by Sydney Bauer
‘Five point three one times. My IQ is 169.’
Hunt paused, before: ‘What did your father do, Jim?’ Another curve ball.
‘My father was a lawyer, he graduated Princeton magna cum laude in 1972.’
‘What kind of people did he represent?’
‘My father represented corporations. He got a summer internship at Fellows and Partner's New Haven Office when he was twenty-two and was made CEO of the national corporation at the age of thirty-five. But I assume you know all that, Mr Hunt – as my guess is, you have done your homework as well.’
It was true of course. Hunt had even organised for five of his younger, impeccably dressed employees to sit in his outer office with fake resumes in their hands knowing full well that Walker was the only man they were interested in.
‘Is your father retired?’ asked Hunt after a pause – another question he had known the answer to several weeks before.
‘No, Mr Hunt, both my parents are deceased.’
‘As are mine,’ offered Hunt. ‘My father suffered a coronary the morning of my Bar exam.’
‘I'm sorry,’ said Walker.
‘Don't be. I achieved the highest mark in the Commonwealth.’
Walker nodded in acknowledgment.
‘Are you married, Jim?’
‘Engaged,’ answered Walker. ‘My fiancée is British. She graduated from Oxford with a degree in the history of art and architecture. She works as a senior curator at the Isabella Stewart Gardiner. Her specialty is sixteenth to nineteenth century European.’
‘She sounds busy, ambitious.’
‘She's both.’
Hunt nodded. ‘Do you compete with one another?’
‘To some degree.’
Another nod. ‘I'd like to meet her,’ he added, before standing to offer Jim Walker his hand. ‘You start the day after tomorrow, Jim, 9 am, but the day after that and every day that follows it'll be five. Tomorrow you go shopping on the corporate account. My assistant will arrange an appointment with a tailor on Newbury Street. I don't ever want to see you in an off-the-rack business suit again, Jim. Do you understand?’
Jim Walker nodded, as Hunt guided him toward the door.
‘I believe your requests to Capital Consolidated's management for a company car were rejected,’ said Hunt.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Then do you prefer BMWs or Mercedes?’
‘BMWs,’ said Walker.
‘All right, we'll start you on a three series and go from there.’
Walker smiled. ‘I am sorry, Mr Hunt, I don't mean to seem ungrateful but …’ Walker turned to face him. ‘There are five other candidates in your outer office and, given I know you are a man to consider all alternatives, why employ me before speaking to them?’
‘Because they are not real candidates, Jim,’ said Hunt.
‘I didn't think so,’ said Walker. ‘You won't regret this, Mr Hunt. I won't disappoint you.’
‘I know you won't, Jim.’
‘Why is that, sir?’
‘Because I won't give you the opportunity.’
*
The clock's chime cut into the crisp air around him, bringing him back into the present. He moved toward the open window, shutting it against the downpour which proceeded to slap in defiance against the reinforced glass. When he first found out, Dick Davenport had apologised – he said that he'd made a mistake and that the responsibility should rest with him. But Dick had been wrong – not just about his being solely responsible for their decision but about it being a mistake. Jim Walker was not a mistake, he was an opportunity, for it was Jim Walker who attracted the woman who eventually became his wife.
Loss and gain, that was what it came down to – and at present the two were on equal footing, one daring the other to step forward so that he might force his adversary out of the game. And it was a game, and one of exceptionally high stakes, not just because of the investment they had made and the risks they had taken to support it, not just because no one else on this planet had the expertise or the infrastructure to offer the same services they supplied, not just because the people they dealt with were smart and incredibly influential, but because this was his brainchild – and one he was determined to protect.
The irony, of course, was that Sienna was both the solution and the problem. Even more ironic was the fact that they had never had the conversation – it was almost like the verbal expression of what they both knew was unnecessary, vulgar almost, considering their respective talents.
Everything was still going to plan – of course now it was somewhat awkward given his situation and the focus inevitably put on him. True, Dick had missed an opportunity on the night of the child's death, but time had been short and the risk too high and the situation had been remedied late last night so in hindsight no harm no foul.
At first glance Cavanaugh appeared a potential problem, but the new evidence should mean that his attachment to the case would be brief. And his dropping of the case would speak volumes. The game would be over for Sienna and then it would be time to move on.
And if not … well, if anything Cavanaugh and his wife's involvement could well lead itself to a unique and potentially highly valuable opportunity. He was not sure how it would work, if it would be necessary, or even if it was possible, but the idea had an almost erotic level of appeal to him – and as such, was well worth exploring, despite the extreme level of risk.
21
They had walked in silence from the county jail's interview room and remained quiet as they rode the elevator to the ground floor, handed in their security badges and made their way toward the oversized reinforced double glass doors. They were both lost for words but simultaneously bursting to discuss the unexpected revelation from their new client that her family had been annihilated – all because of her.
‘What do you think this means?’ Sara asked the minute they took their seats in a corner of a comfortingly crowded, wood-panelled coffee house near the busy North Station.
David shoved the salt and pepper shakers aside so that he could lean into the table. ‘God, Sara, I don't know. She was very definite in her assessment of her situation but – I don't know … when pressed about it she seemed more than a little vague, and Sienna is not an ambiguous woman. She's smart, realistic and she says what she thinks.’
This was true. David and Sara had obviously pushed their client to explain her comments regarding the death of her husband and the subsequent murder of her daughter. But all Sienna could come up with was that Jim Walker had worked with a lot of seriously wealthy clients, people who had millions at stake in investments, people who used and abused the system, people who might be willing to kill in order to protect their empires and the illegalities that kept them afloat.
‘Her argument is that Jim found out about a wrongdoing concerning a particular, but at this stage unidentified, client – and that this client had him killed to keep him quiet,’ Sara spelt it out. ‘And then, as a follow-up to that, the killer murdered Eliza as a warning to Sienna – he assumed Jim told his wife about the illegal activity and killed her child in warning.’
‘But if that is the case, why not just kill Sienna?’ asked David.
Sara shook her head. ‘I don't know. The whole story does seem pretty crazy, David, which is strange because in every other regard she is logical, clever, clear. I mean, if we put that theory in front of a jury as it stands …’
David knew what she was saying – that any jury, hell, any defence attorney with half a brain, would conclude that Sienna Walker was guilty, that the evidence against her would make her outlandish alternative theory look like a desperate – and crazy – attempt to exonerate herself.
Also David was convinced that Daniel Hunt was tied into this situation somehow, but their client certainly made no attempt to point the finger at him – in fact she seemed determined to avoid discussing Hunt altogether.
‘You still think Daniel Hunt is tied to this in some way.’ Sara was reading his
mind.
‘It's just an instinct, but I can't seem to shake it.’
She nodded, before meeting his eye. ‘You're sure this has nothing to do with his …?’
‘With his coming on to you?’
‘He didn't come on to me, David.’
But David was shaking his head. ‘Yes he did, but that's not the only reason he rubs me up the wrong way. His closeness to Sienna is unsettling. According to Joe on the night of the murder he was hovering over her like a praying mantis. If Sienna is right about her husband's situation then Daniel Hunt is the last person we want anywhere near our client. He could well have known what was going on. That's why I told Sienna not to talk to him. I'm sure Hunt will make attempts to visit her, but she has to blow him off. It's also why I've ignored his calls,’ David continued as he gestured at his cell which he'd placed on the table between them. ‘He's called me five times in the past twenty-four hours.’
Sara nodded. ‘She certainly didn't seem keen to see him. If anything she seemed … guarded.’
‘I agree,’ said David.
‘Do you think she may be scared of him?’ asked Sara.
‘He scares the hell out of me, Sara, not in the traditional sense but … if we're right, then just think of what this asshole is capable of.’
‘I understand what you're saying, but we have to remember we're doing a lot of hypothesising here, David. Don't forget that Daniel Hunt was with us when Eliza was killed, and he was in Boston when Jim Walker faced off with that truck.’
‘And I am sure a man like Hunt has people to do his bidding – and the legal fraternity of Boston is a fantastic alibi, and I'll bet he was seen out and about in Boston on the night Jim Walker was killed.’
But Sara still looked unsure – and he knew what she was thinking.
‘I know, I know,’ he said. ‘Jim Walker's death was ruled an accident. There were no bullets, no knives, no outward indications that his death was anything but an unfortunate tragedy.’
‘And proving otherwise, especially since Walker's car exploded on impact, will be nothing short of impossible,’ she reminded him.
He nodded. ‘Then I need to talk to Joe.’
‘It's a big ask, David,’ she said. ‘The accident occurred way south of his jurisdiction, and Joe is the one who has built the case against her. He works for Homicide.’
‘He works for the truth.’
‘Agreed, but right now it looks to all the world that our client is guilty – that David Cavanaugh has either got it wrong or finally compromised on his convictions.’
‘You think people will expect me to go to Weeks and make a case for my removal?’
She nodded. ‘If we are right about Hunt, then maybe that was what he was counting on also – for you to take it on, and then drop it like a hot potato.’
‘Not going to happen, Sara.’
‘I didn't doubt that for a second,’ she smiled.
‘Daniel Hunt wanted me on this case and now I'm on it.’ He looked at his beautiful wife, and in that second remembered the way Hunt had held her. ‘So now he can bring it the hell on.’
22
Madonna Carrera was in the middle of a very interesting magazine article. It was about this nail polish company and the people they employed to come up with fantabulous names for their fantabulous colours. The article listed some of the more established names – like ‘Coney Island Cotton Candy’, and some of its latest bestsellers including ‘I'm Not Really A Waitress’ and the searing red ‘Friar, Friar, Pants on Fire!’ – that were totally flying out the door. The article even had a break-out section where you could vote on the names you liked the best (Madonna fancied ‘My Auntie Drinks Chianti’ because her Aunt Contessa actually did drink Chianti) and win a gift pack of their products, which Madonna was just about to get to, when the unscheduled patient walked sullenly through the door.
‘May I help you?’ asked Madonna, putting down the magazine and taking in the young pregnant girl, her big pink parka and the worn faux sheepskin boots.
‘I want to see Dr Davenport,’ said the girl, a command rather than a request.
‘I am sorry,’ said Madonna, looking at her watch to see it was almost 6 pm. ‘Do you have an appointment?’ she asked, knowing full well this patient, who wasn't at all in the calibre of Dr Davenport's usual clients, had no such thing.
‘I had one at the clinic, in Dorchester,’ she said, referring to the working-class South Boston clinic at which the kind Dr Davenport occasionally volunteered. ‘They did an ultrasound but told me I had to come here straight away for the doctor to assess the images.’ She held up her oversized envelope.
Madonna understood the girl was probably anxious about the clinic's urgent request that she have her images analysed, but her attitude was still more impatience than concern.
‘Well, perhaps if you filled out this patient registration form …’ Madonna retrieved one of the neatly typed white forms and placed it on a clipboard before handing it, and an accompanying pen, to the girl, ‘… I will ask Dr Davenport if he –’
‘Sophia,’ said Dick Davenport. The doctor had opened the door to his office and begun shepherding out a well-dressed couple who looked suitably grateful for Dr Davenport's services. ‘Sophia, why don't you take a seat and I will be with you in a moment,’ he smiled – that smile.
Madonna felt her heart flutter.
‘Mr and Mrs Freeman,’ he said turning to the good-looking pair. ‘Please feel free to call me if you have any further questions. But as I said, I don't see there being any problem.’
‘Thank you so much, Doctor,’ said the wife, a pretty strawberry blonde who looked like the main girl from Grey's Anatomy. ‘You have no idea what this means to us.’
‘It's my pleasure, Virginia,’ said Dr Davenport, patting the woman's hand. ‘I am more than happy to help.’
Dr Davenport turned to Madonna. ‘Madonna, would you mind getting the Freemans a taxi. Mr Freeman has a conference call at his offices in the city in half an hour so the cab will have to be quick.’
The man named Oliver Freeman shook Dr Davenport's hand.
‘That won't be a problem, Dr Davenport,’ smiled Madonna, knowing Mr Freeman was some bigwig corporate genius and that her boss would be upset if such a man were kept waiting. ‘I'll get right on it.’
And then Dr Davenport signalled for the girl named Sophia to follow him into his rooms – and as Mrs Freeman fussed with excitement as she and her silver-haired husband took a seat, Madonna could not help but notice that Dr Davenport did not hold the door open for Sophia as he did for his other clients, which just went to confirm Madonna's suspicions that this woman had no place in a surgery that housed the likes of Doctor Richard Davenport and his attentive assistant Madonna.
23
The following morning
Dr Richard Davenport's Beacon Hill surgery reception area looked more like the lobby of one of those ultra-expensive day spas than a gynaecologist's office. Joe had been to one once – a day spa, not a gynaecologist's surgery – and not by choice. Late last year he and Frank had been called to a ritzy financial district spa called The Sanctuary, which catered for successful female executives big on salary but short on time. A woman had suffered a rare allergic reaction to a plant-based facial scrub and had gone into respiratory failure and subsequently cardiac arrest. But what Joe and Frank found amazing was not the occurrence of the rare allergy, but the fact that the spa management demanded the woman's body be wrapped not in the standard crime scene tarpaulin but in The Sanctuary's plush, white, logoed towels, their motivation being that the corpse had to be wheeled past a popular pilates class, and they didn't want their wealthy, well-toned patrons to be put off by the plastic.
‘I'm sorry,’ said Joe. He was addressing the only thing that didn't scream class in Davenport's five-star reception area – the secretary with the long chestnut hair and the too-short skirt.
‘Yes,’ said the girl, her long fingernails continuing to tap away at her glossy
white keyboard. It was like watching a child trying to use chopsticks to stab at peas, thought Joe – all show and no go.
‘The thing is, Miss …?’
‘Carrera,’ said the girl, the clicking of her talons temporarily suspended.
‘Miss Carrera,’ repeated Joe. ‘But we did make an appointment with Dr Davenport for eight. In fact, he was the one who suggested we come in early.’
‘I understand,’ said Carrera, straightening her back and sticking out her substantial chest with an attitude of indignation. ‘But I am afraid Dr Davenport had an unexpected emergency – a young woman who came in yesterday and needed further appraisal. As you can appreciate, Deputy Superintendent, this is a doctor's surgery not an insurance office.’
‘You always this protective of your boss, Miss Career?’
‘It's Carrera, and the doctor does not need protecting. His old assistant may have allowed interruptions but I dare say that is one of the reasons why Dr Davenport has been so pleased with my efforts. So if you don't mind, I would appreciate it if you could show some respect for the important work Dr Davenport does here,’ the girl went on. ‘It is the least you can do considering you are no doubt interrupting his already –’
But then Davenport's door finally opened and the perfectly groomed doc emerged, his palm firmly planted at the base of the back of a pregnant young woman whom he proceeded to guide through the door. If Joe didn't know better, he might have thought the doc was keen to shove this one out the door, maybe because she had held up the detectives who had been sitting in his waiting room for over half an hour, or maybe because this girl looked even more out of place in these surroundings than the secretary with the nails and the attitude.
‘I am sorry to have kept you,’ said Davenport, not approaching Joe and Frank but beckoning for them to follow him.
‘Looks like we're not going to rate a complimentary cocktail,’ whispered Frank.
‘And I was set on that double shot martini,’ returned Joe quickly, before they moved into Davenport's office and shut the door behind them.
