by Tim Tigner
“Oh, ah, Wendell Branson. But Mister Kanasis obviously knows that.”
Kimber’s lips curled up as though reacting to an inside joke, but she just said, “Wendell Branson” into her headset. Then she nodded in agreement, giving Oliver the feeling of exclusive acceptance. “You’re in luck,” she said, standing as she addressed him. “Please follow me.”
Oliver followed, working hard to keep his tongue off the Persian carpets that covered the hardwood floor. Watching Kimber, he was finally beginning to understand why a lawyer would spring for a Rodeo Drive address. Aware that he risked meeting Kanasis in a state of full salute, Oliver gave himself a mental cold shower by diverting his attention to the decor. They passed several more alcoves, each adorned with an Impressionist watercolor, and several stately office doors, each flanked by pedestals supporting arrangements of fresh flowers. At the end of the hall, Kimber stopped before an elevator. She pressed a big brass button and stepped aside as the door opened.
Oliver thanked Kimber—most sincerely—before stepping inside and pressing the button labeled “K.” The only button. Nothing happened after the door closed, at least as far as Oliver could tell. Either it was one of those incredibly smooth elevators, or it was just sitting there. He looked down at his watch. Fifteen seconds, thirty, a minute. He pressed the button again. Nothing. Two minutes. Three. Paranoia began to take hold. He sniffed the air for gas or smoke but detected nothing. He wanted to pound on the door and shout for help but did not want to appear cowardly to Kimber, so he focused on his breathing. In ... out ... in ... out ... After four minutes he backed into a corner and grabbed the handrails lest the floor should drop out to reveal a shark tank below.
After four and a half minutes, the doors slid silently open to reveal a palatial office. Feeling somewhat foolish but decidedly relieved, he stepped immediately inside.
Kanasis’s workspace covered the same footprint as the entire first floor. A big hyacinth macaw greeted him with, “Welcome” from a perch directly across the room beside a granite bar. A floor-to-ceiling slate waterfall gurgled along the wall to his left between two exotic palms. To his right was a fireplace flanked with a suite of black calfskin chairs. Beyond them, beside a window that looked out over some of the world’s most expensive real estate, stood Mister Kanasis’s enormous oak desk. It was unoccupied. The only person in the room with Oliver and the bird was another impeccably dressed assistant who was busy working the espresso machine behind the bar. This assistant was a good decade older than Kimber, and, alas, torn from the pages of Gentleman’s Quarterly rather than Harper’s Bazaar.
“Espresso, Mister Horton?”
Oliver looked at his watch. Ten fifteen. Normally he refused caffeine after breakfast, but he had been feeling pretty self-indulgent since learning that he was headed for the slammer. “Please.”
The assistant nodded appreciatively and began brewing. Oliver noted that he moved with the grace of Baryshnikov and considered the possibility that he had studied to become a dancer. You couldn’t walk your poodle from the spa to the psychiatrist in Beverly Hills without tripping over a beautiful Hollywood wannabe and spilling your chai infusion all over your Manolos. Perhaps that was why everyone drove. This guy had a face too—California surfer meets Wall Street broker, with carefully-disheveled sun-bleached hair, a permanent tan, hazel eyes, and a square jaw, all topping a lean athletic build that was tastefully wrapped in a tailored suit. Dark chocolate with a caramel shirt. No tie.
After grinding the beans, the assistant asked, “What brings you to Kanasis?”
Oliver would not normally deign to discuss such personal business with an underling, but there was an intensity in the assistant’s stare and a confidence in his voice that Oliver found at once compelling and disarming. “Two counts of manslaughter.”
The man nodded as though he heard this every day. “What are you looking at?”
“My attorney back in Las Vegas, Tiberius Fitch of Fitch & Mathers, tells me that the best deal he can negotiate is four years.”
“Minimum sentences for involuntary manslaughter, consecutively served. That’s a very good deal, Mister Horton. But not good enough, I take it?”
Oliver felt his hopes begin to fade as he nodded. “Concurrent cuts it down to two. I could live with two. I was expressing that sentiment to an old friend the other night over a bottle at the Sportsman’s Lounge. He grilled me on the details for twenty minutes and then suggested that I pay you a visit.
“I’m glad he did,” the assistant said, handing Oliver his espresso with a twist.
Oliver accepted the cup and saucer with polite thanks. It was delicious and the head rush immediate. “Wendell told me that Mister Kanasis is something of a miracle worker.”
The GQ model nodded graciously. “I appreciate the endorsement. In fact, I only work with referrals. Makes things so much more efficient, more … civilized.” He took a slow, deliberate sip of espresso. “As a mater of fact, if I agree to consult on a case, I guarantee my client’s satisfaction with the outcome. Why don’t you have a seat and we’ll see if we have a good fit.” He motioned toward the calfskin suite.
The speaker’s use of the first person hit Oliver like a slap in the face. This was Mister Kanasis? Was it possible that the young Adonis who just fixed his drink had once been voted the California Bar Association’s Man of the Year? Oliver looked down at the espresso in his hand as he reddened. He wondered what the beverage was worth at Kanasis’s hourly rate.
Kanasis stood quietly through Oliver’s moment of revelation. Clearly this was not the first time someone had mistaken his identity. Once Oliver had regained his composure, Kanasis held out his hand and said, “Call me Luther.”
Chapter 15
Troy drove the coastal highway between George Town and Savannah while Emmy rummaged through the burgundy suitcases in the back seat. “I should have taken the other car,” he said. “The couple was old, but at least their clothes would be wearable.”
“No, you got it right,” Emmy said. “Fat people can diet, but old people can’t get younger.”
“What are you talking about?”
She turned to meet his eye. “I’m talking about IDs.”
“Did you get a look at the couple driving this car? They were enormous. We can’t use their identification.”
“Sure we can, if they were foolish enough to leave any in their bags. People rarely study ID picture as long as the skin color is right and there’s no glaring discrepancy. Who wants the bother? Not me. Next please. Trust me; I know a thing or two about using fake IDs.”
An approaching truck kept Troy’s eyes on the road, and it was probably just as well. He did not have the energy to keep up a convincing poker face while pondering Emmy’s latest revelation. Struggling to keep his tone neutral, he asked, “How is it you know these things?”
“I’m a grifter,” she said, with the casual, almost breezy air of a waitress mentioning the soup of the day.
Troy could hardly believe his ears. This bright, beautiful, courageous woman was a self-proclaimed grifter. Perhaps he had his definitions confused. “Like someone who cheats at cards?” He asked.
“Like an entrepreneurial actress.”
“An actress,” Troy repeated. That was rich. “And what do entrepreneurial actresses know about fake IDs?”
“We tend to run in the same circles as entrepreneurial artists.”
“Oh, I see,” he said, not seeing at all. He reminded himself once again that she was the one who awoke holding the murder weapon. He also recalled that the sniper had aimed for her head, not his. Maybe he had been wrong about her. His mental acuity was hardly at its best.
His tone must have betrayed his feelings, because Emmy snapped, “Don’t judge me. I’ve been on my own since I was fourteen, doing what I had to do to survive. Just like you did today.” She sat back, folding her arms across her chest.
Troy hated it when people said things like: I did what I had to do. There were always options; choices
to be made. She may have lost her home at fourteen, but she still enjoyed fourteen more years than he had … Troy stopped himself. Got down off his horse. He reminded himself that he had been headed for jail rather than college until one kind soul intervened. Sure, he could swap stories with Oliver Twist, and he had worked incredibly hard after getting his one break, but it was that one lucky break that made all the difference. He needed to give Emmy one now.
Troy’s thoughts were interrupted by the sound of Emmy rummaging around in the suitcases again. As he dared a look in the rearview mirror, a navy Nike baseball hat flew from the back and landed on the gear shift. A pair of sunglasses followed, then dark socks and black tassel loafers. “Size ten,” Emmy said. “I saw that you’re ten and a half but those should fit in a pinch.”
“Are we in a pinch?” Troy asked, trying to lighten the mood.
“I think this counts.”
Emmy continued to pull useful objects from the suitcases like a magician producing fluffy creatures from a hat. She got a white sun visor and Nike tennis shoes and a wraparound bathing suit cover-up that could replace her distinguishing pink shorts.
She made the change behind him and then climbed back into the passenger seat holding a fanny pack. She unzipped it and cooed. “Traveler’s checks. Looks like about five-thousand dollars worth.”
“Do you know a thing or two about those as well?”
“I do.”
Troy was glad it was traveler’s checks and not cash. He was feeling bad enough about stealing the suitcases as it was.
“Well look at this,” Emmy said, her excitement in crescendo. “Passports.” She opened one and then the other. “You’re Jeffrey Gordon. I’m Elizabeth. We’re British, luv.” She held Mister Gordon’s passport open so he could see the picture. As he looked over to examine it he saw Emmy go pale. She whispered, “Oh my god.”
“What is it?”
“The issue date on these passports is July 19, 2005.”
There it was, Troy thought. Confirmation. “What’s the date on the Cayman Islands stamp?”
Emmy leafed through the pages until she found the right one. “4 September 2008,” she said softly. “The day after Evan’s petrol purchase.”
Troy remained silent while Emmy digested the news. He had more or less accepted the fact that he could not account for the last seven years, that those memories were at least temporarily inaccessible. He had seen and felt his healed abdominal scar. But Emmy had apparently still been harboring hopes of a conspiracy theory.
“There’s no way these were forged to fool us,” Emmy said. “I really am thirty-two.”
Troy reached over instinctively and rested his hand on her firm thigh in an offer of support. “Beats thirty-eight,” he said. “And with the three-year gap since the Gordons’ pictures were taken, your weight loss story becomes plausible. We can claim that we came to the islands to celebrate losing a hundred pounds.”
He felt something wet on his hand and realized that Emmy was crying. He gave her thigh a little squeeze and she placed her hand over his. They entered Bodden Town in silence.
Troy kept his eyes peeled for the right kind of hotel, but did not have any luck. Before he knew it, they were seeing signs for Breakers. He pulled the Camry into a Marriott and started snaking through the parking lot.
“We should pick a smaller hotel,” Emmy said. “The management is more likely to be flexible, and there will be fewer people to see us.”
“I agree. But I wanted to stop here first.” He parked next to another gold Camry. After ensuring that nobody was looking or headed in their direction, he got out and tried his key on the other car’s door. It did not work.
“Did you really think it would open?” Emmy asked.
“You would be surprised at how few variants there are within a brand—at least there used to be when I was a kid, and more entrepreneurial. Regardless, the main reason I stopped was to switch license plates. Once the cops find a gold Camry with the license plate they’re looking for, they’ll call off the search. We’ll be safe driving until they figure out they’ve been hoodwinked.”
“So, you weren’t always a high and mighty physician?”
“No. My life was once headed down a very different path.” As he spoke, Troy used the tip of the ignition key to unscrew the clean Camry’s plate and replace it with their tainted one. The procedure was so quick that he decided to take an extra minute to swap plates again with a neighboring Jeep’s, adding another layer of confusion. “We’ll be off the island by the time they untangle this triple play.”
“You seem very sure of yourself.”
“You should talk, Miss On your knees!” Troy said, sliding back behind the driver’s seat.
As he was pulling out of the Marriot, Troy stopped suddenly and put the car in park. “Hold on a minute,” he told Emmy. He got out wearing Jeffrey Gordon’s sunglasses and ball cap and approached the driver of a waiting cab. He handed him the two tens he’d earned as a valet and said, “Pop the trunk.”
The driver did as asked and Troy transferred the Gordons’ suitcases to the taxi. Before closing the trunk he went back to the driver. “You got a pen and paper?”
“Yeah, mon,” the driver said, handing him a clear Bic and a Post-it from a local real estate company. Troy went back to the bags and scribbled a note, slipping it inside the carryon before wiping it and all the bags off with a rag from the trunk. “Please deliver those three bags to The Imperial. Mister Jeffrey Gordon is expecting them. He’s a big tipper.”
“Jeffrey Gordon, The Imperial. Okay, mon.”
Troy patted the roof of the cab and the driver pulled away.
“That was risky,” Emmy said as he slid back into the Camry. “But very nice. What was on the note?”
“I told them that we’d mail their passports back to the hotel before they had to leave. You did say that their return tickets are for the twenty-second, right?”
“Yeah, mon,” Emmy said with an appraising look in her eye.
They stopped just outside Bodden Town at a beachfront hotel called the Pirate’s Cove. Troy pulled in when he saw the sign advertising private bungalows. “What do you think, Mrs. Gordon?” He asked, effecting a perfect British accent.
“Looks good to me, luv,” Emmy replied in kind.
Troy nodded his head toward the CayMart convenience store on the other side of the street. Its windows were flush with bright, hand-painted signs boasting American Cigarettes, Cold Beer, Calling Cards, and Checks Cashed. “What about signing the traveler’s checks? Are entrepreneurial actresses good forgers as well?”
Emmy donned Elizabeth Gordon’s sunglasses, then pulled a pen from the glove box. “Give me two minutes to practice, luv, and Elizabeth herself wouldn’t notice the difference.”
Chapter 16
As he accepted Luther Kanasis’s firm hand, Oliver was struck by the thought that the attorney had encouraged his misperception. Luther had played to Oliver’s preconceptions in order to slip behind his defenses and have an unguarded look around. No doubt this tactic served Luther well as an attorney, but Oliver suspected that Luther did it more for the sport.
“Tell me about your case,” Luther said, motioning to the suite of chairs
“What did Wendell tell you?”
Luther cocked his head. “Wendell? Nothing. A few days ago he phoned to say that I might be getting a client from Vegas, but he didn’t even mention your name much less the details of your case. In fact, I had to call him while you were in the elevator to ensure that it was you he was vouching for.”
Oliver noted that Luther used the word vouch like a Sicilian. He found himself fearing that this suave man might have a very rough side. He would follow up with Wendell on that point. For the time being, however, he was captivated by Luther’s promise of guaranteed satisfaction—not to mention intrigued by Kimber’s clairvoyance. “But your receptionist, she knew my name?”
“Parlor tricks, Oliver. Simple parlor tricks. Please. Time is money and
the clock is now running.”
Oliver laid out the details of his case over the next forty-five minutes with little interruption, selling it as best he could. Luther listened intently, using hand gestures rather than speaking if Oliver rambled or wandered to points deemed irrelevant. It was as though the lawyer found the sound of his own voice disruptive. Once Oliver had aired his whole sad story, however, Luther stepped in to summarize. “Given the facts as you present them, the prosecution’s case hinges on the testimony of the site foreman, Matthew Lopez?”
“That was Fitch’s conclusion as well.” Oliver concurred.
“There’s no physical evidence? No security video? No tape recording?”
“None.” Oliver shook his head vehemently.
“So at worst they’ve got you for criminal negligence—until Mister Lopez ups it to manslaughter by testifying that you specifically ordered the use of struts known to be faulty in order to complete the job on time.”
“Right.”
“In order to earn your bonus.”
Oliver felt himself reddening despite the fact that he was talking to a lawyer. “Right. Look, Lopez is just a glorified construction worker. I, on the other hand, was a major contributor to the governor’s campaign, and am a friend of the mayor.”
Luther let that appeal sail past without a glance. “And this happened in Clark County, Nevada?”
“Yes.”
“And the judge assigned to the case is Owen Rodgers?”
“Yes.”
“And the prosecutor is George Hue?”
“Yes.”
“And assuming that you don’t take a plea bargain, your trial is set to start three weeks from tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
Luther paused to think, staring into his espresso cup. After a long moment of silence, Oliver could no longer hold back. “Can you do it, Luther? Can you help Fitch get me two years?”
Luther looked up, his hazel eyes afire. “No.”
