Three Classic Thrillers

by John Grisham

  Brianna delivered a girl and selected the hideous name of Sadler MacGregor Trudeau, MacGregor being Brianna’s maiden name and Sadler being pulled from the air. She at first claimed Sadler had been a roguish Scottish relative of some variety, but abandoned that little fiction when Carl stumbled across a book of baby names. He really didn’t care. The child was his by DNA only. He had already tried the father bit with prior families and had failed miserably.

  Sadler was now five and had virtually been abandoned by both parents. Brianna, once so heroic in her efforts to become a mother, had quickly lost interest in things maternal and had delegated her duties to a series of nannies. The current one was a thick young woman from Russia whose papers were as dubious as Toliver’s. Carl could not, at that moment, remember her name. Brianna hired her and was thrilled because she spoke Russian and could perhaps pass on the language to Sadler.

  “What language did you expect her to speak?” Carl had asked.

  But Brianna had no response.

  He stepped into the playroom, swooped up the child as if he couldn’t wait to see her, exchanged hugs and kisses, asked how her day had been, and within minutes managed a graceful escape to his office, where he grabbed a phone and began yelling at Bobby Ratzlaff.

  After a few fruitless calls, he showered, dried his perfectly dyed hair, half-gray, and got himself into his newest Armani tux. The waistband was a bit snug, probably a 34, up an inch from the early days when Brianna stalked him around the penthouse. As he dressed himself, he cursed the evening ahead and the party and the people he would see there. They would know. At that very moment, the news was racing around the financial world. Phones were buzzing as his rivals roared with laughter and gloated over Krane’s misfortune. The Internet was bursting with the latest from Mississippi.

  For any other party, he, the great Carl Trudeau, would simply call in sick. Every day of his life he did whatever he damned well pleased, and if he decided to rudely skip a party at the last minute, what the hell? But this was not just any event.

  Brianna had wormed her way onto the board of the Museum of Abstract Art, and tonight was their biggest blowout. There would be designer gowns, tummy tucks and stout new breasts, new chins and perfect tans, diamonds, champagne, foie gras, caviar, dinner by a celebrity chef, a silent auction for the pinch hitters and a live auction for the sluggers. And, most important, there would be cameras on top of cameras, enough to convince the elite guests that they and only they were the center of the world. Oscar night, eat your heart out.

  The highlight of the evening, at least for some, would be the auctioning of a work of art. Each year the committee commissioned an “emerging” painter or sculptor to create something just for the event, and usually forked over a million bucks or so for the result. Last year’s painting had been a bewildering rendering of a human brain after a gunshot, and it went for six mill. This year’s item was a depressing pile of black clay with bronze rods rising into the vague outline of a young girl. It bore the mystifying title Abused Imelda and would have sat neglected in a gallery in Duluth if not for the sculptor, a tortured Argentine genius rumored to be on the verge of suicide, a sad fate that would instantly double the value of his creations, something that was not lost on savvy New York art investors. Brianna had left brochures around the penthouse and had dropped several hints to the effect that Abused Imelda would be stunning in their foyer, just off the elevator entrance.

  Carl knew he was expected to buy the damned thing and was hoping there would not be a frenzy. And if he became its owner, he was already hoping for a quick suicide.

  She and Valentino appeared from the dressing room. The hair boys were gone, and she had managed to get into the gown and the jewelry all by herself. “Fabulous,” Carl said, and it was indeed true. In spite of the bones and ribs, she was still a beautiful woman. The hair very much resembled what he had seen at six that morning when he kissed her goodbye as she sipped her coffee. Now, a thousand dollars later, he could tell little difference.

  Oh, well. He knew very well the price of trophies. The prenuptial gave her $100,000 a month to play with while married and twenty million when they split. She also got Sadler with liberal visitation for the father, if he so chose.

  In the Bentley, they hurried from beneath the apartment building and were onto Fifth Avenue when Brianna said, “Oh, my, I forgot to kiss Sadler. What kind of mother am I?”

  “She’s fine,” Carl said, who likewise had failed to say good night to the child.

  “I feel awful,” Brianna said, feigning disgust. Her full-length black Prada coat was split so that the backseat was dominated by her amazing legs. Legs from the floor up to her armpits. Legs unadorned by hosiery or clothing or anything whatsoever. Legs for Carl to see and admire and touch and fondle and she really didn’t care if Toliver had a good look, either. She was on display, as always.

  Carl rubbed them because they felt nice, but he wanted to say something like “These things are beginning to resemble broomsticks.”

  He let it pass.

  “Any word from the trial?” she finally asked.

  “The jury nailed us,” he said.

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “We’re fine.”

  “How much?”

  “Forty-one million.”

  “Those ignorant people.”

  Carl told her little about the complicated and mysterious world of the Trudeau Group. She had her charities and causes and lunches and trainers, and that kept her busy. He didn’t want and didn’t tolerate too many questions.

  Brianna had checked online and knew exactly what the jury decided. She knew what the lawyers were saying about the appeal, and she knew Krane’s stock would take a major hit early the next morning. She did her research and kept her secret notes. She was gorgeous and thin, but she was not stupid. Carl was on the phone.

  The MuAb building was a few blocks south, between Fifth and Madison. As the traffic inched closer, they could see the popping flashes of a hundred cameras. Brianna perked up, crunched her perfect abs, brought her new additions to attention, and said, “God, I hate those people.”

  “Who?”

  “All those photographers.”

  He snickered at the obvious lie. The car stopped and an attendant in a tuxedo opened the door as the cameras swung to the black Bentley. The great Carl Trudeau popped out without a smile, then the legs followed. Brianna knew precisely how to give the photographers, and thus the gossip pages and maybe, just maybe, a fashion magazine or two, what they wanted—miles of sensuous flesh without revealing everything. The right foot landed first, shoed with Jimmy Choo at a hundred bucks per toe, and as she expertly swung around, the coat opened and Valentino cooperated upward and the whole world saw the real benefit of being a billionaire and owning a trophy.

  Arm in arm they glided across the red carpet, waving at the photographers and ignoring the handful of reporters, one of whom had the audacity to yell, “Hey, Carl, any comment on the verdict in Mississippi?” Carl of course did not hear, or pretended not to. But his pace quickened slightly and they were soon inside, on somewhat safer turf. He hoped. They were greeted by paid greeters; coats were taken; smiles were offered; friendly cameras appeared; old pals materialized; and they were soon lost in the warm cluster of seriously rich people pretending to enjoy one another’s company.

  Brianna found her soul mate, another anorexic trophy with the same unusual body—everything superbly starved but the ridiculous breasts. Carl went straight for the bar, and almost made it before he was practically tackled by the one jerk he hoped to avoid. “Carl, ole boy, bad news down south I hear,” the man boomed as loudly as possible.

  “Yes, very bad,” Carl said in a much lower voice as he grabbed a champagne flute and began to drain it.

  Pete Flint was number 228 on the Forbes list of the 400 richest Americans. Carl was number 310, and each man knew exactly where the other fit on the roster. Numbers 87 and 141 were also in the crowd, along with a host of unranked contende
rs.

  “Thought your boys had things under control,” Flint pressed on, slurping a tall glass full of either scotch or bourbon. He somehow managed a frown while working hard to conceal his delight.

  “Yes, we thought so, too,” Carl said, wishing he could slap the fat jowls twelve inches away.

  “What about the appeal?” Flint asked gravely.

  “We’re in great shape.”

  At last year’s auction, Flint had valiantly hung on to the frenzied end and walked away with the Brain After Gunshot, a $6 million artistic waste but one that launched the MuAb’s current capital campaign. No doubt he would be in the hunt for tonight’s grand prize.

  “Good thing we shorted Krane last week,” he said.

  Carl started to curse him but kept his cool. Flint ran a hedge fund famous for its daring. Had he really shorted Krane Chemical in anticipation of a bad verdict? Carl’s puzzled glare concealed nothing.

  “Oh yes,” Flint went on, pulling on his glass and smacking his lips. “Our man down there said you were screwed.”

  “We’ll never pay a dime,” Carl said gamely.

  “You’ll pay in the morning, ole boy. We’re betting Krane’s stock drops 20 percent.” And with that he turned and walked away, leaving Carl to finish off his drink and lunge for another. Twenty percent? Carl’s laser-quick mind did the math. He owned 45 percent of the outstanding common shares of Krane Chemical, a company with a market value of $3.2 billion, based on the day’s closing price. A 20 percent decline would cost him $280 million, on paper. No real cash losses, of course, but still a rough day around the office.

  Ten percent was more like it, he thought. The boys in finance agreed with him.

  Could Flint’s hedge fund short a significant chunk of Krane’s stock without Carl knowing about it? He stared at a confused bartender and pondered the question. Yes, it was possible, but not likely. Flint was simply rubbing a little salt.

  The museum’s director appeared from nowhere, and Carl was delighted to see him. He would never mention the verdict, if he in fact knew about it. He would say only nice things to Carl, and of course he would comment on how fabulous Brianna looked. He would ask about Sadler and inquire into the renovation of their home in the Hamptons.

  They chatted about such things as they carried their drinks through the crowded lobby, dodging little pockets of dangerous conversations, and settled themselves before Abused Imelda. “Magnificent, isn’t it?” the director mused.

  “Beautiful,” Carl said, glancing to his left as number 141 happened by. “What will it go for?”

  “We’ve been debating that all day around here. Who knows with this crowd. I say at least five million.”

  “And what’s it worth?”

  The director smiled as a photographer snapped their picture. “Now, that’s an entirely different issue, isn’t it? The sculptor’s last major work was sold to a Japanese gentleman for around two million. Of course, the Japanese gentleman was not donating large sums of money to our little museum.”

  Carl took another sip and acknowledged the game. MuAb’s campaign goal was $100 million over five years. According to Brianna, they were about halfway there and needed a big boost from the evening’s auction.

  An art critic with the Times introduced himself and joined their conversation. Wonder if he knows about the verdict, Carl thought. The critic and the director discussed the Argentine sculptor and his mental problems as Carl studied Imelda and asked himself if he really wanted it permanently situated in the foyer of his luxurious penthouse. His wife certainly did.

  C H A P T E R 3

  The Paytons’ temporary home was a three-bedroom apartment on the second level of an old complex near the university. Wes had lived nearby in his college days and still found it hard to believe he was back in the neighborhood. But there had been so many drastic changes it was difficult to dwell on just one.

  How temporary? That was the great question between husband and wife, though the issue hadn’t been discussed in weeks, nor would it be discussed now. Maybe in a day or two, when the fatigue and the shock wore off and they could steal a quiet moment and talk about the future. Wes eased the car through the parking lot, passing an overfilled Dumpster with debris littered around it. Mainly beer cans and broken bottles. The college boys humored themselves by hurling their empties from the upper floors, across the lot, above the cars, in the general direction of the Dumpster. When the bottles crashed, the noise boomed through the complex and the students were amused. Others were not. For the two sleep-deprived Paytons, the racket was at times unbearable.

  The owner, an old client, was widely considered the worst slumlord in town, by the students anyway. He offered the place to the Paytons, and their handshake deal called for a thousand bucks a month in rent. They had lived there for seven months, paid for three, and the landlord insisted he was not worried. He was patiently waiting in line with many other creditors. The law firm of Payton & Payton had once proven it could attract clients and generate fees, and its two partners were certainly capable of a dramatic comeback.

  Try this comeback, Wes thought as he turned in to a parking place. Is a verdict of $41 million drama enough? For a moment he felt feisty, then he was tired again.

  Slaves to a dreadful habit, both got out of the car and grabbed their briefcases in the rear seat. “No,” Mary Grace announced suddenly. “We are not working tonight. Leave these in the car.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  They hustled up the stairs, loud raunchy rap spilling from a window nearby. Mary Grace rattled the keys and unlocked the door, and suddenly they were inside, where both children were watching television with Ramona, their Honduran nanny. Liza, the nine-year-old, rushed forth yelling, “Mommy, we won, we won!” Mary Grace lifted her in the air and clutched her tightly.

  “Yes, dear, we won.”

  “Forty billion!”

  “Millions, dear, not billions.”

  Mack, the five-year-old, ran to his father, who yanked him up, and for a long moment they stood in the narrow foyer and squeezed their children. For the first time since the verdict, Wes saw tears in his wife’s eyes.

  “We saw you on TV,” Liza was saying.

  “You looked tired,” Mack said.

  “I am tired,” Wes said.

  Ramona watched from a distance, a tight smile barely visible. She wasn’t sure what the verdict meant, but she understood enough to be pleased with the news.

  Overcoats and shoes were removed, and the little Payton family fell onto the sofa, a very nice thick leather one, where they hugged and tickled and talked about school. Wes and Mary Grace had managed to keep most of their furnishings, and the shabby apartment was decorated with fine things that not only reminded them of the past but, more important, reminded them of the future. This was just a stop, an unexpected layover.

  The den floor was covered with notebooks and papers, clear evidence that the homework had been done before the television was turned on.

  “I’m starving,” Mack announced as he tried in vain to undo his father’s tie.

  “Mom says we’re having macaroni and cheese,” Wes said.

  “All right!” Both kids voiced their approval, and Ramona eased into the kitchen.

  “Does this mean we get a new house?” Liza asked.

  “I thought you liked this place,” Wes said.

  “I do, but we’re still looking for a new house, right?”

  “Of course we are.”

  They had been careful with the children. They had explained the basics of the lawsuit to Liza—a bad company polluted water that harmed many people—and she quickly declared that she didn’t like the company, either. And if the family had to move into an apartment to fight the company, then she was all for it.

  But leaving their fine new home had been traumatic. Liza’s last bedroom was pink and white and had everything a little girl could want. Now she shared a smaller room with her brother, and though she didn’t complain, she was curious about how l
ong the arrangement might last. Mack was generally too preoccupied with full-day kindergarten to worry about living quarters.

  Both kids missed the old neighborhood, where the homes were large and the backyards had pools and gym sets. Friends were next door or just around the corner. The school was private and secure. Church was a block away and they knew everyone there.

  Now they attended a city elementary school where there were far more black faces than white, and they worshipped in a downtown Episcopal church that welcomed everyone.

  “We won’t move anytime soon,” Mary Grace said. “But maybe we can start looking.”

  “I’m starving,” Mack said again.

  The topic of housing was routinely avoided when one of the kids raised it, and Mary Grace finally rose to her feet. “Let’s go cook,” she said to Liza. Wes found the remote and said to Mack, “Let’s watch SportsCenter.” Anything but local news.

  “Sure.”

  Ramona was boiling water and dicing a tomato. Mary Grace hugged her quickly and said, “A good day?” Yes, a good day, she agreed. No problems at school. Homework was already finished. Liza drifted off to her bedroom. She had yet to show any interest in kitchen matters.

  “A good day for you?” Ramona asked.

  “Yes, very good. Let’s use the white cheddar.” She found a block of it in the fridge and began grating it.

  “You can relax now?” Ramona asked.

  “Yes, for a few days anyway.” Through a friend at church, they had found Ramona hiding and half-starved in a shelter in Baton Rouge, sleeping on a cot and eating boxed food sent south for hurricane victims. She had survived a harrowing three-month journey from Central America, through Mexico, then Texas, and on to Louisiana, where none of the things she had been promised materialized. No job, no host family, no paperwork, no one to take care of her.

  Under normal circumstances, hiring an illegal and unnaturalized nanny had never occurred to the Paytons. They quickly adopted her, taught her to drive but only on a few selected streets, taught her the basics of the cell phone, computer, and kitchen appliances, and pressed her to learn English. She had a good foundation from a Catholic school back home, and she spent her daytime hours holed up in the apartment cleaning and mimicking the voices on television. In eight months, her progress was impressive. She preferred to listen, though, especially to Mary Grace, who needed someone to unload on. During the past four months, on the rare nights when Mary Grace prepared dinner, she chatted nonstop while Ramona absorbed every word. It was wonderful therapy, especially after a brutal day in a courtroom crowded with high-strung men.