Wearing the Spider (A Suspense Novel) (Legal Thriller) (Thriller)

by Schaab, Susan

  A sell-off of a software division. One of the division’s software products had reportedly become established in the government market. The transaction to close at the end of September. Was this the deal to which Adinaldo’s email related? Was this the deal discussed in Dallas by some unknown person in all those Brazilian telephone calls? The one she’d overheard Alan talk about while on the telephone in the conference room?

  She looked back at the article. It was a transaction between two South American companies. Could her firm have been retained to handle this deal? Why would a New York law firm be chosen to handle a deal between two South American companies? What was the U.S. connection? A $179 million deal. Nothing obviously untoward. Nothing unusual on its face. She stuffed it into her briefcase for later re-examination.

  Helen had deposited a short stack of mail in her inbox during the conference call, and Evie sorted through it, looking for items that required priority attention. In the stack was a note from Helen, written after she had dialed some of the telephone numbers on the Colonial Court hotel receipt, at Evie’s request. It read that each number seemed to be associated with a company called Gerais Chevas and that two of the people with whom she connected spoke English, and claimed to have had numerous conversations with Evie. Her note concluded, questioning whether she should add Gerais Chevas to the billing records because it appeared that it was a client Evie had spoken to at length about some matter. Helen had obviously decided the whole series of calls had simply been forgotten by her overworked boss. Evie sat for a moment lost in thought. Why do I have no memory of these conversations? Why would these people say they spoke with me if they hadn’t?

  While Evie continued to sort through the pile of mail, she played back a voice mail that came in while she was on the conference call.

  “Evie, it’s Joe. I made a dinner reservation. How about meeting me at the Oak Room at six thirty? I was given some tickets for a concert at Carnegie Hall, if we decide to go. Let me know if you get held up at the office. Plans are flexible.”

  She dialed Alan’s office to ask him whether he had finished reviewing the Sangerson-Zoomhelix Agreement so she could send it on to the client, but he was out. She drafted an email to him, again attaching the agreement and cover letter, asking him to review them and send them out if he was satisfied. In her message, she highlighted her planned departure time from the office and added that she would be unable to send out the documents herself until Monday if she didn’t hear from him before five o’clock.

  The contents of Helen’s note plagued her. Maybe she’d been mistaken somehow. It was not like Evie to forget a conversation with a client, but then she had been working so many hours, servicing so may clients that it was not impossible. Perhaps it had been a routine inquiry that had required a brief answer and she’d simply forgotten the context. But a client from South America? She would have remembered a Latin client simply because it was unusual.

  As she clicked on SEND, she saw a hand-addressed letter that she’d missed in the stack. There was no return address, but the penmanship was quite elegant. She opened it and was shocked to see the printed photo of Senator Arbeson with the female companion that she herself had clipped from New York Magazine two nights before. The cutting was accompanied by a note on twenty-pound linen paper bearing no logo or name and displaying no other identifying features. It was written with the same elegant penmanship, but the curvy script seemed an eerie contrast to the message:

  Are you having an affair with our Senator?

  9

  Hello, Evie.”

  “Hello,” she extended her hand. Joe kissed it and stood regarding her. Her hair was straight with the shine and color of liquid chocolate; her skin creamy, fair and translucent. She wore no lipstick, but her lips were moist and she wore a simple black dress. A glass of wine sat in front of her on the table at the window of the Oak Room.

  “You are stunning,” he said.

  “Thank you.” Evie smiled, testing the visual image before her against her memory of the man on the plane. He was dressed in a dark blue Brioni suit and a tie patterned with muted golds and auburns over a starched white shirt. He seemed freshly shaven and radiated the same wonderful aftershave she remembered from their shared row on the plane. His wavy hair was still slightly damp and his eyes sparkled.

  “I’m so glad you were free tonight.” He surveyed the room. “Would you like to stay here for awhile and have another drink,” he paused, “or, have a drink at Molyvos?”

  “Let’s go to Molyvos,” she said, glancing at the rapidly growing size of the crowd in the bar. “I just have to pay the house,” she added as she rose from her chair and retrieved her wrap from the back of the chair.

  “You relax. I’ll take care of it,” he said before weaving his way through bodies in the direction of the bar.

  Evie sat down again and allowed her eyes to follow Joe. She watched him as if observing the difference in the movements of men and women for the first time. His body displaced air with the gracefulness of a practiced athlete.

  He returned quickly and guided her to her feet, holding her hand while pulling her chair out. He draped the wrap around her shoulders, gently took her hand and used his body to part the crowd leading to the exit. When she joined his rhythm, her movements seem to tap the same source of energy and she felt invigorated.

  On the walk to the restaurant, Joe’s arm encircled her several times as the sidewalks presented various Manhattanesque obstacles: street performers, open delivery chutes, street elevators and dumpster-overflow along the sidewalks. Evie found herself anticipating each touch even though she recoiled slightly each time out of reflex. What a relief it would be to relinquish control for awhile.

  She noticed the soothing Greek music immediately upon arriving at Molyvos. The hostess escorted them to their table, which Evie noticed afforded privacy, tucked away from the crowded bar. After helping her into her seat, Joe slid in across from her and smiled broadly.

  “I didn’t notice the wine you were drinking at the Oak Room,” his eyes searched hers. “Or, do you have a favorite Greek wine?”

  “I usually resort to random selection, so I’ll let you choose.”

  Joe summoned the waiter and ordered a bottle of Thalassitis Gaia Assyrtiko, a white wine from the island of Santorini. Evie had nodded at the waiter’s description of the Psari Plaki fish entrée, so Joe ordered two and surrendered the menus.

  “You know, I would have never guessed you to be the Plaza Hotel type,” Evie said, her eyes sparkling.

  Joe laughed, “You already read me well. A colleague made the reservation.”

  The waiter appeared with the wine and proceeded to extract the cork as Evie fell into a contemplative silence, distracted by the handwritten note and the identity of its writer. He poured wine and prepared portions of complimentary hors d’oeuvres on each plate with choreographed precision. After depositing the bottle of wine in a bucket of ice, he left.

  “Evie, are you okay?”

  “Oh, yes. Fine. Just having a little trouble leaving the office behind.”

  “Understood. Work long hours every night?” Joe asked.

  “Many nights.”

  “And you travel a lot?”

  “Several times a month, typically. I seem to have the disposition for it and at this time in my life, I like the change in scenery. How much of the time do you travel?”

  “About half my time, on business. I also tend to travel quite a bit in my down time, though.”

  “Where do you go? In your down time, I mean?”

  “Well, my father fancied himself a big game hunter and used to take me to Kenya every few years. I kind of continued the habit as an adult.”

  “Mmmm. You continued the habit? To hunt?”

  “No. I never developed the hunter’s instinct, but the high country of Kenya—that really stayed with me. I’ve been on a number of safaris—everything from the primitive torch-lit camp to the firm-mattress gourmet excursion catered by international
chefs.”

  “So you have a special affection for Africa. Why do you think that is?”

  “I’m sure there’s some psychological connection to those times with my dad, but beyond that it’s simply that the land is so beautiful and enriching. It’s as if your soul is let out to play like nowhere else in the world,” Joe sipped his wine and his eyes took on a slight glaze as if he was traveling in his mind. “You’re reduced to your instincts, and survival in the wild is a refreshing change from the politics of career navigation.”

  “Mmmm. Oh yes. I understand absolutely. I can only imagine what it must feel like.” With a welcome relaxed breath, Evie found herself becoming lost in Joe’s anecdotes.

  His voice softened as if he was a storyteller under a listening moon, “There are moments in the night there when you sense the vastness and the endless numbers of different species alive, living … all around you. You can hear them—the baboons, the wildebeests, the hippos, zebras, crickets, birds and the occasional rustling of an elephant or lion. But you can also feel them. It’s heady. All that raw survival instinct walking around at night with no rules, no schedules.”

  “Hmmmm. I never really thought about it. You make it sound inspiring … it sounds … like a wonderful experience.” She studied him for a few seconds in silence, with genuine interest in joining him in the memory. “You know, I find it fascinating that with such a love for the wild you chose a high-tech corporate career for yourself.”

  “Yes. I guess I’m an odd combination of corporate yearnings and wilderness nostalgia. Actually, while I was spending one of those summers in Kenya with my dad, I invented something that I was ultimately able to patent. I guess that exposure to the corporate machinery awakened another part of me. Anyway, I went to college at Stanford, graduate school at MIT, and I ended up returning to San Francisco, where I was born. Then I moved down the coast for my job.”

  “What invention did you patent?”

  “It’s a device for purifying drinking water; it’s used in parts of South Africa. A mechanism that uses sedimentation, absorption, straining and biochemical processes to remove impurities. Unique, I suppose, because it can purify while it maintains the balance of certain beneficial elements in the water. It was adopted for use by one of the humanitarian organizations over there, and they helped me apply for the patent.”

  “Your father must’ve been very proud of you. Is he still alive?” She tasted a spanakopita and sipped her wine.

  “Yes, but he’s not well. He buried my mother a long time ago and he lives with a number of ailments near Santa Barbara … with a collection of birds he breeds.”

  “Ummm … the undercurrent of nature. I suspect that you are from a long line of rugged explorers who can truly understand the animals,” she smiled. “And you travel exclusively to Africa for pleasure?”

  “Well, I have a feeling that trips to New York will now be more pleasurable,” he said grinning. “Now, Evie, it’s my turn to ask questions.” The waiter appeared, deposited the aromatic fish entrées and replenished their glasses with wine and water.

  “So, Evie. How did you come to be a lawyer?” inquired Joe as he took a bite of fish.

  “Well, I guess my journey wasn’t as targeted as yours. I applied to law school at the suggestion of a college professor. He taught a pre-law course that I scored well in. I always enjoyed logical reasoning, so practicing law seemed a natural next step. And when I was awarded a scholarship, my life seemed to plan itself.” She took a bite of fish. “I can’t say that I really made a choice to be a lawyer, but once I started practicing intellectual property law and working with artists and creative types, I really began to enjoy it.”

  “Ahh. Such as your representation of the sculptor who created The Solitary Lady that you told me about on the plane.”

  “Yes. Exactly. Although, I think my ratio of artistic clients to software-related clients is about forty-sixty.”

  “And so confirms my initial suspicion about you—that you are an artistic soul that has not yet found a satisfactory avenue of expression.”

  “Possibly. And what else does your suspicion about me tell you?”

  He swallowed another bite. “That you distrust men. Maybe you’ve had a few bad experiences with men?”

  “A few. Yes. Am I that transparent?” she felt herself blush slightly.

  “No. I’m good at reading people.” His eyes softened, and their expression sliced through her and comforted her simultaneously. He kept his eyes on her as he collected the delicate fish on his fork.

  “What would you have been had you not become a technology executive?” Evie changed the subject. He IS good at reading people. He’s some sort of scary contradictory force. Elusive but available. Unfamiliar and foreign, but there’s an invitation to trust.

  “Probably a photographer for National Geographic, but wait a minute,” his smile revealed well-entrenched lines around his eyes. “You reclaimed the line of inquiry here—I’m not through asking questions yet.”

  Evie chewed another bite of her dinner and her fork played with an olive on the plate as her eyes registered his answer.

  “Evie, how is it that a beautiful, intelligent young woman like yourself is not being pursued by a string of adoring men?”

  “And how do you know I’m not?” she smiled.

  “Okay. You’re just adding me to the list then?” his dimples reappeared.

  “No. Actually, I’m not,” she laughed. “I haven’t had a succession of dates with any one man for over two years. And lately, with work, if I do manage to go out, it’s usually sporadic, impromptu or tortured by time constraints.”

  “Well, then, I’m all the more grateful I have you to myself this evening.”

  Evie extended her fork for a stuffed grape leaf. Joe suppressed an urge to touch her. He’d accurately sensed her wariness when he was escorting her on the street, but he wondered what made her so cautious.

  “So,” she said. “Let me see if I understand correctly. You’re an executive who guides the technological direction of your company, but … you’re not the Chief Technology Officer?”

  “Yeah. That’s right. I evaluate patent potential, establish research agendas, negotiate technology purchases and help to chart the strategy of developing product lines. The company’s vague about titles.”

  “And how does a technology executive evaluate the patent potential of an idea?” Evie smiled, enjoying the fact that she had once again garnered the role of questioner.

  Joe licked his lips and took a drink. His eyes twinkled in play. It had become a game, and he could see the reluctance in her to share too much about herself. He decided to be patient, let her set the boundaries.

  He smiled and said, “When a new product or idea is conceived, one of our engineers, usually the developer, puts out a spec sheet that describes the product or process. Something like the spec sheet that a pharmaceutical company issues with a new drug. It’s packed with information not only about the product or process itself, but about its potential with other products and its ability to solve a problem or meet a perceived need. And, of course, its uniqueness in the market. Other engineers in the company then comment on it and there are discussions. Problems are worked through and then a decision is made about its future.”

  Evie watched his mouth as he spoke. It was as if he tasted each word.

  “And what is the reaction when one of these spec sheets comes out and it has a lot of problems. Do you consider it an obstacle or a challenge?”

  “Good question. It really depends on the degree of the problems and the perceived value of the product, but we’ve found that this process is an invaluable way to refine and perfect the product. Prior to market testing.” Joe deposited another forkful into his mouth.

  “Interesting. You must be one of those people who are very comfortable moving around in the underbelly of a computer system.” She hesitated and asked, “Do you know a lot about file systems and file security?”

  “Some. W
hy do you ask?”

  “Just curious,” Evie looked down at her plate and finished off the last bite of fish.

  “Tell me about your family,” he said.

  “My family. My parents are both dead. My father died in a car accident when I was seven years old. My mother died of pneumonia she contracted when she was in the hospital during my second year of law school.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay. I’ve long since worked through my feelings, but I do miss my mother from time to time.”

  “Were you able to spend time with her before she died?”

  “Yes. Fortunately, I did. I was with her when she died. Are you close to your father?”

  “He’s very independent despite his various ailments, but I do speak to him by telephone at least once a week.”

  “Do you have sisters or brothers?” she asked trying to imagine Joe as a young boy.

  “I have a sister, Ariel, who lives in Connecticut with her son. She and I have a closer relationship than either of us have with our father.”

  “So you see your nephew often?”

  “I try to see them each time I’m on the East Coast. But it’s not ideal. I miss them.”

  “Have you ever been married?”