Irreparable Harm (A Legal Thriller)

by Melissa F. Miller

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  Sasha stared at the Petersons’ gracious home, but her mind was still on the globe hanging from Vivian’s key ring. Vivian was feeling around under the driver’s seat for something, but Sasha paid no attention. Her instincts were screaming at her to get out of the Mercedes. Too many things were wrong with the situation.

  Much later, when she replayed the events in her mind trying to rewrite the ending, she would chalk up her failure to react to two factors: One, she had been intimidated by Vivian because she was a client. Two, she was distracted by that keychain.

  In the moment, all she knew was she turned back to Vivian to ask why they were at Noah’s house and looked straight down the barrel of a handgun.

  Reflexively, she began to calculate the steps to disarm Vivian. Almost immediately, she realized the conditions were no good. Vivian’s hands were shaking badly. The safety was off. Sasha assumed the gun was loaded. And they were in very close quarters. A struggle for the gun in the front seat of the vehicle almost guaranteed someone would be shot.

  It was better to bide her time and take Vivian down later. Assuming she got an opportunity.

  “Out,” Vivian ordered, hands still shaking.

  Sasha complied with slow, deliberate movements. Vivian was tense and wound up tight. Sasha didn’t want to spook her and end up dead.

  Vivian shut the driver’s side door and walked around the car to Sasha’s side.

  “Can I get my briefcase?” Sasha asked.

  “No.”

  Vivian nudged the passenger door closed with her hip and jabbed the gun at Sasha.

  “We’re going in the side door. Hurry.”

  Sasha trotted up the path, unsteady in her heels on the crushed stones. Vivian followed behind, more slowly, the gun aimed at Sasha’s back.

  Sasha swept both sides of the path leading to the doorway with her eyes. No brush that would provide cover if she were to dive, just two glazed, stoneware pots—one on each side of the door—both home to fat, wine-colored chrysanthemums.

  She reached the door and stopped. Vivian leaned forward, over Sasha’s head, and rapped on the glass with the butt of the gun. Sasha could have grabbed it then. Wrapped her hands around the barrel and pulled it down, out of the bigger woman’s hands. But Vivian was not practicing good weapon retention. By using the butt end of the gun to knock on the door, she was pointing the weapon up and at herself. Bad idea. If Sasha grabbed for gun now it would be pointing up and toward Sasha as she wrested control of it away. Worse idea. Unless she wanted to get shot in the head.

  Not the right time.

  A man’s face appeared in the door. He was wide-eyed with surprise and his mouth was set with anger. The two emotions battled for supremacy on his face.

  He pulled the door open and stepped back. Vivian used the gun to push Sasha inside. She followed and pushed the door shut behind her. As soon as she stepped inside, Sasha felt Noah’s death hanging over the house like a cloud.

  “What the hell, Vivian?” The man’s voice was tight and fast. He looked from the gun to Sasha to Vivian then repeated the circuit.

  Sasha wondered if he was a relative of Laura’s. She saw no resemblance. He was in his late fifties. He was bald on top, with wispy brown hair that hung in a fringe from right above his ears down to his collar. He was perfectly average in height and weight. Not tall, not short. Not fat, not thin. He wore a turtleneck and jeans. Socks, no shoes.

  “Jerry Irwin, meet Sasha McCandless.” Vivian said.

  The man—Irwin—reared his head back, disbelief painted across his face. “Her?!” He blinked behind his glasses.

  Sasha felt like telling him the feeling was mutual. This mundane–looking man was the psychotic genius?

  His eyes shifted to the cream-colored, tumbled limestone floor. Sasha and Vivian followed his gaze. Their heels had tracked in mud from the wet ground.

  “Take off your shoes, please.” He said it in that same strangled voice.

  Sasha kicked hers off fast and lined them up beside the door.

  Vivian huffed. “Is Laura home?”

  “No, she went out. Take off the shoes, Vivian!” Irwin’s face flashed deep red as he screamed.

  Vivian muttered under her breath but propped her back against the door and lifted her right foot. She kept the gun in her right hand and used her left to pull off her right shoe. She let it fall to the floor. Mud flew off the stacked heel when it hit the ground.

  Irwin frowned at the mess then stalked off toward the mud room to the right of the door.

  Sasha waited, off to Vivian’s left.

  Vivian raised her left foot and kept her gun hand up against the door while she fumbled with the left shoe with her left hand. She was off balance and struggling with the strap.

  It was time.

  Redirect. Sasha wheeled across Vivian’s torso and used her left hand to pin Vivian’s right wrist against the door. The gun was pointed up—less than ideal—but away from everyone in the house.

  Control. She stretched on her toes and pressed her elbow deep into the hollow under Vivian’s ribcage. Vivian gasped. She drove it deeper and held it there.

  Attack. At the same time, Sasha grabbed Vivian by the throat with her left hand. Vivian dropped her shoe and clawed at Sasha’s wrist.

  Sasha aimed two quick straight punches at the hollow of Vivian’s throat. Followed them with a palm strike to the chin. Vivian’s mouth snapped shut and the back of her head slammed into the door.

  Take. She bent Vivian’s right wrist back and pried the gun from her hand.

  She stood, feet apart, and aimed at Vivian, who slid down the door to a seated position. Sasha followed her movement with the gun.

  Irwin appeared in the mud room doorway holding a cordless hand vacuum, ready to clean up the dirt. He raised his eyebrows when he saw Vivian slumped against the door, holding her throat.

  He nodded to the bright red splotches of blood that dripped from Vivian’s mouth and dotted the tile.

  “You’d better hope that comes up, Vivian.”

  Sasha considered shooting him just for being stupid.

  “Put the vacuum down and help her into a chair,” she ordered.

  He hesitated, like he might argue with her, then cut his eyes toward the gun. He sighed, but dropped the hand vac and hoisted Vivian up, wrapping his arms under her armpits. He dragged her over to a wrought iron chair and propped her up in it.

  “Sit down next to her,” Sasha told him, pointing at the empty chair beside Vivian.

  They sat there, side by side, like kids called to the principal’s office and looked up at her, defiant and scared. Vivian was still breathing heavily, but aside from some minor damage to her throat and a bloody mouth, she’d be fine.

  Sasha stood there with the gun and just looked at them for a long moment.

  “Start at the beginning,” she said.

  She barely got the words out before the sound of a doorbell chime floated into the kitchen from the front hallway.

  “You expecting company?” she asked Irwin.

  His pale face lit up. “Yes, I am. Oh, am I.”

  Vivian looked over at him.

  “My guys,” he told her. “They’re here with the files.” He was buzzing with excitement.

  “Your guys? Gregor and Anton?” Sasha asked.

  “That’s right,” he told her. “I’m surprised you survived your encounter with them. Did you enjoy it?”

  Idiot, Sasha thought.

  The doorbell chimed again, followed by hard knocking on the door.

  “Well, go let them in before they break Laura’s door,” Sasha told him.

  He jumped up from the chair, then froze, wondering what the catch was.

  “Irwin, for Chrissake, don’t . . .” Vivian started.

  “Quiet,” Sasha told her, waving the gun for emphasis.

  The evil genius stood for a minute, trying to decide, then raced off down the hall, slipping and sliding in his socks.

&n
bsp; Vivian just shook her head.

  Sasha smiled. “No common sense, huh? I mean, it’s too good to be true, right? I’m just going to let him open the door for his reinforcements?”

  “Too good to be true,” Vivian repeated, dull eyed and quiet.

  Irwin reappeared a moment later, looking deflated. Followed closely by Connelly with the Sig Sauer in hand.

  Connelly looked at Vivian, hunched over in the chair, blood staining her silk blouse. He nodded a greeting to Sasha.

  “Didn’t I tell you to go straight back to your office?”

  Sasha ignored it. “Do you know whose house this is?”

  “No.”

  “Noah Peterson’s.”

  “That Mrs. Peterson?” he inclined his head toward Vivian, keeping the gun on Irwin.

  “No. Vivian Coulter.”

  Connelly raised an eyebrow. “Nice client relations your firm has. She need medical treatment?”

  “No,” Sasha said at the same time Vivian mewed, “Yes.”

  Connelly rolled his eyes but stepped closer to inspect Vivian’s injuries.

  “You’ll live,” he told her.

  Irwin stood slack-jawed and silent.

  “Sit back down,” Sasha told him.

  Connelly handed her his gun and reached for his phone.

  She stood, feet planted, and pointed Vivian’s gun at Vivian and Connelly’s gun at Irwin.

  “Hurry up,” she told him. She felt ridiculous.

  Connelly ignored her and made his call. Spoke loudly over Pulaski’s complaining and gave the U.S. Marshals the address. Then, he slid the phone back in his pocket and looked at Vivian and Irwin.

  “We’ve got about ten minutes. Somebody start talking.”

  Sasha handed him his gun.

  Vivian kept her mouth firmly shut, but Irwin began to prattle right away.

  “After the RAGS links were installed on Hemisphere Air’s planes, we planned to ride it out. Vivian thought after the administration changed in D.C. we’d be better positioned to revive the pilot program with the Air Marshals Service,” he explained.

  Vivian muttered, “Shut up, Jerry,” but it was futile.

  “But then,” he continued, “Patriotech was approached by certain...private organizations that had an interest in acquiring the technology. But, each party only wanted it if I could guarantee exclusivity.”

  “Exclusivity?” Connelly arched a brow.

  “Irwin said, “Nobody wanted it if everybody else had it, too, understand? So, I organized an auction for interested bidders. They wanted to see a demonstration or two before bidding.”

  “Wait.” Sasha was confused. “Isn’t this a limited use application? Once you run out of planes that have RAGS links installed, then the winning bidder would just have a useless technology, right?”

  “Yes and no,” Irwin said. “I had a plan. I wasn’t going to implement it, but I would license it to the winning bidder.”

  “License what?

  Vivian tried again. “Jerry, stop talking.”

  He plowed ahead. “A second-generation RAGS. No link needed. No need to be on the plane. With the new version, you can crash a plane from the terminal.”

  “What do you need to make it work?”

  “Someone on the inside.”

  “Inside what, the cockpit—a pilot?”

  Irwin shook his head, “Pilot, flight attendant, air marshal, cleaning crew, baggage crew. Whoever. You just need someone to read you the model number on the transponder in the cabin so you know what frequency to set the RAGS to.”

  Sasha flicked her eyes to Connelly and saw his grip on the gun tighten.

  “Did you line up anyone on the inside?” Connelly asked, his voice careful.

  “No, that’s on the buyer,” Irwin said.

  “Then why even use the RAGS-linked planes for your demonstrations?”

  “Because I wanted to be certain the demonstrations were repeatable. The new system should work. I know the old one works.”

  “So, it’s fraud. The technology you’re selling isn’t the one you’re demonstrating,” Sasha said.

  Irwin shrugged. “Caveat emptor, baby.”

  Vivian shifted in her seat. “I think you bruised my larynx,” she said to Sasha.

  “Who lined up Calvaruso and Jones?” Sasha asked, ignoring Vivian’s complaint.

  “Who’s Jones?” Connelly asked.

  “Harold Jones. Martyr Number 2.”

  “You found something in Warner’s papers?”

  She nodded. “Yeah, Jones is booked on Bob Metz’s flight back from Seattle tomorrow night, carrying a Patriotech-issued smartphone.”

  Vivian glared at Irwin. “Good job getting the files back, Jerry,” she said through clenched teeth.

  “Actually, Sasha figured out which planes were modified before we ever got Warner’s files.” Connelly told her. “Using your files.”

  Sasha repeated her question, waving the gun for emphasis. “Who lined up Calvaruso and Jones?”

  “I did,” Irwin said. “Vivian used her connection with Laura . . .”

  “Laura Peterson?”

  “Yes, she’s on the board of the cancer center. Vivian told Laura I was a philanthropist, looking to start a fund for terminal cancer patients. Laura set up interviews with several gentlemen, and I picked the two who seemed most desperate. They both agreed to carry a phone on a plane, knowing it was dangerous and they could die. In exchange, I paid them each twelve thousand, five hundred dollars and purchased life insurance policies for them.”

  “Did they know they were going to take down planes full of innocent people?”

  Irwin made a motion with his hands, as if to say who knows?

  “Jones didn’t ask a lot of questions. Calvaruso did. He might have known. Probably he did.”

  “Jesus,” Connelly breathed.

  “I have a question. Where are Gregor and Anton? Why do you have their car? And who the hell are you?” Irwin fired his questions at Connelly.

  “That’s three questions,” Connelly informed him. “Gregor is in the custody of the United States Marshals Service. Anton is at UPMC having reconstructive surgery courtesy of Ms. McCandless. And I am Special Agent Leo Connelly. I’m a federal air marshal.”

  Irwin hung his head.

  “Where are your boys?” Sasha asked Connelly.

  “They’re still a couple minutes away,” Connelly said, checking the clock over the double wall oven. He seemed to take in his surroundings for the first time. “Why are we here anyway?”

  “I’m not sure,” Sasha said, “but Vivian has Noah’s . . .” Sasha stopped as Laura appeared on the doorstep outside the kitchen door, a Whole Foods Market bag and a bouquet of cut flowers in her arms. She turned the doorknob and filled the doorway.

  “Jerry?” she called, as she walked in, “is Vivian here?” She looked back at the SUV in her driveway then stepped into the foyer. She stopped.

  Her pale blue eyes searched the four faces in her kitchen and her knees buckled under her. “Jerry? What’s going on? The groceries tumbled to the floor, followed by flowers. Connelly hurried over to catch her.

  “Ma’am,” he said, steadying her on her feet, “I’m Special Agent Leo Connelly, we have a situation here.”

  “Situation? Sasha? What are you doing?” She eyed the gun in Sasha’s hand.

  Sasha half-turned to Laura, keeping one eye on Vivian and Irwin.

  “Laura, I’m so sorry. Agent Connelly will explain everything later, but you need to turn around and leave right now.” She worked to keep her voice calm.

  “Leave? I’m not leaving Jerry here. Honey, what’s going on?” Laura was wild-eyed and getting loud.

  Honey? Sasha saw the question mark in Connelly’s eyes and shrugged.

  Vivian saw it, too. She barked out a laugh. “The Widow Peterson didn’t waste any time taking a lover. Although, I do have to question her taste.”

  “Vivian!” Irwin warned her.

  Vivian laughed
her ugly laugh again.

  Irwin saw his chance and lunged from the chair for the block of knives on Laura’s counter. He scrabbled with the block, tipping it over, and pulled out an eight-inch chef’s knife.

  “Jerry!” Laura screamed, hands flying up to her face.

  Sasha dropped Vivian’s gun to the floor and kicked it toward Connelly. She wasn’t going to fire it and it was just going to be a hindrance. She’d need two hands to deal with Irwin.

  Connelly held Laura tight around the waist and brought her close, so he could cover Vivian with his gun.

  “Do not move,” he told her. Vivian nodded and pressed herself as far back as possible in the chair.

  Irwin’s eyes darted from side to side. Sasha flashed on the story Mickey had told, of Irwin slashing him wildly with a broken bottle. She prepared for an erratic, disorganized attack.

  Instead, Irwin charged straight at her.

  Active defense. She leapt to the right and he stabbed at the air where she’d been.

  He came again. This time Sasha charged forward, toward Irwin and the knife in his right hand. He blinked, surprised that she was moving toward him, and tried to back away. He slid across the floor in his socks.

  Sasha moved closer, swung her left arm in, and caught his right hand at the wrist.

  Control. She bent his arm back at the elbow and leaned forward. She felt his hot breath, as he panted from exertion and fear. She kept pushing him back, and he started to lose his balance.

  Attack. Irwin leaned forward—the natural reaction to stop himself from falling backward. She was waiting for it and brought her right elbow up in a roundhouse and smashed it into his jaw, with her full weight behind it.

  Take. Still twisting, she turned so that now she was standing directly in front of Irwin, who was howling and keening, rocking with the pain. She kept her left hand tight on his right wrist. Brought her right knee up and struck his wrist bone quick and hard. The knife popped out of Irwin’s hand and clattered to the floor.

  Sasha stepped on the knife and then forced his wrist back until his bones splintered and cracked and his eyes rolled back from the pain.

  Laura was screaming and crying now, big heaving sobs.

  “Calm down, Mrs. Peterson, please.” Connelly maneuvered her into the chair next to Vivian.

  Sasha caught her breath and dragged Irwin over to the wall.

  “Does she know?” Sasha asked Vivian, nodding to Laura. She picked up the knife and put it on the kitchen island behind her.

  “Know what? That Jerry’s a homicidal maniac who caused a plane full of people to crash so he could fund their new island home?”

  Laura looked up in horror. “Is that true?” she cried, asking everyone and no one in particular.

  “Yes,” Sasha said, “your boyfriend is a mass murderer.”

  “I’m sorry,” Irwin said from the floor, “I know you’re disappointed, Laura.”

  “But that’s not what I meant, Vivian,” Sasha said. “Does Laura know you killed her husband?”

  Vivian was completely still and quiet.

  Laura whipped her head around to Sasha, mascara staining her cheeks. “She killed Noah?”

  “When the police gave you Noah’s belongings was anything missing?” Sasha said.

  Laura looked at her blankly.

  Sasha reached into Vivian’s purse and held the keys up for Laura to see: the globe and its bright red plane dangled from the Mercedes key ring.

  Laura turned to Vivian. “You killed him?”

  Vivian shrugged. Her face revealed nothing. She hadn’t spent her entire adult life as a lawyer without learning to lawyer up.

  “You killed him?” Laura repeated.

  “Oh, Laura, what do you care if I did? You’re moving on, remember.” Vivian’s voice was cold and her face was a frozen mask of disdain.

  Connelly was busy examining Irwin’s injuries. Sasha was busy staring at Vivian.

  Neither of them saw Laura launch herself forward and grab the chef’s knife. She was on top of Vivian in a flash, plunging the knife into her chest.

  Sasha pulled Laura off her, but she could tell it was too late. Bloody froth bubbled out of Vivian’s parted lips.

  Laura let the knife slip to the floor and collapsed onto Sasha, shaking and crying. “He was still my husband,” she said.

  Irwin called to her from the floor, telling her he loved her. She didn’t seem to hear him.

  Connelly left Irwin there, shouting, and checked Vivian’s vital signs.

  He looked up at Sasha and shook his head. “Her pulse is really thready. I think she has at least one punctured lung.”

  Connelly called for an ambulance, then he took Laura from Sasha’s arms and sent Sasha out to the porch to wait for it.

  Sasha sat on Noah and Laura’s hanging porch bed and just swung, curled up among the richly patterned pillows, until Pulaski and Morgan careened to a stop at the curb below.

  They pounded up the stairs and ran past her, as Connelly yelled out to them from inside the house, “We’ve got one down!”

  His voice carried down to the quiet street, lined with old maple trees, their leaves just starting to turn red and gold.