Five in a Row

by Jan Coffey

  “No problem.” Jill reached over and brushed the rain off the back of his hair. “By the way, you were wonderful.”

  “You’re prejudiced, honey.” He gave her a tender smile, pulling on his seat belt and taking the car out of Park. “I spoke too long. I know I did. But there was so much I had to cover. And this is the only chance we get to have all these parents at school like this. And—”

  The car took off like a bullet. Jill, her hand stretched across her as she was about to lock her seat belt, was thrown back against the seat.

  “What are you doing?” she cried, looking in horror at her husband.

  Scott’s face was chalk-white, his hands fisted around the steering wheel.

  “Put your seat belt on,” he said through clenched teeth. “Right now. Hurry, Jill.”

  She couldn’t get the seat belt to lock as the car jerked to the left and she was thrown against the door.

  “Stop. Stop the car,” she said in panic.

  “I can’t. I have no control over it.”

  “Step on the brake. Do something!” she screamed. They were accelerating toward a thick line of trees.

  Scott’s hands were off the wheel. He was yanking at the key, pulling at the handbrake.

  “Oh, my God, please…don’t.” Jill covered her head with her hands, thinking of Jake. “Not both of us…not like this.”

  The car took a sharp right at the last minute and banked up on two wheels. Jill Peterson had no time to say anything more. She looked up just as they crashed head-on into a parked bulldozer.

  As the darkness came over her, the only sound she could hear was the beat of the rain on the crumpled hood…and the rap music again playing on the radio.

  Two

  The doors to the conference room were locked. All incoming calls were held. Cell phones were shut down. Even the blinds were drawn, shutting out the dismal view of the Detroit skyline. No interruptions of any sort would be allowed.

  A dozen executives and as many lawyers, representing a hastily assembled consortium of automobile manufacturers and insurance companies, sat around the oval conference table, their eyes all focused on Ben Colter and his two investigative associates. Each person at the table was impatient to tell the consultant his or her speculation on the cause of the accidents.

  Five in a row. No coincidence, to be sure.

  An assistant circled the table, handing out a packet of papers. Ben took one, scanning the contents.

  “The first accident happened in Albany, New York,” John Bedrosian explained. A Detroit attorney, he was the spokesperson for the group. “Midday, no sign of the driver being under the influence. The car ricocheted back and forth across the parking lot a few times before piling headfirst into a cement barrier. The driver claims he had no control over the vehicle.”

  Ben glanced down at the timeline of the accidents. Names, phone numbers, court schedules as they stood at the moment, they were all there. He glanced over at Adam Stern and Gina Ellis, his two associates. Gina was already jotting down her questions.

  “The second accident occurred in a car dealership in Providence, Rhode Island. The car was taken out for a test drive, but never made it out of the lot. It made a U-turn at high speed and ended up crashing through the plate glass wall of the showroom. The driver claims that the vehicle just took over.”

  Ben flipped the page and glanced over the police reports from the accident.

  “Some loose ends persist with regard to the third accident,” Bedrosian continued. “San Diego. Elderly driver. She lost control and crashed the vehicle into the side of her church.”

  Ben circled the age of the driver on his handout. Eighty.

  “The fourth accident is a high-profile one. Miami, Florida. A dot-com multimillionaire named Jay Sparks. The sports car jumped off a pier and flipped end over end into a docked yacht. Half a dozen lawsuits and we know more are on the way.”

  There had been plenty of headlines with that accident. But no mention of any possible relation to the others.

  “The fifth accident is the one from yesterday in Wickfield, Connecticut. We’re all still awaiting the results.”

  “Five different models of cars.” Ben paged through the report. “Reading what you sent me before this meeting, my understanding is that despite the drivers’ claims that steering, braking and acceleration controls failed to function at the time of crash, the detailed diagnostic testing of the first four vehicles showed no malfunctioning or tampering of any sort.”

  “That’s correct,” the attorney answered. “In each case, the vehicle careened out of control, nearly killing the occupants, but no cause has been established.”

  Ben knew why they were really here. Neither the automakers nor the insurers wanted a repeat of the public relations fiasco of the eighties. Accidents that were rumored and then reported in the media to be a malfunctioning computer in the idle stabilizer had nearly bankrupted Audi.

  Naturally, the possibility existed that there was nothing wrong with these cars—or at least, nothing that connected the accidents other than the drivers’ comments. It was very possible that these executives were sweating over nothing. Ben knew how corporate jitters worked, though; he made a good living because of it. He knew they needed to report positive results to their CEOs, and they would protect their companies at all costs. Still, the pockets that they wanted to protect were deep, and he understood how far into those pockets an American jury could reach if negligence of any sort, at any level, could be proven.

  An attorney representing a major insurance company spoke up on Ben’s left. His company insured the drivers in two of the accidents.

  “The first accident took place twenty-one months ago. With the ongoing litigation, we understand the difficulties your people might face in interviewing the plaintiffs and the eyewitnesses. That was why we decided to jump on this latest case. You could conduct your investigation at the same time the local police and our engineers are working at it. No lines have been drawn yet in this case.”

  Ben nodded. Colter Associates hadn’t been hired to do any simple diagnostic testing on the damaged vehicle. His three-member team had an impressive legal and technical background, and their strength lay in piecing together the evidence gathered, for the most part, by other experts. After seven years in existence, Colter Associates had established a national reputation as a special investigation unit capable of solving intricate puzzles when it came to automobile accidents and claims.

  “How are we being explained?” he asked of the group at large. “Publicly, I mean.”

  Across the table, a female executive with one of the automakers responded. “As you can understand, we’re all very sensitive about rumors. We cannot allow any news leaks about this meeting or about your ongoing inquiries. Your firm’s discretion has been relied upon in the past by several of the insurers here, as well as by those of us in Detroit. We all are cognizant of that. I have to tell you that I personally do not believe that you will find anything conclusive, but the mere fact that we have retained your services to conduct an investigation could be misconstrued and cause damage. Up to now, the news media and law enforcement agencies have treated each of these accidents as separate and unrelated incidents. We’d like to keep it that way.”

  Ben had sensed Vivian Thomas’s hostility from the moment they’d been introduced. Although her company had designed and produced the automobile involved in the accident in Connecticut, she, of all participants, appeared to be the least willing to go along with this inquiry.

  “You won’t be seeing me on 60 Minutes, Ms. Thomas, but I need to know under what authority we’re going to request local law enforcement agencies to share their reports.” Ben glanced at the list lying on the table in front of him. “What authorization do we have to interview Mr. and Mrs. Peterson in the hospital.”

  Another attorney representing the Petersons’ insurance company spoke up. “It will be better for all of us if you conduct your investigation under the umbrella of our side of th
e operation. Your firm has done quite a few consulting jobs for us over the past few years. It’s perfectly reasonable for all outsiders to assume we’re seeking your assistance in this case, as well.”

  “And when we start digging into the other four accidents?” Gina Ellis asked. “You wouldn’t want to stop the ball once we get it rolling. Before we start any investigative work, however, we need to have full representational authority in writing to access and review whatever material and to interview whomever we deem necessary for our research. We’re talking inside and outside of the automotive companies, ladies and gentlemen. Full access to internal design reviews, product liability risk reports, personnel, board memos, whatever. Plus, we want it clarified contractually that we represent a legally defined consortium of both automakers and insurers here, no matter what we say outside this room. As a former member of the Business Ethics Board for the Connecticut Bar Association, I can tell you that none of us wants to be answering charges of collusion or cover-ups down the road.”

  As Gina continued to talk, Ben took in the look of surprise on many of the faces around the table. He’d seen it before and loved it. Beautiful, reserved and African American, Gina made a practice of waiting for her moment in meetings like this and then taking control. Ben knew his associate’s powers of articulation were impressive, and in a moment she had them all in the palm of her hand.

  As Gina continued to explain Colter Associates’ legal and contractual requirements, Ben turned his attention to Adam Stern, his other associate. The financial and technical expert had been leafing through the pages of the reports they’d been given.

  “Bare bones stuff,” Adam said, quietly nodding at the paperwork before him. “Mostly one-page police reports. Nothing that could be called expert diagnostic testing on either of the first two vehicles—only the notes of mechanics at the local repair shops. The next two at least have a checklist. They don’t fill me with confidence, though. I want to be there myself when they go over the Peterson car.”

  Ben knew he wouldn’t be able to keep Adam away. A mechanical engineer with ten years in design and manufacturing at General Motors and an MBA in finance, this was the type of job Adam dreamed about.

  Ben caught Gina’s nod. She and the attorneys representing the companies appeared to have come to an agreement on the legal technicalities of their course of action. The financial package had already been decided upon, so there was little more to be accomplished here.

  The automaker hosting the meeting tried to bring it to a close, but Vivian Thomas spoke up again. “As a reluctant participant in all this, I need to inform you on behalf of my company that it’s crucial that we have an end in sight. I want specific goals and a reasonable time frame in which you will conduct your investigation and submit your conclusions.”

  “Our goal is to find out if there is any connection between these accidents and see if we can ascertain the cause. Whatever we find will be in the reports we submit. Unfortunately, as far as a time frame, Ms. Thomas, a lot of what we do needs to follow your own company’s internal engineering and diagnostic review.” Ben was more than familiar with the reputation Thomas’s engineering group had for conducting their operations at a snail’s pace. “If the Peterson case turns out to be the last of these accidents, we can have a preliminary report ready two weeks after your group concludes their work.”

  Gina sat back in her chair and crossed her legs and arms, signaling clearly to Ben she was unhappy with the two weeks. He glanced at Adam, who was tapping through the dates on his electronic organizer. Ben could see, however, that everyone else in the room appeared satisfied with the arrangement.

  A minute later the meeting officially broke up. As Gina and Adam huddled by the windows, Ben spoke to a few of the executives he’d met before. Several knew his father and wanted to pass on their best wishes for his “semiretirement.” John Colter, a well-known trial lawyer in the Northeast, had been representing insurance companies for over four decades. He was partially responsible for Ben starting this company.

  “Two weeks?” Gina asked coolly when the three of them were left alone in the conference room.

  Ben’s two disgruntled employees had already packed everything in their briefcases and were ready to go.

  “Seriously,” Adam added, “what are we? Robots? These incidents are spread all over the country. How the hell are we going to get all our ducks in a row in that short a time period? What are you planning to do? Hire some greenhorns right out of college?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Because it won’t work. I, for one, don’t feel comfortable trusting some twenty-two-year-olds with our reputation.”

  “And where’s the fire?” Gina chimed in. This was a rare instance when she appeared to be taking Adam’s side. “These people have been sitting on their butts for almost two years without doing anything about this. They wouldn’t have blinked twice if you’d said six months or a year.”

  “I said two weeks after they’re done with their reports,” Ben reminded them as he packed his own briefcase.

  “Yeah, but did you see the look on Vivian Thomas’s face?” Gina pointed out. “At this very minute, she’s charging up her cattle prod to use on her staff. I’m telling you, her engineers will push some half-assed paperwork off of their desks just to put the ball back in our court. She wants a clean slate and she wants it quick. Pretty, end-of-the-year books. Big bonuses. And she’s going to hold you to your two weeks. Mark my words, Ben, we’re the ones who are going to feel that prod of hers before we’re through.”

  Ben picked up his briefcase, and they started for the door. “I only promised a preliminary report.”

  He’d known that time was an issue from the first moment they’d been approached about the job. Gina and Adam knew it, too. He didn’t bother to remind his associates again of the six-figure bonus that went along with the timely completion. He didn’t have to. He hired only the best. Besides, this was the only way to work. Ben liked to work hard. He liked fast cars, fast women and fast jobs. Dawdling was not his style. Life was too short. Period.

  Gina was as solid as a rock. There was nothing that she couldn’t do. She was a wife, a mother of two small children, a genius with the law. Her middle name was balance and her last name organization. She held Colter Associates together.

  Adam was just flat-out smart…and a complainer. Or, at least, he was happy to complain to Ben and Gina. Standing five feet eight inches, Adam had average looks but an amazing social life. Weekends in the Bahamas or Aspen. Flying to Europe for a quick break. Every time Ben saw him out and around, he had another leggy blonde on his arm. Ben figured Adam’s personal charm had to be based in his unshakeable aura of confidence. Everything his associate said was a fact—or Adam made it sound that way. There wasn’t a topic on which he wasn’t well informed. And what he didn’t know, he made up.

  Adam sometimes drove Gina crazy, but the three still managed to get along amazingly well. In their own way, they’d become a family.

  “Make it an overnighter to Connecticut,” Gina was telling Adam as they got into the elevator. “Be there for the diagnostic work. Then go on to San Diego. You have to cover Miami, too. I’ll start working on New York and Providence. No overnighters for me. It stresses out the kids.”

  “I’ll cover things in Connecticut,” Ben said.

  “Right. That’s where the meat of our preliminary report has to come from,” Gina reminded Ben. “Good luck with your digging. In fact, you should plan on staying there a few days.” She smiled at him. “Who knows? Maybe the slow pace will do you some good.”

  Ben nodded and looked away. Slow? Right. A good job to focus on. And to fill his downtime—if there was any—he had three racetracks and two casinos within a short ride of Wickfield.

  Just the kind of slow pace Ben liked.

  Three

  The ancient trees that shaded Wickfield’s village green in the summer months were now leafless after the rain and wind of the previous days, but Emily loved the strength and beauty
they lent to the town’s center. That was true for any time of year. She loved almost everything about the town she now called home.

  Wickfield was the quintessential New England village, and the steepled churches, white-columned neoclassical mansions and brick shops lining the village green were visible proof of its early colonial prosperity. Five roads had converged at the green since the days when Washington himself had ridden in to plan his northern campaign and secure the financial support of the successful local landowners. There was new money here now, thanks to the New York literary crowd, but the character of the place had changed very little over the years.

  Emily drove slowly along the wide cobblestone street that formed one border of the green. On her right, restaurants, antique shops, art galleries, real estate offices, a local bank and the old courthouse all stood side by side in a picturesque combination of outdated architectural styles. Brick predominated, the red clay worn to a variety of warm colors. Each building had its own distinct facade, accented occasionally by ornate woodwork. Painted wood signs hung above the doorways, and the wide sidewalks were fairly busy for this time of year. To her left, across the green, two white clapboard churches flanked an old and attractive granite building that once served as the local jail in colonial days. The old jail now had a sign out front proclaiming itself the Wickfield Inn.

  All along the street, cars and SUVs were parked face-in, and every space was filled. Emily came to a stop as she reached the narrow alleyway that separated the Eatopia Café from Raven’s Books & Gifts and peered down the cobbled lane, looking for a possible place to park in the small area behind the buildings. She could see Liz’s car there, and Mr. Raven’s van was taking up two spaces, as usual. Just then, the backup lights appeared on a Range Rover just ahead of her.

  “Good timing,” she said out loud, putting on her blinker and looking through the café’s plate glass front window as she waited.