Need to Know

by Fern Michaels

  “Exactly,” Henry said.

  Robert threw his hands in the air. “This is the safest room in the building. Nothing can be overheard in here. I don’t even know if this particular conference room has been used by anyone since Arthur was here with his wife. Except for the three of us.”

  “Unless it’s bugged,” Henry snarled.

  “Did you just say what I think you said?” Alvin snarled in return. “Impossible! No one comes in here, just the staff and the clients. None of them have any skin in this game, so why would someone bug it?”

  “Unless Arthur did it himself when he was in here with his wife. Maybe she did it? It did get a little testy there when she stood up to him. Our eyes were on her and what was going down between the two of them. Or he could have done it when she went into her tirade, for want of a better word,” Robert suggested.

  Henry scratched at the stubble on his cheeks. “Actually, there were some other people in this conference room, aside from staff and clients. Remember Countess de Silva’s lawyer and the reporter from the Post were here. It was our idea to bring them to this particular conference room. Although why they would do something like that is beyond strange, to my way of thinking. They had no idea we would be speaking in here. I think we can rule them out and concentrate on Arthur and his wife. There is a real possibility it was all a plan on their part, create a diversion to distract us, and he plants a listening device.”

  Instantly the three partners moved as one. They pushed their chairs back from the table and dropped to their knees. “It’s dark under here. We need a flashlight or something,” Robert groused. “I don’t even know what a listening device looks like.”

  “Just feel around. They’re usually small, no bigger than a nickel. They have adhesive on the back. I saw that once on a television show,” Henry said.

  “I see something. Yeah, yeah, it’s a little circle. Right where Arthur was sitting. He was across from us, remember? Okay, I got it. Stubborn little bugger. Good suction or good adhesive. Ah . . . I got it!” Alvin chortled.

  The partners backed out from under the table and scrambled to their knees. They watched as Alvin dropped the little circle on the table like it was a white-hot coal. They all leaned forward to stare at the innocent-looking circle that had the power to ruin all three of their careers. No one spoke. All they could do was stare. Henry was the first to move over to the bar sink. He filled a glass with water, carried it back to the conference table, picked up the little circle, and dropped it into the glass.

  The beautifully appointed conference room suddenly turned ugly and claustrophobic, thick with fear.

  Henry sat down gingerly. He removed his glasses and massaged his temples. All he could think of was fifty years of trying to make things better in the legal world was all for naught, thanks to Arthur Forrester.

  “What’s our next move?” Robert asked nervously.

  “I don’t think we have a next move. That privilege goes to Arthur,” Alvin replied.

  “We’re at his mercy right now. We wait for him to get in touch with us. It’s all we can do,” Henry said, putting his glasses back on. “I suggest we all go home and pick up tomorrow. Right now, I can’t think clearly.”

  “What do we do with . . . this?” Robert asked, pointing to the glass holding the little black circle.

  “Flush it,” Henry said.

  “Maybe we shouldn’t do that. We might need it as proof or evidence if this gets away from us,” Alvin said. “There might be a way for some forensic people to figure out who was listening on the other end. I say we keep it, just in case.”

  “I have a metal tin with some Altoids in it. I’ll fetch it, and we can put the thing in there, close it, and forget about it for the time being,” Alvin said.

  “Sounds good, Alvin. Go get the tin,” Henry said.

  “Who has the pleasure of keeping this little gem?” Robert asked.

  “Just stick it in an envelope, write our names on it, seal it, and put it in the safe,” Henry said.

  Ten minutes later, all three partners were in the parking garage and headed to their own cars for the drive home through the pouring rain. There were no good-byes, no handshakes, no claps on the back. The simple truth was that none of the three wanted to look at the other two.

  They did, however, give airy backhand waves high in the air as they separated to go to their individual cars.

  Their thoughts, however, were the same: Tomorrow is another day.

  Chapter 12

  Arthur Forrester paced the long, narrow kitchen, a glass of iced tea, which tasted like dishwater flavored with vanilla, in his hand. Tea he’d made himself. He whipped around the center island, the tea sloshing out of the glass onto the floor. He ignored the spill and let his gaze go to the clock on the stove—4:49. Time to call Ballard, Ballard and Quinlan. He took another gulp of the tea, wishing that Nala had made it. He didn’t miss her at all, but he did miss some of the things she did, like making tasty iced tea. She always made sure there was an extra pitcher, full to the rim, in the fridge. She even took the time to make ice cubes out of the tea so the tea wouldn’t taste watered down.

  Arthur set down the glass, which was sticky to the touch. He wiped his hand on the leg of his khaki pants before he picked up the receiver on the landline. He pressed in the digits of the firm and waited. When the receptionist announced the firm’s name, Arthur identified himself and asked to be put through to Henry Ballard.

  The cheerful voice on the other end of the line said, “I’m sorry, Mr. Forrester, but Mr. Ballard has left for the day. Would you like to leave a message on his voice mail?”

  “No. Then put me through to Alvin or Robert, please.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Forrester, but they’re also gone for the day. The senior partners left together fifteen minutes ago. Are you sure you don’t want to leave a message?”

  Arthur didn’t bother to respond. Instead, he slammed down the phone and cursed under his breath. The bastards weren’t taking him seriously. If they had, they’d be sitting in Henry’s office, waiting for his promised call. Now what was he to do? Obviously, he needed to fall back and regroup. He headed for his office, the sticky glass of foul-tasting tea still in his hand.

  Outside, in her car, Sasha Quantrell called Avery Snowden to report what she’d just heard. He, in turn, called Charles, who informed Annie and Myra, who immediately sent out texts to the sisters and Maggie, to keep them current.

  Maggie sighed as she gathered up her belongings into a neat pile. Her plan was to wait in the office until the next update on the law firm’s partners and someone named Matthew Spicer. By then, the locally flooded streets should be safe enough to travel home. In the meantime, to pass away the time, she headed for the kitchen to see what she could scrounge up in the way of food. She carried a paperback novel with her, just in case she was unsuccessful in the food department.

  * * *

  Arthur Forrester looked at the bedside clock. He didn’t think he’d slept more than twenty minutes after he climbed into bed. The digital clock said 5:30. He got up and headed for the shower. A shave was out of the question. His face was still red and raw, and his day-old stubble itched. He took a second to wonder what his blood pressure was. Well, after today, if his pressure was still high, it would come down when he settled things with his old firm.

  Forrester stepped into the steaming shower, danced around as he lathered up, doing his best not to get his face wet. He made quick work of the shower, stepped out, and vigorously toweled himself off. He wiped the steam from the vanity mirror and winced at the condition of his face. He dabbed on two different prescription ointments. He dressed in his last pair of pressed khakis, along with a pristine white button-down shirt. As he peered at himself in the mirror, he made a mental note to take a trip to the dry cleaner, something Nala had always taken care of. As much as he hated the thought, he was going to have to apply the special blend of makeup his dermatologist had made up for him. He convinced himself that if he
wore a ball cap, with the bill pulled low, and sunglasses, no one would stare at him. He didn’t know why he cared, but he did. Vanity was the only thing he could come up with.

  Unable to look at himself any longer, he quickly closed his eyes and brushed his teeth. His thoughts all over the map, Forrester left the bathroom and headed for the kitchen to make his morning coffee. In his opinion, there was nothing better than a good cup of coffee and the morning paper. Even if he read it online. No matter what else was going on. Today was a perfect example.

  While he waited for the coffee to drip into the pot, Forrester leaned against the sink to stare out at the heavy rain battering the kitchen window. He absolutely, totally detested rainy days. Rainy days depressed him. A rainy day was for ducks. He wondered where that thought had come from. He felt a shiver course through his body. His second thought was that it was going to be one hell of a ride through the rain to the train station. Something else he had to deal with. The last plop of the coffee was like music to his ears.

  Forrester filled his cup and carried it back to his office, where he turned on his computer. He waited patiently while it booted up. The time flashed on the bottom of the computer screen: 7:10. He clicked the keys, and his home page came up. He clicked again until he saw the large black headline on the front page of the Sentinel. He blinked, sucked air into his lungs, and held his breath until he grew light-headed. In a million years, he could never have anticipated what he was seeing. Especially today, of all days. His stomach roiled and his heart fluttered as bile rose in his throat. He fought to keep it down. He broke out into a cold sweat. Shit on a shingle! Now he was going to have to reapply the medical makeup. He swore then—every dirty, filthy word he’d ever heard in his seventy years of life. When he had exhausted all the words he knew, he made up more as he raced through the text on the Sentinel ’s front page. Frenzied, he exited the article and clicked on the New York Times. Garland Lee smiled at him from his computer monitor.

  Forrester bit down on his bottom lip. He fought with himself not to put his fist through his computer. He pushed his swivel chair backward with such force, the chair hit the wall. If he had not been gripping the armrests, he would have catapulted and bounced forward into the monitor, either cracking it or his head. As it was, whiplash was not out of the question. He struggled with his breathing. He dropped his head between his knees and took deep breaths. It seemed to take forever to get his breathing under control.

  What he’d just seen was nothing more than a blip. A small bump in the road. Water under the proverbial bridge. Once Henry Ballard, the other name partners, and the firm got in line, it wasn’t going to mean a damn thing. Once Henry fell into line, he’d own Garland Lee’s tour. He took it one step further and told himself he would own Garland Lee. Period. End of story. He turned off his computer with a wild flourish.

  Forrester looked into his coffee cup, surprised to see that it was empty. He made his way back to the kitchen. He was happy to see that his hands were steady as he poured coffee into his cup. A blip. He’d handled blips all his life. What’s one more?

  His cup full, Forrester sat down on the bar stool. He reached for his cell phone. Time to call Matthew Spicer. He scrolled through the numbers on his smartphone and placed his call. Spicer’s cell phone rang five times before a metallic, robotic voice said, “The number you are dialing is no longer in service.” Frowning, Forrester ended the call and pressed in the digits for the number again, only to get the same metallic, robotic message.

  Forrester stomped his way back to the office and his file cabinet. He rummaged until he found the files for Tram v Oden. He searched through the loose notes in the folder until he found a background report on Matthew Spicer. He copied the phone number for his landline onto a sticky note. He closed the folder, returned it to the file cabinet, which he locked. He carried the sticky note back out to the kitchen, where he dialed the number for Spicer’s landline. His eyes narrowed at the message he heard after the phone rang three times: “The number you are calling has been disconnected at the customer’s request.”

  “At the customer’s request.” At the customer’s request, my ass! More than likely, it was at Henry Ballard’s request!

  Now it all made sense. The partners never left the office till seven o’clock so as not to sit in rush-hour traffic. Yet, the three partners had left before five o’clock yesterday. The fix was in, and Forrester knew it. Matthew Spicer was long gone, thanks to Henry Ballard and his cronies. Matthew Spicer could be anywhere in the world by now. The bastards had one-upped him. He gave himself a mental kick for not being one step ahead of the sons of bitches. My bad. It will not happen again. That was a given.

  Forrester thought back to the headlines in the Sentinel and Times. If this wasn’t a conspiracy, he didn’t know what was.

  Forrester drummed his fingers on the countertop as his mind raced. Obviously, a trip into the city was no longer necessary or even desirable. He was sure that if he went to where Spicer lived, he’d find a note on the door that said something to the effect that he was out of town to handle a family emergency. Thanks to his old law firm. He supposed he could go to the firm and confront the senior partners, but he didn’t really have the stomach for that. If necessary, he could do the same thing over the phone.

  All he had to do was think this through and get his thoughts in order. He had the partners on the run, that was a given. Otherwise, they wouldn’t have arranged a disappearing act for Matthew Spicer. What the partners didn’t know was he had Spicer’s Social Security number among the copious notes in his file. When it was time to lay hands on the man, he could hire an investigative firm to look for him. Sooner or later, Matthew Spicer would have to open a bank account somewhere. Also, somewhere there was a paper trail that would lead back to the damn partners, who thought they were so smart. No, he wasn’t worried about Spicer. At least not now.

  Forrester continued to drum his fingers on the countertop as his mind spun in circles. So what is their game with the newspaper articles on Garland Lee? Do they think planting those stories will make me go off the deep end? Or . . . does it have something to do with the countess who’s considering turning a four-hundred-million-dollar portfolio over to Ballard, Ballard and Quinlan to oversee? But according to Henry, the countess will only consider giving them her portfolio to manage if the case with Garland Lee is off the books. Yeah, yeah, that makes sense.

  And wasn’t the other woman at that meeting from the Post? Of course she was, and she also had the front page with Garland Lee. Forrester was sure of it. He snorted, an ugly sound of displeasure. Then he started to mutter to himself. “You must think I’m really stupid, Henry, to fall for something so asinine.”

  Forrester reached for his smartphone and looked for the app that would give him the front page of the Post. He made another ugly sound in his throat when he saw the headline and Garland Lee’s picture above the fold. He was right; it was all one big, gigantic conspiracy. He gave himself a mental pat on the back for his astuteness.

  Now what was he to do? No knee-jerk reactions here. Knowing what he knew about Henry Ballard, Henry would think he had him on the ropes and that he’d buckle and drop the lawsuit against Garland Lee. Henry had always been a cocky bastard. It was about time someone cut him down to size, and he, Arthur Forrester, was just the man to do it.

  There was not an iota of doubt in Arthur Forrester’s mind that he was the man to do the job.

  Pleased with himself, Forrester got up to pour himself the last of the coffee. Coffee he didn’t need, but he was going to drink it, anyway. He did so hate waste.

  With nothing pressing on his agenda, Forrester decided to while away the time by making himself some breakfast. By the time he did that, ate, and cleaned up, it would be time to place the call to the firm.

  As he cooked, ate, and cleaned up, Forrester mentally rehearsed the conversation he would have with Henry Ballard. It would be a conversation where he did all the talking, and Henry Ballard did all the listening
. Finally, at last, he was going to get the upper hand with the son of a bitch who had made his life so miserable for over thirty years.

  He wished now, and not for the first time, that he had taken this route a long time ago. He never should have let the case drag on so long. No matter how many times he asked himself why, he had never been able to come up with an answer. Even now, with everything within his grasp, he still didn’t know the answer. Maybe he would never know.

  His arm snaked out to reach for his smartphone, when it buzzed. He looked at the caller ID, knowing he knew the number from somewhere, but couldn’t quite place it. He clicked on and said, “Arthur Forrester.”

  “Arthur, this is Max Hubert. What’s this I see splashed across all the papers this morning? And you didn’t call me to include my venue in Garland’s tour. What? You want a bigger slice this time around? Negotiations are always good, Arthur. Why don’t we get together and talk about this? What do you say?”

  Forrester’s heart started to pound. What to say? What not to say? He struggled to find the words. “It’s . . . it’s all still in the talking stages, Max. I do not know why the papers ran with it. You know I would never ace you out. I’ll be in touch.” The two men talked for a few minutes, the weather, the family, the entertainment business in general, before they ended the call.

  Forrester’s hands were shaking. He needed to calm down. Forget about the stupid call. Concentrate on what to say to Henry Ballard. He needed to decide if he should use his smartphone or the landline to make the call. Such a decision. He debated a full minute, finally settling on the landline. He pressed in the digits and waited for the phone to ring and for the receptionist to say the musical words, “Ballard, Ballard and Quinlan. How may I direct your call?”