by Lisa Ladew
“Watch your mouth, boy. I’m still your old man, and I’m the one who got you where you are now. You think you’d be a Senior VP at Fairchild’s at twenty-six if it wasn’t for me? Now put your ass in gear and get over here.”
The man holds this position over my head every time shit gets serious. It doesn’t matter that I was smart enough to earn grants and hold my own all the way through Harvard. Yes, they were all wrestling and football athletic grants—and some student loan forgiveness funds—but getting through that place required a level of academic bullshitting to finish my sports management degree. Still, he’s right that at twenty-six, with my past, I would never be in this Fairchild gig if he didn’t marry Mandy.
“Alright. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
“Remember to take the back stairs. The one with the camera loop I had Marty set up. I can’t have them place you anywhere else but here last night.”
“What the hell did I—”
He hangs up before I could finish my question, and I know this is the real deal. When the redhead died, he got me over there fast, but his so-called cleanup crew were already wrapping her body in plastic and dousing industrial cleaning products all over the condo floor. That time, I was only there to figure out a spot to dump the body, because he had a board meeting with a Japanese trade delegation.
I throw on some sweat pants and a hoody, pull out my duffel bag for cleaning up my dad’s shit, and grab my keys so I can get over there fast. I get down to my garage, and I have decisions to make. I can’t take the Maserati. It’s too conspicuous. It won’t hold a dead body anyway. Ditto for the Porsche. I go for the forest green Escalade. It’s roomy and not too showy in that part of town.
On the drive there, all I want to do is punch something. The man promises on his own life that he would stop the S & M shit he’s into. But he’s an addict. A sex addict of the worst kind. He has sex to feel alive. Because he’s an addict, he has to have more of it, and it’s more intense every time. One woman is not enough. In New York City alone, he probably boasts twenty or more mistresses, and still, they’re not enough. After he’s with them, he has to finish off with a call girl, with his sick, fucked up game. More often than not, someone ends up dying.
I don’t know why I covered for him the first time back in Reno. I was just sixteen years old, and I had put him up on a pedestal back then. That was my biggest mistake. I should have turned and left the motel room, skipped town, and I would have had my own life. Instead, I felt sorry for him, and helped. The man knows how to manipulate. He sat on the edge of the motel room bed that night. He was crying like a toddler. All he could do was look at the blood pouring from the naked girl on the floor, heroine needle sticking out of her arm, her hands bound, with bruises all over her body like he used her as a punching bag.
Time was slipping by, and he was no fucking use, so I swung into action. I stood him in the corner, and stripped off the bedsheets so I could roll up the body inside of it. He bawled when I threw it over my shoulder. I took it out to my beat-up old pickup truck—the one he gave me when I got my driver’s license on my sixteenth birthday—and left the motel to bury it in the desert. When I got back, my dad was still standing in the corner, catatonic. After the first time, it got easier. I could never look at the women’s faces, though. That was the first thing I’d cover up.
Today, I get to the condo building, and there are cops everywhere. The place is cordoned off in emergency police tape. There are even officers posted in the back alleyway. I drive around the block until I see Matheson. Detective Ben Matheson. He’s on dad’s payroll, and helps keep shit tight whenever things get dicey. I stop on the other side of the street and roll my window down enough to get his attention, so he can come to me. If this is the big one, I need to make sure I’m not seen—and Matheson can make it happen.
“Hey Jonathan.”
“Matheson,” I greet him. Cops hated people using their first name, like it was sacrilege. Even the ones we paid off.
“You’d better get up there before anyone sees you.”
“Help me out, man. The place is crawling with New York’s finest.”
“Okay, go back around to the alleyway. I’ll clear it for you…and Jonathan?”
“Yeah?”
“This one’s bad. Your old man just fucked up the wrong kid.”
“Who is she?”
“Senator Rushton’s niece.”
“Fuck.”
“You know the Senator had no kids, right? That little thing was his princess. Worst of all, his wife preaches on about cleaning up this violence against women and sex workers shit every chance she gets.”
“Yeah, I heard about her. She was on all the media channels just yesterday, pushing for legislation change.”
“Exactly. So you already know they’ve unofficially dubbed her the hooker spokesperson. This won’t be something the commissioner can sweep under the rug for your old man like some of the others.”
“Fuck. Okay I’ll be in the alley. Best if I don’t get seen.”
I drive around the corner and all I want to do is gun it down the main road and get the fuck out of the state of New York. All my instincts are telling me this is not my fight. I never touched the scene this time, I barely know anything, and maybe it’s time for the justice system to take Dad down now. Maybe it’s time he faces the music and pays for all the nasty karma he put out there that’s coming back to him. The man is a menace to society at best, and at worst, a serial killer with the resources to keep looking shiny like a new fucking penny.
Loyalty gets the better of me, and I make the fucked up decision to back up my old man. I turn in the alleyway. The place is empty now. Matheson does what he has to do. He’d better, because Dad pays him off enough. Now I can go up there to see what damage control is needed. Taking my duffel bag with me, I hit the stairs from the back entrance all the way up to the fifteenth floor. Normally, it’s no biggie for me. I’m ripped as fuck from working out two to three hours a day. Today though, I’m carrying seventy five pounds of cleanup supplies, and I’m as nervous as the first time, so I’m winded by the time I get to the floor.
My dad and his security crew are smart. They have not let the cops up to the floor. As of right now, all the men in blue downstairs know is some unlucky senator’s niece died in the underground parking. The girl could have come to visit any of the condo owners in the fifty-two story building. So far the cops have set up a perimeter, and put the building on lockdown.
I walk into Dad’s condo unit. There are two of his guys sitting in the living room. It’s Rocko and Danny, his two most trusted security thugs. He hand-picked the two men almost eight years ago. That was when he started Sloan Sports—the mixed martial arts side of the business. They have never left his side since. They’ve seen shit like no one else—almost as much as I have. Today, they actually look worried.
“What’s going on? Where’s Dad?”
“He’s in the gym,” Rocko answers. “Jonathan, when you go in there, go easy on him, okay?”
“I’ll try.”
“Oh, and you might want to put on a mask, or cover your face or something.”
“I thought he said the girl got away?”
“Yeah. She did, but not the other three.”
My jaw drops, and then I remember who I’m dealing with. These men do not exaggerate, so I sense it’s a shit storm I’m about to enter. I take a rag from my duffel bag and put it over my nose and mouth to go down the long hallway to the gym. The condo my dad picked for himself is a massive, two-level, five bedroom, six bathroom unit. He ripped out walls from three condo units beside it to make the gym so he could practice every night—in more ways than one—before going home to Mandy.
I open the gym door and the smell hits me so hard, it knocks the wind out of my chest. I tighten my grip on the rag over my face. It’s then I see there’s blood everywhere. I mean everywhere. On the floor, the walls, the ceiling, on the furniture and on the equipment. I back up and close th
e door. I stand in the hallway to get some fresh air. Time to start putting on my gear. The four things I put on are black, long-sleeved overalls, latex gloves, a hairnet, and those booty-type shoe covers to cover up the sneakers I have on. Blood is hard to get off stuff without some powerful chemicals. I shake my head, because I should not know this disturbing piece of trivia.
I’m in the door again and take a step inside. There’s sticky liquid that’s quickly drying on the floor. Some of it is blood. God knows what the rest is. I get around to the octagon and I see them. Three dead women with their hands tied to posts above their drooping heads. They’re butt naked and something bright red is sticking out of their mouths. In the farthest corner of the room is my dad, standing facing the wall, sobbing like his life is over—because it probably is, this time. I swear under my breath that if I have to clean up all this shit and cover for him too, I’ll have to kill him myself to finally end the madness.
Chapter Two
Rebecca
It’s my third month on the job in my dream career, and I’m already second-guessing my decision to join New York’s top law firm as a junior associate. Anyone who passed the bar with me would call me crazy for having regrets. My own ego tells me it’s the best thing I’ll ever do for my career and my bank account. It’s my gut that’s giving me weird vibes.
I don’t quite know why there was a feeding frenzy between the top five law firms on the east coast. They all wanted me. Yes, I graduated magna cum laude from Princeton Law, and articled with Barnaby Black—the world-renowned criminal lawyer who passed away of natural causes just a week before I sat for the bar exam. Over his entire career, he had only ever taken two students under his wing—Kara Henry, head partner here at Henry, Miles and Rothman; and me.
It made sense that Kara would want to hire me, but for the life of me, I didn’t understand the other four firms. Knowing the internal dynamics now, I was likely a pawn they used to control each other in their usual games of legal supremacy. In the end, I took this position because of the work.
I won’t lie. Kara’s offer was out of this world. It would make me a guaranteed millionaire in four years if I played my cards right. After my articling position, which put me squarely at the American poverty line, this was an incredible step up. Kara jumped through hoops to get me. She sought me out to make sure I knew how committed she was to helping me succeed as a criminal defense lawyer. “We females are a rare breed in this line of work, and our male counterparts don’t hesitate to remind us of that every chance they get,” she had said.
So I took the bait, and now, here I am, second-guessing my decision. It’s not that I dislike the intense workload or the long hours. To the contrary, I’m not afraid of putting my back into it and giving one hundred and ten percent whenever I’m needed. The problem is my underlying sense that something very wrong is going on at Henry, Miles and Rothman—right under my nose. It’s subtle, but it’s happening in plain sight, and I have yet to figure out exactly what it is. Like all secrets, though, I feel it will come out eventually.
My desk phone rings as I walk into my spacious office. Kara pulled out all the stops to sweeten the deal. She got me a corner office with floor to ceiling windows, and I didn’t even ask for it.
“Yes?”
It was Louise, my receptionist. “Sorry to bother you, Miss Clark. Kara wants to see you in her office now.”
“You know I have an appointment in ten minutes, Louise, don’t you?”
“It’s urgent, Miss Clark.”
“It’s Rebecca, remember?”
“Yes ma’am. Rebecca. Sorry ma’am.”
“Okay. Call my nine thirty and see if you can push it back or make them wait.”
“Will do Miss…sorry. Will do, Rebecca.”
I grab my tablet and head to Kara’s office. She rarely has time in her calendar, and does not like to be kept waiting. Her door is open, and I hear her shouting to someone on the other end of the phone. I wait outside. They’re talking about a merger deal her team has been working on for eight months. She’s known for her acid tongue, so I’m expecting to hear profanity and snappy comebacks anytime soon. Instead, she lowers her voice and is placating whoever it is she’s speaking with.
I’m tempted to take notes—Kara apologizes to no one—but as the thought crosses my mind, she ends the call and waves me in.
“Hi Kara. You wanted to see me?”
“Have a seat. This will take some time.”
“No problem. What’s up?”
“Becky,” she calls me, and I know she’s about to say something drastic, because she only called me Becky the day she doubled my salary offer to keep up with the other firms. “The case I’m about to share with you is sensitive. Not the usual sensitive ones you may have come across with Barnaby, or since you’ve been here. I mean it’s a powder keg. It’s the mother of all criminal-meets-political shit storms. Only you and I will be handling this one, and before you agree to come on board, I have to know you understand a few things.”
“Okay.”
Being so fresh in the role, this case does not sound like a case I should be sinking my teeth into. Kara knows from Barnaby that I like it intense, though, and I can handle the tough ones.
“First of all, let me ask. Do you have or have you had any personal or professional relationships with the Fairchild or Sloan families, or anyone in Senator Ruston’s camp? Or any contact at all in your life?”
“No.” The moment she mentions Rushton’s name, I know exactly what it’s about. I have alerts on my phone. I read about the gruesome murder on my subway ride into work. The victim is Doreen Rushton, a twenty-one-year-old master’s student who may have been at the wrong party at the wrong time, and paid for it with her life. There was nothing in the papers about the Sloan or Fairchild families, though.
“And you’re positive you’ve had no contact? I’m asking because you and Claire Fairchild-Roch were at Princeton during the same time. Are you sure you don’t know her?”
“Princeton is a big place, Kara. The kids of many notables are enrolled there. If I knew her, I would tell you.”
“Okay. So let’s get into it. This is a murder investigation. Rushton’s niece was killed over the weekend, and Jonathan Sloan may be a suspect. The police are still gathering evidence. You’re aware it would normally be weeks to get DNA and other crime scene analysis results, but this is Rushton’s niece we’re talking about, so things are going to move quickly.”
“How is Sloan implicated?”
“His father, Solomon Sloan of Sloan Sports and Entertainment, called me this morning. He told me they needed to talk about a hypothetical situation regarding a senator’s relative.”
“And what’s that supposed to mean?”
“Don’t give me that bullshit naïve routine. What do you think it means, Rebecca?”
Before I answer, Kara’s assistant storms in and tells her that Murray Bateman is on the line. Bateman is lead partner of Bateman and Adams—our firm’s top competition in divorce law. Kara raises her hand to her lips so I’d be silent, and takes the call on speakerphone.
“Yes, Murray.”
“Kara, what the fuck is wrong with your client? Isn’t one hundred and fifty million enough for the bitch to disappear and leave Washington alone?”
“Maybe your client should have kept his dick in his pants, instead of screwing every female assistant trader at the New York Stock Exchange, Murray.”
“You know that’s off the table, Kara.”
“And you know me better than that, Murray. Nothing’s off the table. Your client’s assets are worth over twenty billion, if you count the two diamond mines in South Africa. His soon to be ex-wife is only asking for a billion. The same billion he put into the prenup.”
“Come on, Kara. Throw me a bone. I’m dying over here. How about a counter-offer?”
“Okay. Suck on this bone, Murray. Tell your client he should never, ever write another prenup on a woman’s panties ever again.”
“Oh, now you admit you have a dick. I’ve suspected it all along, Kara, the way you muscle…”
With that, she hangs up and goes right back into our conversation without any reaction, like she was just ordering a pizza from Murray, and he suggested jalapenos instead of anchovies.
“Becky. If you work this case, it can expose you to the dirtiest realities about the underbelly of New York City. I have to know you’re prepared for it.”
I look at her. She’s dead serious. My gut is on red alert, screaming out that I should say no right now and walk out that door, but I don’t.
“I’m in. I want this. I can take it.”
“Good. Listen. How busy is your day today?” she asks me.
“I have two clients coming in this morning, and some case documentation this afternoon.”
“Get Louise to reschedule everything.” She slides her laptop and notes into a briefcase and grabs her coat. “I need you with me today. We have to speak to Sloan, but I’m late for court. Get your things and let’s go.”
***
It’s almost lunchtime when we finally leave the courthouse. As we get to the front steps, Kara rushes ahead to catch up with the assistant district attorney, Ryan Dunham. The man is smoking hot in his slim-fitting black suit. He’s got a trim waist, is tall and dark, clean cut and smart as a whip. He looks way too young to have made it to thirty-nine. I can see from their interaction that he and Kara may have had some action in the past. It lines up with the office rumor that they were engaged and she broke it off when he took the assistant DA position.
I hang back, but stay within earshot. There’s nothing juicy going on in my life, so I’m living vicariously through Kara.
“Face it, Dunham. Your expert witness was a hack.”
“Was he?”
“All he did was open up reasonable doubt. Now it’s as big as the Grand Canyon. I guess I should thank you.”
“How about over dinner?”
“Don’t try to change the subject. My client is not guilty.”
