by C. E. Murphy
Eliseo Daisani had used the same phrase the first time she’d met him, infusing it with humor and self-deprecation. One point didn’t make a line, but there had been peculiar notes in Daisani’s conversation the morning before. Shock and grief had wiped it from her mind, but he had said, “You came here to ask me that?” when she’d asked if he’d known about the murders, and then said, “Yes. Of course. I see why you would, under the circumstances.” It had been meaningless to her then, but thrown against the context of Russell losing court cases for Janx’s people, it now stood out.
“I know that look, Grit. What’re you thinking?”
She pressed her lips together until they ached. “What I’m thinking could be a huge embarrassment to the police department if I’m wrong. Can I…can you give me an hour or two to follow up on it, Tony?”
“Shit, Margrit.” He stood and she followed suit, the two of them eyeing each other without pleasure. “You’ll tell me if it pans out? We need anything we can get.” He pushed his hand through his hair and glanced toward the Legal Aid building. “That’s why I’m even here. I’m supposed to be on Kaaiai all week and instead I’m pulling double duty because a couple of those names brought up red flags on our Janx file.”
“Oh, God, I forgot. When have you been sleeping?”
“Caught a nap at the station this morning. Grit, are you going to give me what you’ve got?” Tony turned his attention back to her, wary expectation in his gaze. A sizzle of guilt shot through Margrit as she recognized the same pattern of withholding information she’d displayed in January reemerging.
“If it turns out to be anything, I will, Tony, I swear. But believe me, you don’t want to shake the tree I’m thinking of if you don’t have an ironclad reason to. I don’t even want to put ideas in your head.”
“All right.” Tony nodded, as if he knew that Margrit wouldn’t offer up her thoughts until she was ready to. She caught his hand and held it a moment in apology, irrationally stung when he gently pulled away. “You do your thing, Grit. Tell me if you can.”
“I will. I will, Tony, I promise.” The words had too much familiar deception. Margrit ducked her head again and hurried down the steps. When she looked back a moment later, Tony was gazing after her, unhappy resignation creasing his features.
FIFTEEN
MARGRIT STOPPED IN the coffee shop to tell Sam she’d be out for a while, promising she had her cell phone if anything came up. Then she took the subway across town, neither her shoes nor her time frame allowing her to bolt across the city on foot as she wanted to. Tony’s expression haunted her through the short journey. He deserved better, but she’d told the truth: if she was wrong about a connection between Russell and Daisani, it was better for Tony not to have that worm in his ear. He was a good cop, not likely to be led by unfounded suggestion, but once a pervasive idea took hold it could easily blind someone to things he should be seeing.
And if she was right…
Margrit left the subway still uncertain as to what to do if she was right. Miring Daisani in Russell’s murder investigation seemed absurd, even if the links were there. Tony, if he heard Margrit say that, would see it as truth falling before financial power, and she’d be hard-pressed to argue. She had no other way of explaining the reasons for her reluctance.
Alban’s image rose in her mind, blotting out Tony’s. Margrit made a frustrated noise and ducked into her mother’s building.
Rebecca Knight met her in the elevator lobby, alerted to her arrival by a phone call from the first floor. Surprise and worry etched unusually deep lines around her mouth.
“Margrit, what’s going on?” Her mom pulled her into a hug, then leaned back, gaze searching. “Come on, sweetheart. Let’s go to my office.”
Margrit held on a moment, then nodded. “That’d be good.”
They greeted a few people as Rebecca led her down a maze of broad hallways, before ushering her into an office that could have been deliberately designed as the opposite of Eliseo Daisani’s. Where Daisani used rich deep colors, she had pale ones: cream carpets and birch-wood accessories with overtones of gold and orange were played up by sunlight diffused through blinds over the tall windows. The soft light youthened Rebecca and created an almost literal aura of competency about her when she was backlit. It was extraordinary advertising, giving the subtle impression that a client’s money was very nearly in the hands of God, and therefore unimpeachably safe. A tiny smile curved Margrit’s mouth. No wonder Rebecca intimidated people.
Her mother offered her a seat. Margrit took it, then stood again almost immediately, earning more concern. “Margrit, what on earth is going on? Is it Russell?”
“Yes. Mom, I—” Margrit’s pulse accelerated as though she stood in front of a jury. “Mom, I need to ask you a couple of questions and I need you to tell me the truth. I know we’re not…” She sat down again, rubbing the knuckles of one hand into the other palm. “We argue over a lot of things,” she said. “And I know you try to protect me and guide me even when I don’t tell you everything. Nobody tells each other everything.” Nervous energy drove her to her feet yet again. “Right now I need you to.”
“Well.” Rebecca lifted her eyebrows slowly. “In the beginning, there were the dinosaurs….”
Margrit laughed out loud, taken completely aback. Rebecca leaned into the couch, a hint of smugness sparkling in her eyes. Margrit came over to hug her, and Rebecca returned the hug, still radiating contained amusement. “Sweetheart, I have absolutely no idea what’s wrong, but I don’t think I’ve seen you this nervous since you took the bar.”
“I know. I just don’t think this is something you’ll want to talk about. Mom, did you know Russell when he worked for GBI? Thirty years ago?”
Surprise tightened the skin around Rebecca’s eyes, and for a moment Margrit could see her drawing herself into a shell that hid natural feelings. Her heart skipped a beat as she recognized the defense mechanism: for the first time, it struck her as similar to what she did when courtroom nerves were starting to get the better of her. It was her game face, intended to be impenetrable. “We’re more alike than I think, aren’t we?”
Fresh surprise softened Rebecca’s gaze again, a careful smile curving her lips. “I’m afraid so, sweetheart.” She took a breath and held it a moment, then released it. “I did.”
Margrit found herself echoing that breathing pattern, and coughed. “And you never mentioned it because…?”
Rebecca gave her a shrewd look, her lips pursed. “Wouldn’t it be more efficient to just ask what you want to know, Margrit?”
“I’m trying to be a good lawyer, Mom. Trying not to lead my witness.” Daisani’s chiding from the day before had left an impression deeper than she had realized. “I’ve got a lot of puzzle pieces floating around and I’ve made a picture from them, but I want to hear your perspective to see if it’s the right one.”
“And is this under the lawyer-client confidentiality clause?” Rebecca’s light teasing carried an undercurrent of discomfort. She stood as if to shake it off, taking a few quick steps to her desk and then turning to lean against it. “I never mentioned that I knew him because I didn’t particularly like him, and I didn’t want to prejudice you against your employer. Until you went to work for Legal Aid, Russell and I hadn’t spoken to each other in nearly thirty years. There was no reason to. We had nothing in common.”
“Except whatever it was that made Russell rich and makes Mr. Daisani say that you’re a remarkable woman,” Margrit said carefully.
Rebecca’s shoulders drew back. “He said that?”
“The first time I met him. He said you were remarkable, and if you were a little less ethical, you’d have been rich beyond the dreams of avarice.” Rebecca exhaled and turned her head to the side. Margrit swallowed and went on, still choosing her words cautiously. “Tony said there was some question about Russell leaving GBI back then. Some hint of insider trading, but nobody ever proved anything.”
“I thought you were
n’t leading your witness, Margrit.”
“Mom,” Margrit said, very quietly.
Rebecca wet her lips and nodded, still looking away. “I’m sorry. You’re right. This isn’t something I want to talk about.” She fell silent a moment or two, then lifted her chin and looked back at Margrit. “Russell and I were both handling some of Eliseo’s smaller businesses, under the supervision of one of the full partners. It was a test, to see how well we worked on high-stakes, high-pressure operations. Eliseo oversaw a significant amount of what we did personally, partly to add to the pressure.”
“And partly…?”
“In retrospect, it seems clear it was also partly to see if we could be bought. During lunch one day he gave us papers detailing a sale going through on one of his information technology companies.” Rebecca lifted a hand to touch her hair, then let it fall again with a sigh. “I don’t believe it actually occurred to me to act on the tip, but Russell went to bed still in debt from student loans and awakened a millionaire.”
“What’d you do?”
“Confronted him, of course. Whether or not he acted illegally, it was certainly unethical, and he didn’t want to determine legality in a court of law. He’d either be found guilty or he’d have the question haunting him for the rest of his career. I told him to leave the company or I’d push it to court.”
Margrit’s eyebrows crinkled with confusion. “Why not bust the whole operation? You had the goods on Russell and Daisani both.”
Rebecca hesitated a long moment. “Because Eliseo Daisani isn’t the kind of man you imprison, and there was no way to accomplish the one without some risk of the other.”
A bolt of sympathy hit Margrit powerfully enough to steal her breath. She started to stand, but was arrested by her mother’s voice: “I suppose that’s very difficult for you to understand. As a lawyer, I imagine you see prison as an egalitarian accomplishment. Guilt deserves punishment.”
“You’d be surprised. Mom, why do you—” She cleared her throat, trying to rid herself of an ache there. “Why do you say that? That he’s not the kind of man you send to jail?”
Rebecca focused on Margrit as if she’d forgotten she’d been speaking aloud. “It’s hard to send someone with that much money to prison, sweetheart. You know that.”
Margrit opened her mouth and closed it again, an unexpected wave of defeat crashing over her. “Yeah.” She sank back into the couch, deliberately keeping herself from dropping her face in her hands. A moment of connection had passed, and she had no idea how to bring it back without potentially betraying Daisani’s secrets. For a moment she wished vividly that she had a gargoyle’s ability to join with another being on a profound mental level, leaving no secrets unshared. The burden of knowing about the Old Races would seem far less heavy if she knew even one ordinary person who could understand. “Yeah, I do know. So do you think he stayed in Daisani’s pocket after that?”
Rebecca hesitated again. “It’s hard to do business in this city without some kind of interaction with Eliseo or his companies. I avoid working with him directly, but we manage a dozen of his holdings out of these offices alone.” She tapped a finger against her desktop, clearly uncomfortable. It was another moment before she spoke, resolve hardening her tone. “I didn’t trust Russell Lomax, Margrit. I suppose I don’t forgive easily, but he breached my trust and the company’s trust by playing on inside information. It’s because I mistrusted him that I say I wouldn’t assume his law career went untouched by Eliseo Daisani, but I imagine there’s only one person who could really answer that question for you, now that Russell is dead.”
“I guess I’m going to have to ask him.” Margrit turned the idea over in her mind, wondering if there was a way to use the connection between her former boss and her new one to wriggle free of the employment agreement she’d entered. The idea of blackmailing Eliseo Daisani made her huff a tiny laugh.
Rebecca returned to the couch to take one of Margrit’s hands. “You’re better off staying away from Eliseo if you can. I don’t mean to suggest you can’t run your own life—”
“Yes, you do.” Margrit nudged her mother’s shoulder. “You always think you know best.”
“That’s because mothers do,” Rebecca said with a prim sniff. “It’s easy to get caught up in his world, is all I’m saying, Margrit. Wealth carries its own kind of glamour.”
“Mom, I didn’t exactly come from the sticks. You and Daddy make a lot of money.”
“We’re paupers compared to Eliseo’s financial empire. Trust me.” Rebecca’s voice turned wry. “I know how much he’s worth. It’s no secret I want you to do well financially, but once you’re part of Eliseo’s world you never really break free of it again.” Her voice held an odd note, sending curiosity surging through Margrit.
“What do you mean? You haven’t dealt with him since then, have you?”
“Not personally, no, but I can never forget, either.”
Margrit swallowed the confession of her impending employment, and felt another shock of guilt. It was too large a change, too close to Russell’s death, for her to seriously contemplate, much less share. Daisani had promised her a little time; she’d take it before admitting to her friends and family the new direction her life was heading. There was still some small chance she might find a way out of the commitment, though that, too, made her uncomfortable. Daisani was right, and the circumstances under which she’d suggested working for him hadn’t changed. Only everything around them had. “I’m still going to have to talk to him. Tony’s found some information in Russell’s case files that…well, it’s what made me come here to ask you about Russell’s ties to Mr. Daisani.”
“Really. And I thought it was just a social call.” Rebecca’s smile faded, leaving concern in her brown eyes. “I want you to be careful, Margrit. It’s easy to agree to things you’ll later regret when talking with Eliseo.”
Margrit laughed. “I’ve noticed that. I’ll be careful, Mom, I promise. Thanks for looking out for me.”
“It’s what mothers do.” Rebecca stood, glancing toward a clock. “I don’t mean to send you away, sweetheart, but I have a meeting in a few minutes.”
“It’s okay. Thanks for seeing me.” Margrit climbed to her feet and gave her mother another hug, then excused herself with a wave.
A twenty-minute cab ride brought her back to Daisani’s corporate headquarters. Margrit nodded to the security guards on her way in, and one waved her over. She cast a glance at her watch before crossing to him.
He slid a key across the security desk. “Mr. Daisani sent this down for you after you left this morning. Said you’d be needing it. It’s for the elevator bank,” he explained.
Margrit felt her expression clear, then cloud again. “Must be nice to be that confident. Thank you.” She palmed the key and nodded toward the other guard, then went to examine the elevators. A moment of fiddling opened the doors of one with a chime, and she stepped inside with a resigned sense of inevitability. Her reflection in the polished brass walls showed just that, and Margrit shook herself, putting on a better game face. When the doors slid open again, the mirrors showed a well-dressed, confident young woman stepping out of the elevator. Vanessa’s office was abandoned, though voices came from a room at the opposite end of the floor from Daisani’s office. Mouth pursed, she walked in without knocking, and Daisani stood up from a boardroom table with a smile. Half a dozen other men stood as well, less friendly than curious.
“Margrit. Excellent, we were just about to get started. Gentlemen, this is my new assistant, Margrit Knight. She’s a top-notch lawyer, so don’t bother getting clever with your contract language. Margrit?” Daisani smiled again and gestured to a seat to his right, an obvious place of honor at the head of the table.
Bemused, Margrit nodded, said, “Gentlemen,” and sat down to riffle through the stack of file folders at her seat.
Within seconds she wished her mother was there. Thirty years of experience in dealing with finances would have b
een helpful in understanding the fine details of the paperwork she’d been presented with. Margrit stuck a pen in the corner of her mouth, chewing it as she studied the contracts. Part of her wanted to giggle, more from relief than real humor. She felt as though she’d walked into a theatre performance and was expected to know her lines and stage directions without knowing the story. Knowing that Daisani was manipulating her with the situation brought a gurgle of irritation that was mostly buried by the sensation of playacting.
Unexpectedly, her first priority was getting through the meeting without embarrassing herself or her employer: she could deal with the rest of it later. Discussion went on around her, Daisani and the others flipping through papers and arguing over points she only half listened to as she perused the files with as much concentration as she could muster.
Down the table, one of the businessmen watched her surreptitiously, his hand palm-down on the table and held studiously still. Margrit finished skimming through a contract, seeing nothing that sent up a mental warning, and turned to the next file, whose front page was dominated by a brightly colored pie graph that made her think of board games. A muscle in her watcher’s hand jumped and he stretched his fingers again, then broke into laughter with the rest of the businessmen, the result of a half-heard self-deprecating joke Daisani made. Margrit drew out some scratch paper and tapped her pen against the pad, smiling absently when he glanced her way, then returning to the files. Eventually she heard him say her name, and looked up with a blink.
“You’ve ignored us entirely for nearly two hours, Margrit,” he repeated. “Would you care to join us now for a celebratory lunch? I think we’ve broken out the details to a sufficient degree by now.”
“I don’t think you have.” Margrit shifted her papers into a different order, digging up the pie-graph file and two others, then rapping her pen on the scratch pad, where she’d left a pageful of arrows and notes. “They’re written to obscure it, and they do a good job, but these three reports and the contract riders are all moving to buy options on the same company. Different branches, which is why it’s hard to see, but this is the risky one, a media development project for a new cable station. Lot of capital needed there, and it’s shaky, which is why it looks like a good sale. But it’s got a couple of widely diversified backers, one in the corporation’s oil industry and the other in clothes manufacturing. They sweeten the pot to take on the risk of a failure with the cable station, but if I’ve got these figures right they leave the corporation with holdings that are just shy of majority numbers. It’s slick, but the legal department should have caught it. You might want to check and be sure everybody’s still on your payroll.” Margrit squeezed the back of her neck. “I’d say celebrating is premature.”
