I prayed she would remember our story. She did. “Oh, no. Didn’t Caroline tell you? We were just at the theater, and I wanted to pick up the recruiting lists for Stanford and Boalt. I had a little trouble finding them,” she finished lamely.
“Well, my dear, we appreciate your dedication, but you don’t have to do that sort of work at home,” Henry told her.
“I don’t usually, but I’m going away for a few days and I didn’t want to leave it for Cheryl.”
“Yes, of course. Well, I won’t keep you.” He turned to me. “Perhaps we can finish our conversation another time,” he said as if we had just met at a cocktail party. “In the meantime, I hope you’ll remember what I’ve said.”
What he’d said about threatening to prosecute Eleanor for breaking into the firm or what he’d said about coming to him with any problems? It was like Henry to leave you guessing. “I will,” I told him.
Susan was livid. Her hands gripped the steering wheel so hard I thought she was going to yank it out of its mounting. I could feel the heat of her wrath all the way across to the passenger’s seat. I rolled down the window an inch; the night air was uncharacteristically warm from the Santa Ana wind that blew hot air off the desert. Fall, so revered elsewhere, is the ugliest season in Southern California; the natural vegetation has finally given up the ghost after months of no rain, and the smog colors the horizon with a smudge almost as brown as the hillsides. Even at night, the air smelled metallic and combustible.
Susan was uncharacteristically silent. “Talk to me,” I begged her. “Yell at me. Anything.”
She barely glanced at me. “I’m not mad at you,” she said virtuously. “I’m mad at myself.”
“That’s bullshit,” I told her. “You’re furious at me.”
“You’re right,” she admitted. “I’m mad at both of us. But I’m the one who let you in.”
“Look, I’m really sorry I went into the partner offices without telling you, but I knew you wouldn’t approve.”
“You were right about that.”
“I don’t want to have some big philosophical discussion about whether the end justifies the means here, but I promise you it was absolutely necessary to have a look at Barclay’s desk.”
She sighed. “I know you believe that, Caroline. That’s what scares me.”
“You think I’m going too far?” I asked her.
“Don’t you?”
I thought about it. “Actually, no. I haven’t been this certain about anything in a long time. Not about Barclay, necessarily, but about the importance of finding out the truth.” I looked into my lap, struggling to find the words to tell her how I felt. “Since…since Steve left, I’ve been almost asleep. Maybe even before that. I’ve just been drifting along. God knows enough people have told me I have to get on with my life, but I couldn’t seem to manage to do it. I know it may seem like what I’m doing here is hanging on to Steve and the firm in a kind of perverse way by trying to get at them through Barclay, but I honestly don’t think that’s the case.”
“I think I should remind you that the Crusades did not come to a happy conclusion,” she said tartly. Susan had studied history at Barnard. Still, she sounded less angry.
“I don’t want to retake Jerusalem,” I told her. “I just want to know what really happened to Eleanor. I’m getting close, too. Barclay’s calendar had—”
“I don’t want to hear about it.”
“—an ‘E’ beside the day of her death,” I persisted. “At least I think it was an ‘E.’ I mean, I know it was an ‘E,’ but I’m not sure it was only an ‘E,’ because there was a blob in front of it, so it might have been ‘something E,’ if you know what I mean.”
She looked at me incredulously. “I most certainly do not.”
I shrugged. “Well, what it boils down to is that Barclay may have had an appointment with Eleanor on the day she died, when he said he was working on Naturcare all afternoon and evening.” The car pulled up in front of my house. “Coffee?” I asked her.
She shook her head.
“I don’t suppose I could interest you in looking at the memo I found in Barclay’s office, just to see if you might know anything about it?” I suggested.
“I’m not a secretary, Caroline. I don’t type memos.”
“Is that a ‘no’?”
She sighed. “Let’s see it,” she said.
I took it out of my purse and handed it to her. She reached up, turned on the overhead light, and squinted at it in the dimness. Then she looked at me. “Now I’m embarrassed. I did type this.”
“Really?” I couldn’t believe my luck.
“Well, sometimes partners ask me to type something confidential if they don’t want it to go to the regular secretarial pool. I remember him asking me to do it, but now that I look at it again, I can’t think why. There’s nothing in it that I can see. Anyway, I doubt it has anything to do with whatever it is you’re looking for.”
“We can’t be sure. If Barclay—”
“No, no. That’s what I wanted to tell you. Barclay didn’t write this memo. Henry Eastman did.”
“Oh,” I said, disappointed. “I’ll have to think about what it means.” I looked at my watch. It was half past midnight. “I should let you go,” I told her. “I’m really sorry about tonight. I hope you have a great trip to New York.”
“Thanks. Well, look at it this way—this whole business may force me to do something I’ve probably wanted to do for a long time.”
“You mean go back to New York?”
She nodded.
“I’m happy for you if that’s what you want, but I’m sure Henry isn’t going to fire you or anything like that. He seemed to understand that it wasn’t your doing. And I don’t think he has any idea I went into Barclay’s office, since he found me in Steve’s.”
“And what are you going to say to Steve about it when Jeff Grayson runs into him on the courts and tells him all about your little visit? He will, you know.”
“I know. It’s not a criminal offense to be standing in his office, reliving the past. I’ll tell him I was looking for the picture of the two of us at Tikal. He might even be flattered. At least he can’t use it against me.”
“Was it there?”
“Not anymore.”
I tried to say it lightly, but Susan wasn’t fooled. “Sorry,” she said.
I shrugged.
“You didn’t take anything out of Steve’s office, did you? Honestly?”
“Cross my heart.” I didn’t tell her it was mostly because I hadn’t had the chance.
“Good,” she breathed. “Because if I know Henry, he’ll have Steve go over it with a fine-tooth comb.”
I shook my head. “Really, Susan, he was very nice about it. He seemed almost sympathetic. I don’t think he was that upset. Barclay is the one who hit the ceiling.” I shuddered. “And Jeff.”
She touched my arm. “Look, I know Henry comes on like some kind of geriatric Atticus Finch—all wise and scholarly and benevolent—but don’t carry it too far. He also drinks too much vodka in the afternoons and his wife looks as if she were dressed by the Fauves, but he is definitely not a comic figure. He is one very tough lawyer, so don’t go assuming he’s some gooey marshmallow who’s going to go all soft on you just because you shared some kind of tender moment, or whatever it was.”
“Okay. I’ll keep it in mind.” I opened the car door and looked at her. “Are we friends again?”
“Sure. If I move to New York, I’ll bequeath you my sunblock.”
“Greater love hath no woman,” I said lightly, stepping out of the car.
She called me back. “Caroline?”
“Yes?”
“Even if I don’t agree with you, I really admire your guts.”
I liked that image of myself as some kind of gutsy crusader. I even, with a curious lack of the self-deprecation that had dogged me for years, recognized that it was true. I was so elated that I marched right into the house to call David
Sanchez, until I remembered that it was nearly 1 A.M. and that he was out of town for a few days anyway. Before my courage could fail me, I dialed the private office phone number he had given me and left a message on his tape machine. “This is Caroline James,” said the bold new me. “If you’d like to take a rain check on dinner, I’m free this weekend.”
“Brazen,” said my mother’s voice in my ear.
I smiled.
19
“You did what?” David’s fingers were holding a spring roll that threatened to slip from his grip into the sauce. A sprig of coriander slid unheeded to the plate.
I poured myself another cup of tea, ignoring his stare. “Maybe I should have waited till after dinner,” I murmured.
“At least until after the crab,” he agreed. He took a bite of the spring roll. “Delicious,” he said, licking a bit of sauce off his fingers. “I’m glad you suggested this restaurant. But Caroline—”
“David?”
“You should not have broken into the law firm’s offices.”
“I didn’t break in. Susan has a key. I just…went in with her.”
“Right. What about Barclay Hampton’s desk?”
“It was unlocked.” I tried to say it with bravado, but I lowered my eyes.
He grimaced. “If you really think he killed his wife, hasn’t it occurred to you that letting him know you’re onto him might be dangerous?”
I shook my head. “He may suspect that I know something, but I think he thinks I was there looking for the goods on Steve. Projection, you know. Anyway, I’m not his biggest fan, but even I think it would take more provocation than I’ve given him before he turns into some slavering serial killer. I just can’t see it.”
“You watch too many bad movies. You don’t have to slaver to want to protect yourself if you’re threatened.”
“Well, okay, I admit I’m a little nervous about it. But at least he doesn’t know for sure what I know.”
“Yet.”
“Yet,” I agreed. The waiter came and put two plates of stuffed crab down in front of us. “Do you eat these with chopsticks?” I asked David when he had gone.
“Not me. I know my way around the dessert forks, but chopsticks elude me. I can’t seem to figure out what to do with my fingers. I just pick up the crab with my hands, like this.” He demonstrated.
I laughed. “This reminds me of Leslie Caron learning to eat ortolans in Gigi.”
“What are ortolans?”
“Some kind of very expensive French bird, I think.”
He looked at me curiously. “Does everything remind you of something out of a book or a movie?”
“Frequently,” I admitted. “Especially when I’m nervous.”
“Are you nervous now?”
“Very.”
“Why?”
“You know why, David.”
“Tell me.”
I sighed. “This makes me nervous,” I told him, making a sweeping gesture that included the rice bowls, the crab, the table, him.
“Vietnamese food makes you nervous?”
“Of course not.” I was about to say that this was like a scene from a Woody Allen movie when I caught myself. “I meant dating. Dating makes me nervous.”
He smiled. “Dating makes everybody nervous,” he said. “At least I’m glad you aren’t so caught up in your quest for the truth that you haven’t noticed we are dating.” He made a face. “Actually, I hate the word. It sounds like Frankie and Annette going down to the local drive-in.”
“Now who’s making movie references?”
He wiped his hands on his napkin. “I’m nervous, too. I admit it. Look, I’m interested in you. You’re pretty and smart and—”
“And I gave you the Naturcare information.” Why did I say things like that? It made me sound so insecure.
He looked at me. “And you’re still vulnerable.” He grinned. “Actually, you’re a smart-ass. It’s not exactly the culture I grew up in, but I like it.”
“Latinas don’t make jokes?”
“Sure, but the man is still the Queso Grande.”
“The ‘Big Cheese’? Is that a real Spanish expression?”
“Certainly not.”
“Is it true?”
He shrugged. “Pretty much.”
“Uh-oh,” I said.
“Uh-oh?”
“I’ve had enough big cheeses to open a fondue restaurant,” I told him. “Actually, I was thinking of going vegetarian.”
He laughed. “How about a taco stand?”
“I love tacos,” I admitted.
“Well?”
“‘Well,’ what?”
“Are you interested in me?” I stared at him. “Come on, Caroline. This isn’t a conversation about food. Be brave.”
I folded my hands together to keep them from wandering manically around the table or in the air. “I’m interested,” I told him at last.
He smiled. “Good. Want to change the subject?”
“Yes,” I said, relieved. I hadn’t felt so awkward—or so elated—since Ricky Fowler asked if I wanted to wear his letterman’s jacket for the day in eighth grade. Besides, all those reactivated hormones were making me dizzy. “What shall we talk about?” I asked him.
He looked amused. “Our mutual project?” he suggested.
“Oh. Right.”
“Let’s talk options.” His eyes were very dark, very intense. “Caroline?”
I forced myself to concentrate. “I’m with you.”
“Okay. As I see it, there are two separate issues here. One is the murder. That’s your specialty.” He smiled. “The other is the financial fraud. That’s mine. So let’s talk about what we have.”
“You first.”
“Okay. We don’t have the ‘goods’ on anybody, but I think with the memo and the financial stats I’ve compiled on Naturcare, not to mention the goings on at Eastman, Bartels, and Steed, we have enough to convince the SEC that Mike and Cindi Meadows might have been trying to pull a fast one on the public. They’ll at least want to look into it. If the terms of that side letter are in force, then somewhere there will be a record of it. The SEC can find that ‘somewhere’ better than anybody else. If it doesn’t exist, then the Registration Statement is accurate, the contracts are binding, and they’re off the hook. And so is our friend Mr. Hampton, at least in that regard.”
“But you doubt it.”
“I doubt it,” he agreed. “I’m going with my gut on this one. Anyway, that’s one thing. Another is whether or not I can make any money off this issue. I’m getting my lawyer’s opinion on whether using the information to short the stock would be insider trading or not, but I don’t think it will be. If someone inside the company had passed on the tip, it might be different, but I think this is okay. Still, it’s better to get an opinion, just to be sure.”
“What would happen if the SEC decided it was insider trading?” I asked him.
“In this case, you’d just have to give back the money you made. No penalties. It’s my issue, though, not yours. What have you got?”
I ticked off the evidence on my fingers: the motive of blackmail, the threats, the mysterious suited man beside the hot tub, the Bâtard-Montrachet, the notation in the calendar. “Not enough to convict,” I said sadly.
“Perhaps not,” he conceded. “But possibly enough to interest the police, at least. You’ll have to decide what you want to do with what we’ve got. It’s too bad we didn’t get more written documentation at the firm, but I don’t think we’re going to turn up any more.”
“You don’t think I should try to scare a confession out of Barclay?” I asked with a laugh.
“Don’t even joke like that,” he said seriously.
“I thought you liked a smart-ass.”
“With the emphasis on smart. Threatening Barclay would be dumb.”
“Do you really think I should go to the police?”
“I think you should decide this one on your own. It’s your quest.”
“Thanks for not saying ‘obsession.’ What if they don’t believe me, or they can’t prove anything, either?”
He sighed. “If we go to the SEC and they find that Barclay knowingly went along with a fraud, he’s ruined anyway. It might not be as satisfying as hard time in San Quentin, but he could lose everything he’s got, and he might get disbarred.”
I thought of Tricia and the boys turned out on the street, of Jennifer having to leave the university, and shivered. “That’s rough.”
He nodded. “There’s something else you should think about. It won’t do the law firm a lot of good to have it revealed that one of its partners did something blatantly illegal. The firm will probably get sued, and while the insurance would cover any judgment against the innocent partners, they’d lose some significant business, at least for a while.” He hesitated. “That could affect your financial future too.”
“You mean you think I should just do what’s best for me?”
“I didn’t say that. But before you jump off the bridge, don’t you want to know how deep the water is? It’s foolish not to count the cost.”
“Spoken like a true portfolio manager,” I told him with a smile. “But you’re right; I know you’re right.” I sighed. “Still, it makes you think. When Steve was in law school, he used to sit around with his friends talking legal issues. That’s natural, right? They were immersed in it about eighteen hours a day. But you know what they talked about?”
David glanced at me, smiled, and shook his head. “What?”
“Public policy,” I told him. “They spent a lot of time in all this earnest conversation about what’s best for society, and how the law could take you there. It wasn’t even boring,” I added, remembering how I had listened from the tiny kitchen as I made sandwiches and opened beers. “What I’m wondering is, how does all that looking at whether something is good for society or not turn into just focusing on what’s best for the client? What about what’s fair or right in the big picture? Maybe it’s that kind of ethic that leads somebody to go along with whatever a client asks him to do, no matter how uncomfortable it makes him.”
“They’re not necessarily all like that, Caroline.”
Making Waves Page 26
