I’m tempted to take notes—Kara apologizes to no one—but as the thought crosses my mind, she ends the call and waves me in.
“Hi Kara. You wanted to see me?”
“Have a seat. This will take some time.”
“No problem. What’s up?”
“Becky,” she calls me, and I know she’s about to say something drastic, because she only called me Becky the day she doubled my salary offer to keep up with the other firms. “The case I’m about to share with you is sensitive. Not the usual sensitive ones you may have come across with Barnaby, or since you’ve been here. I mean it’s a powder keg. It’s the mother of all criminal-meets-political shit storms. Only you and I will be handling this one, and before you agree to come on board, I have to know you understand a few things.”
“Okay.”
Being so fresh in the role, this case does not sound like a case I should be sinking my teeth into. Kara knows from Barnaby that I like it intense, though, and I can handle the tough ones.
“First of all, let me ask. Do you have or have you had any personal or professional relationships with the Fairchild or Sloan families, or anyone in Senator Ruston’s camp? Or any contact at all in your life?”
“No.” The moment she mentions Rushton’s name, I know exactly what it’s about. I have alerts on my phone. I read about the gruesome murder on my subway ride into work. The victim is Doreen Rushton, a twenty-one-year-old master’s student who may have been at the wrong party at the wrong time, and paid for it with her life. There was nothing in the papers about the Sloan or Fairchild families, though.
“And you’re positive you’ve had no contact? I’m asking because you and Claire Fairchild-Roch were at Princeton during the same time. Are you sure you don’t know her?”
“Princeton is a big place, Kara. The kids of many notables are enrolled there. If I knew her, I would tell you.”
“Okay. So let’s get into it. This is a murder investigation. Rushton’s niece was killed over the weekend, and Jonathan Sloan may be a suspect. The police are still gathering evidence. You’re aware it would normally be weeks to get DNA and other crime scene analysis results, but this is Rushton’s niece we’re talking about, so things are going to move quickly.”
“How is Sloan implicated?”
“His father, Solomon Sloan of Sloan Sports and Entertainment, called me this morning. He told me they needed to talk about a hypothetical situation regarding a senator’s relative.”
“And what’s that supposed to mean?”
“Don’t give me that bullshit naïve routine. What do you think it means, Rebecca?”
Before I answer, Kara’s assistant storms in and tells her that Murray Bateman is on the line. Bateman is lead partner of Bateman and Adams—our firm’s top competition in divorce law. Kara raises her hand to her lips so I’d be silent, and takes the call on speakerphone.
“Yes, Murray.”
“Kara, what the fuck is wrong with your client? Isn’t one hundred and fifty million enough for the bitch to disappear and leave Washington alone?”
“Maybe your client should have kept his dick in his pants, instead of screwing every female assistant trader at the New York Stock Exchange, Murray.”
“You know that’s off the table, Kara.”
“And you know me better than that, Murray. Nothing’s off the table. Your client’s assets are worth over twenty billion, if you count the two diamond mines in South Africa. His soon to be ex-wife is only asking for a billion. The same billion he put into the prenup.”
“Come on, Kara. Throw me a bone. I’m dying over here. How about a counter-offer?”
“Okay. Suck on this bone, Murray. Tell your client he should never, ever write another prenup on a woman’s panties ever again.”
“Oh, now you admit you have a dick. I’ve suspected it all along, Kara, the way you muscle…”
With that, she hangs up and goes right back into our conversation without any reaction, like she was just ordering a pizza from Murray, and he suggested jalapenos instead of anchovies.
“Becky. If you work this case, it can expose you to the dirtiest realities about the underbelly of New York City. I have to know you’re prepared for it.”
I look at her. She’s dead serious. My gut is on red alert, screaming out that I should say no right now and walk out that door, but I don’t.
“I’m in. I want this. I can take it.”
“Good. Listen. How busy is your day today?” she asks me.
“I have two clients coming in this morning, and some case documentation this afternoon.”
“Get Louise to reschedule everything.” She slides her laptop and notes into a briefcase and grabs her coat. “I need you with me today. We have to speak to Sloan, but I’m late for court. Get your things and let’s go.”
* * *
It’s almost lunchtime when we finally leave the courthouse. As we get to the front steps, Kara rushes ahead to catch up with the assistant district attorney, Ryan Dunham. The man is smoking hot in his slim-fitting black suit. He’s got a trim waist, is tall and dark, clean cut and smart as a whip. He looks way too young to have made it to thirty-nine. I can see from their interaction that he and Kara may have had some action in the past. It lines up with the office rumor that they were engaged and she broke it off when he took the assistant DA position.
I hang back, but stay within earshot. There’s nothing juicy going on in my life, so I’m living vicariously through Kara.
“Face it, Dunham. Your expert witness was a hack.”
“Was he?”
“All he did was open up reasonable doubt. Now it’s as big as the Grand Canyon. I guess I should thank you.”
“How about over dinner?”
“Don’t try to change the subject. My client is not guilty.”
“People are dead, Kara. How are you going to feel if he goes free because you’re a pit bull?”
“Oh, I see the claws coming out now, Ryan. That always used to turn me on. Coming to think about it, dinner sounds like it would be fun.”
“Seven thirty tonight?”
“It’s a date. Now get a plea deal ready. Nothing over three to five years. I’ll try to convince him to accept.”
“What about the victims, Kara?”
“Figure out the plea deal, Dunham. Before the sick fuck gets off.”
She leaves him standing there and descends the side steps to get to our driver. I follow her at a safe distance. Before she jumps in, she turns to me and says, “Whatever you heard, or think you heard in the last five minutes, be sure you forget it. Got it?”
“Got it.”
We jump into the limousine. It’s the only way Kara travels—that and private jet. She picks up where we left off when we were in her office.
“Okay, I asked you if you knew these people. You still have an out if you say no. Now I’m going to ask you, can you keep your hands to yourself during this case?”
I’m confused. “What?”
“You heard me. Two reasons I ask. It starts with Jonathan and ends with Sloan. Have you seen the man?”
“I don’t think I have. Why?”
“He’s walking muscle, tattoos, brains and sex appeal. The splitting image of his dad. Wait, don’t you watch any entertainment or sports news?”
“I haven’t really had the time, Kara. You remember how Barnaby was, right? All work and no play. Up at dawn, at work day and night, and back into bed just before the crack of dawn. If he had it his way, I’d be chained to my office desk.”
“Yes. I remember. He kept the mold after he formed it on me. Well, you’ll see the Sloans soon enough. We’re going to meet him and his father now.”
“Can’t wait.”
“No.” Her tone is serious, bordering on grave. “Trust me. You’re better off never having your life intersect with this family. Not the Sloans and not the Fairchilds. I for one am glad Mandy and Solomon got together after her child-bearing years. If they had procreated, I’m certain
the offspring would be the Antichrist.”
By now, I’m thinking I should probably ask her to let me off at the next bus stop and spare me the torture. I must be a sucker for a challenge. My life outside of work consists of a morning run to get the blood flowing, a stop at my favorite artisan coffee shop on the way to work, and a glass of wine to relax before bed. If I’m lucky and pass a construction site, I’ll flash a smile at one of the workers and whistle back to see if he buckles or holds his own. There is no action in my day-to-day, so with what Kara’s telling me, I’m so intrigued I’d take it on just for kicks.
She straightens herself on the seat and looks over to me in an even more serious tone.
“After you meet them, let me know if you want to assist me on the case. My advice? Do not make eye contact, do not engage, keep your wits about you, and do not let your guard down for a second.”
“Got it. Where are we off to?”
“Long Island.”
Chapter 3 - Jonathan
We do our cleanup and it takes all of Saturday to get rid of those three dead girls. We’re in the middle of the city that never fucking sleeps. It’s a bitch to find good spots to dump the bodies. That was never a problem back home in Reno. That entire Nevada desert is probably lined with the secrets of sick people like my dad.
Sunday flies by and before I head to bed, I get another call from him again. I’m already mad as fuck, so I ignore it. He phones back four or five times, and eventually I answer to get him off my back. He tells me to meet him in Long Island on Monday afternoon so we can set the plan in motion.
My stomach turns. It’s what I was born for. At least that’s what he keeps telling me. “One day, you’re gonna have to do something big to help your old man. It’s not gonna be a walk in the park, but when it’s done, you will never owe me again.” The man gives me that lecture every other month. This time, it’s different. This time, it’s seriously damning.
I’ve handled the three dead girls, so I tell him that was something big, and I’m not sticking around for it to get any fucking bigger. He tells me it won’t after this, and I don’t believe him. Then he says he needs a favor, and it has to do with the girl who got away. Now that she’s been confirmed dead, the media is having a field day that she’s Rushton’s niece.
I nearly lose it, because Rushton and his wife have been all over the news about women’s rights and standing up against violence. It’s hypocrisy, pure bullshit because the man is a regular user of our private box for the all-female mixed martial arts fights in Atlantic City. He gets driven into our catering bays in his black cars with blacked out tinted windows, and sneaks around the place so no one knows. That’s the shit the media should have a field day about.
I lose it anyway because I know Rushton’s going be a problem, now that his own disturbing tastes have come full circle and bit his niece in the ass. You can’t pay off cops when shit gets too big, and adding a politician to any equation is like throwing a stick of dynamite into a burning house and hoping for the best. It’s just not smart. Still, we’re talking about my dad here, and as brilliant a businessman as people say he is, he does some dumb shit in his personal life. Case in point.
Mondays are always busy at Fairchild Industries. Heck, every day can be busy. I’m the VP of strategic marketing and I take my job seriously. I know everyone says if you want to hire a family member in a multi-billion dollar empire, just put strategic in front of a title and you’re good to go. It’s probably true for most people, but it’s not true for me. I work my ass off. I pore over my projects and I make decisions that could affect the Fairchild businesses around the world to the tune of several billion dollars on any given day.
When I started out in the job right after Harvard three years ago, I would crap in my pants before I could make a fucking decision around here. It was too big to conceive of back then. It took a while to understand the scale of what I had signed up for. The US-based Fairchild Industries is the kind of company that quietly owns every aspect of the average American’s daily life. It’s the third-largest private company in the US, and directly employs ninety-two thousand people in sixty-four countries.
If an American starts the day with a shower and they wear underwear, Fairchild Industries already owns them. Their Savoy Chemicals make most of the body wash used around the world, and their Sashay Textiles arm provides most of the fabric behind all sexy panties, silky boxers, and tank tops. Put a store-bought coffee in your hand and they got you there too. Their Charlotte-Pacific subsidiary makes Strongerman cups, and the garbage bags you throw them into when you’re done with that skinny chai latte.
If you’re into eating organic, its True Earth organic soil feeds almost all the organic produce you buy that was grown on US soil. By the way, that organic stuff is a bunch of bullshit. The whole planet is a fucking wasteland, and nowhere is pristine anymore. So unless they start shipping in soil from Mars or Uranus, the food ain’t organic.
Drive your car and do almost anything for the rest of the day, and it’s game over. Fairchild Industries has many of the oil sands refineries and pipelines worldwide that make sure your car and other goods work. They also own eighty percent of all the mines around the world that extract the rare minerals needed for electronic micro-components in the huge smartphone market. They have cornered that entire market, supplying to every major smartphone manufacturer. So take a selfie, post an update on social media or check your work email on that little device, and you are owned by Fairchild.
To top off their vertical integration—or something I like to call the invisible human behavior monopoly—their manufacturing subsidiaries supply much of the physical components and equipment to all the above industries. Don’t even think about their real estate holdings around the world. Forbes continues to speculate about the total value of the Fairchild Industries holdings, but the truth is, it’s too big and too secretive to ever let net worth details out of the bag. The last external estimate was that each member of the secretive Fairchild family—nineteen of us, if I include Dad, me, Mandy’s purse dog, which believe it or not, is in her will, and her ninety-five year old grandmother—is worth up to sixty-two billion US dollars. The brutal truth is, that number is not even close.
The sheer scope of this mega-company was enough to turn a brave man like me into a gun-shy, thumb-sucking mess that couldn’t make a decision for three weeks. It took Mandy’s brother to verbally slap the shit out of me, and threaten to fire me before I could function. The thing he said that helped me the most was to have my assistant drop some zeroes off the figures before I looked at stuff. It worked like a charm.
After that, I was good. Now, I make decisions at Fairchild Industries until the cows come home. This Monday is no different. Except this morning, I have someone on my mind. On my way in this morning, a young woman who was in a rush at the coffee shop next door spilled half her espresso down my favorite suit. My white shirt was probably ruined.
“Oh my God. I’m so sorry,” she said.
She began to dab the stain with the napkins in her hands. It was a mess. I pulled her hand away gently, and for some unknown reason, the briefcase in her other hand fell to the ground. Her tablet and papers went flying everywhere.
“Shit!” she exclaimed.
She gave me the evil eye, but then reined in that look, because she probably realized it was all her fault. We both dropped to the floor, gathering up papers and other items around us.
“I’m so sorry,” she repeated.
We both stood up after everything that fell was safely back in her purse.
“It’s okay,” I answered that time.
I stopped for a moment and took a good look at her. She was dressed professionally, wearing a nice brand of pumps. From what fell out of her purse, I pegged her for a law clerk or paralegal. She seemed a little too insecure and too young to be a lawyer—but not insecure or young for me. I could smell her. She had just had a shower, and her dark brown hair was pulled into a neat bun, but I could still sme
ll her shampoo. I took it all in, thinking maybe I needed to get laid. She realized we were standing inches from each other. Maybe she could read my mind, because her cheeks flushed and she took a step back.
“Can I pay for the dry cleaning?” she asked nervously.
“It’s alright. It’s my fault.”
“I bumped into you, remember?”
“Yes, but I had a hand in that briefcase of yours falling. You tablet screen may need replacing too. I suppose I could take care of that for you. I’d need your phone number or some way to contact you.”
I probably spooked her, because she took another step back.
“You know what? It’s okay. I’m—I’m really late, so I have to get to work now. My apologies again, sir.”
She turned and left, and I couldn’t help wondering what it was that I said. That’s not how women normally react to me. In fact, most women don’t say no to me. I shrugged, got in line for my coffee and the interaction was soon forgotten. Until now.
I get to the office soon afterward and change into one of the business suits I keep there. My schedule is packed and now I have to get my executive assistant to move things around. I can leave after lunch and take the crawl on the four-ninety-five to Long Island for whatever my dad has up his sleeves.
I get there—after cussing like a sailor at the traffic I had to sit in—and I walk around back. It’s the only place he would be this time of day. He’s out on the grounds, walking through the rows of rose bushes he plants every spring. Looking at him, I can’t help but feel this man is a living, breathing contradiction. One minute he’s nurturing these plants like they’re his babies and taking care of Mandy now that she’s terminally ill, and the next, he’s stringing up call girls in the octagon.
Wicked Bad Boys Page 2
