Mr. Pichler's a loyal employee and an excellent administrator. He is not a very good businessman or negotiator.”

“You don't have to be a good businessman to tell the truth,” Lisa pointed out.

“I agree,” Garrison said. “Exactly. And we're together now so I can make amends and correct his error.” The steward poured coffee for him, and he thanked her. “But can we please get back to my concern: Does some trust or foundation own the rights to the formula? A simple question. There's no need for much more discussion if we already own the VV 108.”

“As best we can tell,” Lisa said, “the asset was in fact transferred to you via the estate. We originally thought it was probable that Lettie had assigned it to one of her many projects. Turns out she didn't.”

Her coffee was poured next, the skim milk and sugar packet brought on a separate saucer. The steward filled Joe's cup, then left.

“An honest mistake on your part,” Garrison finally said. “I appreciate your letting me know. Thank you.” He sounded sincere, not a speck of irony or smarm in the words.

“But that doesn't end our interest in the situation,” Lisa said.

“Obviously not, since you drove all the way here.”

“We think there're bigger issues,” Joe said.

“Okay, but I'm not exactly sure where you're headed,” Garrison replied, his expression cheerful, his tone still hospitable.

The steward reappeared and served Joe and Garrison their omelets, which came with fresh fruit and toast.

“What do you believe happened to Lettie?” Lisa asked. She focused on Garrison, made it a point to let him see her staring.

He sawed off a piece of omelet with his fork. “I believe she died in a fire. I understand the fire was related to meth production.” He chewed
and swallowed while she inspected him. He laid his fork across the plate, tines down. The metal on china caused a small squeak. “Why're you asking me?”

“We don't think it's so simple,” Lisa said.

“The police are investigating her death as a homicide,” Joe added. He hadn't touched his breakfast. Chunks of crab and curled shrimp protruded from yellow egg.

“A homicide?” Garrison repeated. “Why? How come?”

“I'm not sure we have all the facts,” Joe said. “We do know that Dr. Downs has given the cops information that contradicts portions of Pichler's account. Downs believes she was murdered.”

“Is your breakfast not up to par?” Garrison directed the question at Joe. “You're not eating.”

“It's perfect,” Joe answered.

“I don't know if my bud Downs happened to mention it or not, but he's crazy. Now, he's also a remarkable scientist, which is why I kept him around as long as I did and paid for his various stints in recovery, but make no mistake, he's thoroughly off the rails. It's very sad. There's an infinitesimal boundary between genius and lunacy, and it seems the best in the arts or sciences are those who can tightrope along the division and flirt with both sides and not tumble off into the void. I'm a fan of William James's theory of breaching the difficult barrier between the conscious and unconscious. There's a storehouse in our minds that we access only occasionally. Of course, James used peyote and nitrous oxide to open the door. Probably not such a great idea.” He took hold of the fork and severed another bite of omelet. “Poor Downs has stumbled too far into the crazy camp these days. But I still like him and wish him well. He made a lot of money for us.”