Follow your bliss, Ivan remembered. Oh, he had.
And he was following his bliss right now with a number of employees at the Bergman-Deketomis Law Firm, starting with Angus Moore. If it had an electronic pulse, Ivan followed it. He was monitoring the phone traffic, emails, Instagram and Facebook accounts, and Twitter comments of those employees most closely associated with the Arbalest and Sight-Clops case. Most of those in Ivan’s sights had home security systems that were supposed to be looking out for bad guys. What they had done, without knowing it, was to supply Ivan with cameras into their personal lives.
For almost three months now, Ivan had been doing his monitoring. What he’d learned first and foremost was that Angus Moore was a working machine. From dawn until well into the night, Moore spent almost all his time building his case. Ivan’s employers had hired him with the hope that he might find dirt on Moore. Good luck, thought Ivan. Moore was a Boy Scout, or at least seemed that way. He wasn’t sleeping around, or hitting the bottle, or spending time on porn sites. The guy’s only shortcoming, so far as Ivan could find, was that he was so consumed by the case he was working on that he wasn’t able to have much family time.
But truth be told, Ivan was a bit annoyed with old Angus. With his nose to the grindstone, the man was not interesting. Kendrick Strahan usually provided more interesting targets. Five years ago, another client had electronically introduced Strahan to Ivan. There was a Florida congressman who was making things difficult for the lobbyist. All Ivan had to do was introduce some kiddie porn on the congressman’s personal computer, and just like that Strahan’s problem disappeared. At that time the two of them had never met in person. Ivan preferred it that way. He wasn’t one for face-to-face if it could be avoided.
In fact, the less his clients knew about him, the happier he was. When he’d gotten into the shady side of surveillance, Ivan had carefully buried any information about where he lived and what he did. Since the people who employed him were not exactly ethical sorts, he knew they’d gladly throw him to the wolves if it would save their asses from trouble. That’s why he had all kinds of safeguards in place. That was also why he made sure he had dirt on whoever employed him. To them he was Ivanhoe. They didn’t get the joke, but Ivan didn’t care. Ivanhoe was a really oldie, moldy book about knights and things. But this Ivan, millennial Ivan, was a “ho” for money.
And even though Kendrick Strahan was pretending to be his employer on the Angus Moore and Bergman-Deketomis case, Ivan knew he was fronting for a union thug named Tom Lutz, a former bigwig with the Chicago Police Department. The irony of his situation was enough to make Ivan smile. Officially, he was working for the cops. Lutz was especially interested in big, boring Angus’s bloodhound act when it came to the trail of bribery surrounding Sight-Clops. The bloodhound was getting even closer to Lutz.
Ivan finished up with an electronic sound file that he’d intercepted off of Angus Moore’s cell phone while he’d been talking with Mike Bixby, a lieutenant with the Evansville Police Department. Bixby had attended the latest soirée inside the Vault. Apparently, the goings-on were such that Bixby stayed for only fifteen minutes, which was still long enough for him to describe what was happening at the gathering, as well as to confirm that Lutz and Strahan had been in attendance.
Yes, bit by bit, boring old Angus was making his case. By the time he was through, Arbalest would be waving a white flag, and the Feds would be handing out jail time to Strahan, Lutz, and other bribe-takers.
Ten minutes later, Ivan’s private cell phone rang. He used the phone to make calls, but not receive them. The readout didn’t tell him anything about the caller, but instead said Private Caller. It’s probably a wrong number, Ivan thought, but answered it anyway.
“Ivan?” said the voice. “Or should I say Ivanhoe?”
Instead of being freaked out, Ivan played it cool. “How are you doing, Tom?”
During Ivan’s illegal monitoring, he had heard Tom Lutz’s voice enough times to know it very well.
Lutz played it cool as well, acting like the two of them were good friends. “Oh, you’re good Ivan. Our mutual friend swore by you, but I think we both know not to believe much of what he says. I must admit though, you are everything he advertised and more.”
“I’m glad to know you’re pleased.”
“The more information you’ve provided us,” said Lutz, “the clearer it’s become that this situation must be dealt with.”
“I can understand that.”
“Anyway, I guess it’s time you packed up your shop and closed down operations”—there was a long pause—“unless . . .”
“Unless what?”
“Have you ever considered venturing outside the world of electronics?”
“What I like about electronics is the lucrative nature of the work.”
“I understand other work can be quite lucrative as well. That is if it’s done professionally, with no loose ends.”
After two more minutes of cryptic discussion, the deal was struck.
3
DRIVING MISS DAISY DUKES
“Can I fix you some eggs?”
Gina Romano pretended not to hear the too cheerful voice of her boyfriend, Bryan. She burrowed a little deeper into her prized 1,500 thread count Egyptian bed sheets. Gina didn’t think of the sheets as being an indulgence, as sleep was a precious commodity for a lawyer who usually worked at least eighty hours a week.
Bryan Penn tossed aside the sheets. It was unlikely he’d noticed how comfortable they were. Sleeping outdoors atop leaves would have been more than fine for him. With one barely opened eye, Gina watched as he threw on sweatpants and a well-worn blue T-shirt touting the Blue Mantas, a local minor league baseball team. The veterinarian brimmed with energy every morning, on full tilt as soon as he opened his eyes. He was also blind to the fact that not everyone rolled out of bed as spirited as a golden retriever puppy.
And like a puppy, Bryan was not easily rebuffed. Coming around to her side of the bed, he crouched down and said, “Scrambled or over easy, beautiful? And do you want an English muffin or toast?”
“Scrambled, and no bread,” she grumbled, pulling the covers over her head.
Gina was the porcupine to his puppy, but luckily Bryan didn’t seem to notice her quills. He was Viking blonde, with tousled hair and a beard. Her friends called him a hunk, but Gina had never been one for pretty boys. What scared Gina was that Bryan actually seemed to be a good guy. And what was even scarier was that after a year of dating, he seemed all the more smitten with Gina. Her mother had always said if something seemed too good to be true, it probably was.
Of course, her mother was about the last person in the world Gina should be modeling herself after. Getting far away from her family had been the best thing Gina had ever done for herself. Fifteen years ago, she had fled the Northeast and started a new life in Florida working for the Bergman-Deketomis Law Firm. Since then, she had become a partner and one of the firm’s top litigators. Lots of people reinvented themselves in the Sunshine State—or at least they attempted a good veneer.
A shower was a must, Gina decided. The night before, she’d had makeup sex with Bryan. They’d made up a few times. That was another thing for Gina to be suspicious about. How was it that her love life with Bryan kept getting better? Last night had proved so enjoyable that it took Gina a moment to even remember what they’d been fighting about. Oh, yeah. They’d had words over Jennifer.
Jennifer was Bryan’s other woman. She was older, a bleached blond, or maybe it would be more accurate to call her a faded canary yellow. Whatever the color, Bryan loved his “classic” 1970 Chevy C-10 truck with its factory V-8. Others weren’t as enamored with Jennifer’s looks, especially Gina’s homeowner’s association. The gated community had rules about where its residents and guests could park. If Jennifer had been a Maserati, they probably wouldn’t have cared as much, but she was a rusting old truck with a lot of hard miles on her.
As Gina began showering, she
thought about their argument from the night before. The two of them had watched a movie, and before going to bed Gina had made the mistake of saying, “The HOA doesn’t like you leaving your junker on the street. How about parking it in the garage?”
“Junker?” he’d said. “Jennifer is a classic.”
Gina had decided to do a play on “yo mama” jokes. “Yo, Jennifer is so ugly,” she said, “Hello Kitty said goodbye to her.”
To his credit, Bryan had laughed. But then he’d made some crack about how the people in glass houses that lived inside of gated communities shouldn’t throw rocks or make judgments about those who couldn’t afford to live inside their walls.
The pièce de résistance though had been his feminine French voice with which he’d summed up: “Let them eat cake.”
That had been enough to set Gina off. She liked to blame her temper on her genetic makeup. Her father was Sicilian, and her mother was descended from Spanish Sephardic Jews. But Gina knew her short fuse wasn’t only a function of her DNA.
“Don’t you dare call me an elitist,” she had told Bryan. “Nothing has ever been given to me. As a girl who plays in a boy’s club, I think I know a little bit about discrimination, and because of that I don’t tolerate it in any form.”
“Methinks the lady doth protest too much,” said Bryan.
Gina responded in her angriest voice, “Methinks you ought to shove it, Dr. Doolittle. Maybe monkeys like to be talked to that way, but I don’t.”
She had regretted the words the moment they came out of her mouth, but pride and fear prevented her from taking them back. Gina had driven out other men in her life with similar outbursts. But instead of storming off, or responding in kind, Bryan had said, “Do you know how beautiful you are when you’re angry?”
Gina, who argued for a living, could only stand there with her mouth open.
“And since you brought up the subject of monkeys,” said Bryan, “have I ever told you how bonobos resolve their conflicts?”
“I don’t think so,” Gina said, trying to lose her edge.
Bryan took her in his arms. “They engage in a quick round of sex,” he said. “And just like that, their problems get resolved. The human race could learn a lot from the bonobos.”
“Quick round, you said?”
“It doesn’t have to be quick.”
Gina found herself smiling in the shower. It hadn’t been quick. It had been perfect. She only allowed herself a short reverie, though. It was time to return to the real world. Work awaited her. She was a shark, even if there was a part of her that would have preferred being a bonobo.
She grabbed an outfit from her walk-in closet and quickly dressed. Her makeup was applied almost as quickly. She’d heard her eyes described as “cat-like,” probably because of their green hue. Or maybe there was something feral about them. Most people assumed that collagen had been applied to her lips, but they were just naturally thick (“bee stung,” one boyfriend had called them). The same people also assumed her curves and youthful face had been assisted by a cosmetic surgeon, although Gina had never gone under the knife. Her mother had made that mistake too many times, trying to physically please her father. Mother should have known that no surgery would prove enough. Gina touched the few lines that were beginning to show on her face. Then she remembered that Bryan liked to say the dents and rust on Jennifer showed her “character,” and suddenly Gina was feeling a little more charitable about the old girl.
From downstairs, Bryan yelled, “Your food is getting cold.”
In addition to the scrambled eggs, Bryan had made her a rasher of bacon. He’d even warmed two corn tortillas, knowing Gina’s love for any food in a tortilla.
“You really know a way to a woman’s heart, don’t you?” she said.
“I hope so, even though when it comes to you, sometimes the way seems maze-like.”
Gina took a bite of his eggs. He’d sautéed onions and peppers and included them in the scramble. Gina offered up some appreciative sounds.
“I better take a shower and change,” he said. “I’ll be stopping by the studio.”
Bryan was a regular on a local TV show called The Jungles of Florida. The show spotlighted a nearby exotic animal rescue sanctuary where “Dr. Bryan,” as he was referred to on the show, volunteered his time as a vet. In fact, it was that sanctuary that had brought the couple together. Gina had attended a fundraiser dinner for the sanctuary and found herself seated at the head table next to him. The two of them had talked nonstop, with the only break in their conversation occurring when Bryan did an interview for the local news. What Gina noticed most during the interview was the way the attractive young female reporter swooned all over him.
After the segment, Bryan returned to Gina and said, “Where were we?”
“I think we left off with someone saying, ‘Thank you so much for your time, Dr. Bryan,’ said a breathless Gina, sounding remarkably like the reporter. ‘I really enjoyed our talk.’”
“I’m not used to being interviewed solo,” he admitted. “I’m invariably in the company of lions and tigers and bears.”
“Oh my,” said Gina.
“And Clara.”
“Clara?” asked a suspicious Gina.
“Clara the cockatoo,” he said.
“I’m so glad you clarified,” she said.
Bryan groaned before saying, “Clara is a loudmouth and a show-off. When I’m in her company, I definitely play second fiddle, which is how I like it. On the show, the animals need to be center stage. I’m just the help.”
At the time, Gina had wondered if “Dr. Bryan” could possibly be as sincere as he seemed. They’d been dating ever since the fundraiser. So why did she still have her doubts about his sincerity?
“A shower sounds like a good idea,” she said. “You wouldn’t want to disappoint your female fans.”
“I’m only interested in one of my female fans.”
“Is that so?”
“How about you stop by the clinic after work? We can have dinner and discuss more monkey business.”
“Somehow I have this feeling you’re not talking about bonobos again.”
The couple kissed. It wasn’t quite a bonobo send-off, but it was a pleasant smooch. Gina said, a little breathlessly, “I’ll try and be there by seven.”
Even though Bryan had his own house, he had keys and the security code to hers. Gina opened the garage door and climbed into her black Porsche Cayenne. She pushed the ignition button but nothing happened, so she hit it again. Gina checked to make sure the car was engaged in park. Then she checked the headlights. When they came on, she concluded that it wasn’t a drained battery, but probably something in the electrical system.
At the moment, her $80,000 car was an expensive paperweight.
Gina tried to start it again. And then again Bryan opened the garage door to the sound of Sicilian cursing.
“Vaffanculo! Testa di cazzo!”
He was glad he didn’t know the translation and for once was not on the receiving end of Gina’s temper.
“Need a ride?” he asked.
She offered a terse nod of her head.
Bryan decided to push the envelope a little bit. “And you’re not embarrassed to be seen riding around in Jennifer?”
Gina gritted her teeth and said nothing. A grinning Bryan went around and opened Jennifer’s passenger door. “Your carriage awaits, Cinderella.”
As much as she didn’t want to laugh, Gina couldn’t help it. She even decided to join in the fun. “Shows you what dem uppity clowns running dat house owner’s ’sociation know,” she said in her best cracker patois.
“Darling,” said Bryan, “the blood rushes around in the right places when you go all redneck on me.”
“Tell you what, Bry-Bob,” she said, “later on I’ll be bringing out my Daisy Dukes just for you.”
That’s when both of them lost it. Gina wasn’t used to starting the day with laughter. Normally, she put on her game face along wi
th her makeup. Maybe Bryan really was the guy for her, she thought, even though she kept trying to convince herself otherwise.
Gina knew she came with lots of baggage. And at least for now she also knew it was nice having someone to help her to carry it.
4
JUNK-YARD DOGS AND POLAR BEARS
Since it was the last Thursday of the month, “Show and Tell” was on the company docket. That was the name Gina gave to it. She loved Show and Tell, which was otherwise known as the “Company Monthly Meeting.” While Gina knew that most people hated to go to work meetings, she figured that was because they didn’t work for Bergman-Deketomis. The monthly partner/associates meetings were always edifying, and the characters assembled always made it fun. Hearing her peers talk invariably inspired Gina. It wasn’t as if everyone sat around singing “Kumbaya,” but there was a feeling of a higher calling to the gathering. You didn’t work at Bergman-Deketomis if you weren’t passionate. The law firm certainly had its causes. Cases were pursued to try and make the world a better place. That notion sounded funny to most, especially when put into the context of a law firm. Certainly, no one would mistake Bergman-Deketomis for The Salvation Army. They survived as a business through winning settlements, but at the same time they took on all sorts of cases that other law firms, as well as the government, wouldn’t touch—cases that needed to be tried, but were typically avoided because of the costs associated with them, or the inherent difficulties of prevailing in court.
Gina thought of the many times she’d heard Nick Deketomis say, “All right, let’s go tilt at another windmill.” That was his rallying cry to the troops. It was his call for them to take on a good cause, if not what other firms would think was a good case. They had to buy into the impossible dream. In many ways, Deke was Don Quixote, the tarnished knight who kept fighting. Their names—Deke and Don Q—were even similar. Two years ago, Gina and some of the other partners had bought Deke a life-sized metal statue of Don Quixote, which was now proudly displayed in his office.
Law and Vengeance Page 3
