Stolen Thoughts

by Tim Tigner

  Once Sackler was sawing logs, they removed his bonds and returned everything else to normal. Then they retreated to the closet where they would stay until he left the apartment—or died.

  64

  Headaches and Worries

  WALTER SACKLER considered himself to be a simple yet sophisticated man. Simple in that he knew what he liked and he limited his life to those few things. Sophisticated in that he was highly discerning about them. He liked eating out, but only at excellent establishments. They didn’t need to be five-star—street carts and pizza parlors could be excellent—but they had to be special. He liked socializing over his meals, but only with people whose minds and means were in the same rarefied stratosphere as his own. Fortunately, New York City was the perfect place to find both.

  Given the unpredictability of weekdays and evenings, Sackler had just two standing social events on his calendar. Both were on weekends, and both were with fellow elite members of the legal community. First Fridays were poker nights at the Harvard Club with fellow law school alums. He kept his glasses powered off during those. Well, except when Arnie Levitz showed up. Arnie had won the class trophy their year, and Walter had vowed he’d never be bested by that little prick again.

  Saturdays kicked off with a 9 a.m. attorneys’ brunch at Tavern On The Green, the legendary Central Park eatery. A two-hour, Mimosa- and Bloody-Mary-soaked palate-cleansing session used to share frustrations of the past week so they wouldn’t fester during the week ahead.

  At least, that was the stated idea. The founding principle.

  Sackler gained additional advantages at both, of course, but especially at the brunch where he could read his colleagues’ minds. While the legal elites were all in the stew together, fighting the same temperamental judges, tangled bureaucracies, and twisted rules, they were also, of course, competitors. Both for clients and for ego points. It served Sackler well to know what his peers truly thought as they smiled over shared meals and pretended to be friends.

  Except that today, he was not being served.

  As Lowell Matthews chimed in on the masterful managing of the witnesses in the Pascal case, Sackler could not read his mind. Just as he wasn’t able to read the other four minds around their table. Or the server’s for that matter. It was their usual table, so the odds of some atmospheric interference were small, but it felt that way. He could catch an occasional word, but not much more. His glasses had to be on the fritz.

  Except maybe they weren’t.

  He’d woken with a terrible headache and an uneasy feeling. Neither was like anything he’d previously experienced. His first thought was food poisoning. He’d joined a few friends for dinner at a trendy Japanese restaurant, where they’d drowned the week’s stress with sake and sushi. No one had opted for the potentially deadly Fugu, the puffer fish, but it was in the kitchen along with who knew what else. The Japanese were well known for eating anything you could pull out of the ocean.

  Another thought that struck him as he exited his steamy shower was a forgotten concussion. Physical trauma. An impact that had smashed his brain against his skull. He didn’t play football, and he hadn’t been in a car crash, but he had the vague recollection of something bad happening. Had he slipped? Hit his head and gone to bed? Or maybe fallen out of bed at night? The polished marble floors were beautiful but, well, hard as a rock. A cursory feel hadn’t revealed a bump, but maybe he should get his head looked at.

  If it wasn’t simply an eyeglasses malfunction. He had a spare pair at home and another in the office. Under biometric and combination lock, of course. But better to go straight to Trent. Keller assembled and serviced their eyewear. He could try his glasses there and then and— No, that might be a bad idea. What if it was him and not the glasses? What if it was permanent? Without mind reading, he’d no longer be on par with his partners. He’d be putting himself at a significant disadvantage. No lawyer worthy of his membership to the bar ever did that. Then again, he couldn’t effectively hide it either. Not during a trial. He’d be handicapped. You might as well take away his eyes, given the extent to which he relied on his sixth sense.

  “Are you all right?” Lowell asked.

  Sackler refocused and saw that everyone was looking at him. He took a deep breath. “Actually, I have a killer headache. Woke up with it, and the coffee didn’t chase it away.”

  “That’s a Bloody Mary in your hand, Walter,” Gavin Gates said, trying to coax a smile.

  “Good point.” He raised his hand and quickly caught the server’s eye. A benefit to being a regular customer and big tipper. “I’ll take a double espresso, please.”

  He was eager to leave, to swap out his glasses, but couldn’t show any weakness to this crowd. He would finish his brunch—without another sip of booze—then swap out his glasses at home. If that didn’t solve his mind-reading problem, he’d head to the hospital for a checkup. If they didn’t find anything, he’d take it easy and hope to wake up healthy tomorrow. If that didn’t happen, well, then things were going to get interesting when court resumed on Monday morning.

  65

  Creative Cooking

  CHASE HANDED his server $100 before following Sackler and his bodyguard from the famous restaurant. As predicted, the attorney headed northwest, toward home and the office, rather than deeper into Central Park.

  Keeping pace about fifty feet behind, Chase popped in an earbud and speed-dialed Skylar. He expected the call to go straight to voicemail, given that she’d been up for most of the night, but she picked up immediately.

  “How’s it going?” she asked.

  Skylar had kept him apprised of developments in Sackler’s bedroom and bathroom by texting from the closet, so Chase was ready and waiting when Walter walked out the lobby door at 8:50, heading for his 9:00 brunch.

  “We just left Tavern On The Green, where he met five guys for lunch. Looked like a lawyers’ club, but I’m guessing. I couldn’t get near enough to overhear anything or smell the brimstone.”

  Skylar chuckled. “What’s the verdict?”

  “I think it worked. He seemed distracted and irritated. He ended up breaking with the bottomless Bloody Marys in favor of espresso during the middle of his meal.”

  “Vicky will be thrilled to hear that.”

  “She asleep?”

  “Yep. What’s next?”

  “Looks like he’s heading either home or to the office. I’ll keep you posted.”

  Chase kept his promise by walking through their front door five minutes later. “I’m back,” he called while heading toward the big window in the living room.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I stuck a camera on the lobby wall, just inside the front door. I can grab the signal from the window seat.”

  “You’re just going to sit there and watch it until he leaves again?”

  “Well, I’m hoping you’ll relieve me for a bathroom break or two if necessary, but I don’t think it will be. I think he’s going to be heading out soon.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “What would you do if you discovered that your ability to read minds had vanished?”

  “I’d check my equipment.”

  “Right. I assume he’s putting on a spare pair now. But we know the glasses aren’t the problem. So what’s next?”

  “Next I’d go to my doctor. Complain of a severe headache or something similar in order to get tested.”

  “Exactly. And there he is now, talking to Charles. Gotta go.”

  Chase switched his polo shirt from black to white and his sunglasses from black framed to gold aviators on his way out the door. He ran down the stairs and entered the lobby only to find Sackler still chatting up Charles and not looking happy while his bodyguard blended into the woodwork.

  Chase walked past them and out the front door without observably paying anyone the slightest attention. He headed for the nearest crosswalk, hoping to follow them to a hospital from in front. Mount Sinai, Lenox Hill, and Presbyterian Hospital were all a
cross the park. Given the weather, he was hoping Sackler would walk rather than ride.

  Two minutes later, that was exactly what the lawyer did.

  Chase didn’t enter the hospital elevator with the ailing attorney and his bodyguard. He didn’t need to know the office or floor. The very fact that Sackler was seeking medical attention was all Chase needed to know.

  He returned to the apartment to find Vicky brunching with Skylar. Both looked his way expectantly. “What did you learn?” Skylar asked.

  Chase looked at Vicky. “He went to a concierge medical practice over by Mount Sinai. You did it!”

  Vicky exhaled, long and slow, then asked, “Did you hear Sackler speak?”

  “Not really. He only talked at the table, where he was too far away to distinguish. I’d have tried to listen in if not for the bodyguard.”

  “Did you get the impression that his speech was normal?”

  “I did. Nobody was looking at him funny. He seemed anxious and preoccupied during the meal and after, but otherwise normal.”

  “And he looked healthy? His face in particular.”

  “No sign of stroke, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “It is.”

  “So your opinion is that the procedure was a success?” Vicky pressed.

  “It is. Sackler seemed normal enough until—my assumption—he realized that he wasn’t reading minds. That tells me he didn’t have other significant symptoms.”

  “What do you think they’ll find at the hospital?” Skylar asked.

  “I don’t know. His bloodwork will probably still show the Rohypnol, if they look for it. A CT scan might reveal signs of stroke, but it might not. Depends on whether the low-power zap caused bleeding while denaturing the target cells. Given what you’ve reported, I’m hopeful that it didn’t.”

  “Won’t the scan show the cell damage your device did inflict?”

  “It would show up if anyone were looking for it, but they won’t be. Medical screenings follow protocols based on percentages and they’re analyzed by people trained to look for specific anomalies.”

  “In other words, they’re not Sherlock Holmes investigations,” Chase clarified.

  “Exactly. Who’s got time for that?”

  After a moment of silent digestion, Skylar asked, “So now what?”

  “Now we zap the other three,” Chase said.

  “The other two.”

  “Three. Don’t forget Trent.” Chase had confirmed that RRS&S’s silent fifth partner did indeed live in the same building. He owned an apartment on the tenth floor. Vicky had inquired with Charles, Pradas on, and learned that Trent occupied 10A and the bodyguards 10B.

  “Ah, yes. How could I forget the psychopath? I should be drinking coffee rather than tea.” Vicky rose and walked toward the coffee maker. “Actually, it’s four. Don’t forget Pascal.”

  Chase felt like he’d been punched in the gut. Pascal! Of course. The tech exec was the biggest threat of all. And a whole new level of challenge. Simply zapping him wasn’t going to do it. They had to interrogate him first. They couldn’t defend the world from his billion-dollar idea if they didn’t know what it was.

  “Let’s worry about Pascal and his plans once we’ve sorted out the lawyers,” Vicky continued, after pressing the brew button. “Resseque, Slate, and Keller aren’t going to be as easy as the first two. I can’t see us breaking into Trent’s apartment. Not with the off-duty bodyguards right there on the other side of the peephole. And we don’t have keys to the twelfth-floor apartments either.”

  Chase’s mind was still reeling, but he managed to push the mess aside. He’d made a mental breakthrough on another front and was eager to share it. “I’m hoping we won’t have to worry about any of that. Tell me, does the zapper need to be in contact with the head to work? Or could it be, say, three feet away?”

  Vicky canted her head and took a sip of coffee before replying. “The technology could work at three feet, using increased power, from a modified system. But as you know, I don’t have a way to calibrate it, so it would be risky. What are you picturing?”

  “I’m picturing a microwave oven.”

  “A microwave oven?” Skylar blurted. “As in—a big one we invite them into?”

  “Exactly,” Chase said with a smile before turning to Vicky. “Only there’s no invitation required. Could you design a zapper that I could attach to the elevator roof?”

  66

  Stressful Circumstances

  COLTON RESSEQUE was not prone to panic. Given that his naturally high-powered analytical mind was augmented by a unique mind-reading ability, and he’d been working the same job with the same partners in the same system for twenty years, he found life predictable. When you could predict what would happen, panic was rarely warranted. One simply accepted that there would be rough spots and then pressed on, past the lumps and bumps that were part of life.

  But the predictability of his routine had virtually vanished overnight. His partner of twenty years and friend of thirty had been lowered into the ground that very morning, and now the venerable business they’d built was crumbling before his eyes.

  “Say that again?” Colton asked.

  Sackler cleared his throat. “I appear to have lost the ability to read minds.”

  The four surviving partners were seated around the coffee table on Scarlett’s terrace. This was supposed to be a day of remembrance and mourning. They’d just lost a man who’d played a role on par with a parent or child in all of their lives. But Walter had insisted on an emergency meeting, and now it was clear why.

  “What do you mean, appear to have lost?” Scarlett asked.

  “It’s become like trying to listen to a radio station after driving out of range. I still catch a word here and there, but there’s no music, so to speak.”

  “That’s not you, that’s your glasses,” Trent said, pulling a pair from his breast pocket. “Here, try mine. Read my mind.”

  Colton noted that Walter did not look relieved by the news or offer. No doubt he had already checked his spare pairs.

  “Nothing,” Walter said.

  Trent took the glasses back, put them on and focused on Walter. “You already tried both the spare pair at home and the ones in your office,” Trent said, reading Sackler’s mind before removing the glasses.

  “When did this start?” Scarlett asked.

  “I noticed yesterday morning at brunch. I’d woken up feeling woozy with a headache, but assumed it was from too much sake or some bad sushi the night before. I didn’t think I’d drunk that much, although I felt totally wiped out when going to bed. At the time, I’d figured it was the stress of the week culminating on a Friday night, you know?”

  Everyone nodded. They knew.

  “We’d lost Jim,” Walter continued. “And then there was the circus of the Pascal trial, in which so much is at stake. I was thinking maybe the stress got to me more than I realized.”

  “Maybe it has,” Trent said.

  “Maybe. Hopefully. I went to see Dr. Kahn. He ran toxicology and oncology tests, and he took CT scans of my head and chest. He called me with the results just before the funeral.”

  “And?” Trent prompted.

  “Everything was clean.”

  “So what’s going on?” Colton asked.

  “I have no idea. Frankly, I’m scared. But of course I need to push that fear aside because Pascal’s trial resumes tomorrow.”

  “The final week,” Scarlett said. “And we all know how important it is to end on a high note. To have a grand finale before the jurors head off to deliberate.”

  “Which is why I called this meeting,” Walter said. “Under less stressful circumstances, I might have taken another day to see if things improved.”

  “We’ll all be hoping for that, but we can’t count on it,” Colton said.

  Scarlett was a bit less diplomatic. “This is a disaster for us all. The most important case of our lives, and we’re crippled.”

  Colto
n clunked his heavy tumbler on the table. “Normally I’d offer to step in, but I’m slammed. I’m doing double duty with Jim gone.”

  “You can’t postpone for a week?” Sackler asked.

  “Not on these cases, and not with my judges. I couldn’t lie about why, given that I’ll then be on TV defending Pascal. There’s no way they’d let me screw up their dockets to ‘go grandstand for the cameras.’”

  The three attorneys all turned to Trent, who reddened.

  “I’ve never worked in a courtroom. You know that.”

  “Desperate times call for desperate measures,” Scarlett said. “You could sit in the audience and take notes. Slip us anything important.”

  “No way I could get away with texting?” he asked hopefully. “Couldn’t you slip a phone around security and pass it to me?”

  “Not a chance. The courtroom is packed and Judge Whitcomb will sanction me before the jury in a second,” Sackler said.

  Trent spread his hands in surrender. “Okay. I’ll do it.”

  “So we’re agreed?” Scarlett asked. “Trent and Walter will work together until we win the case or Walter gets better?”

  The lawyers all nodded, then reached for their drinks but stopped short. The alcohol would have to wait. They turned back to Trent, who was staring into space with a look of shocked contemplation. Their attention snapped him out of it. “Right. Time to get to work.”

  67

  Balance Beam

  SCARLETT COULDN’T REMEMBER the last time she’d been so relieved to hear a judge say the words, “Court adjourned.” She couldn’t recall a time when one of their mid-trial analysis and planning sessions had been so contentious. And she was certain she’d never anticipated her next day in court with such dread.