Robert Friedman responds, “Down this month. The summer line did not sell as well as expected.”
Isabella says, “Then fire Ricardo. Get another head designer. We will launch a new ad campaign featuring a new designer. Say that we want to ‘freshen things up’ this coming year. Go for a different, younger look and demographic. I want something crazy. Something that will put us on the map at Fashion Week in New York and Paris and Milan. Steal someone from another house if you must. I’m sure there are lots of young assistant designers who would just love to head up the house of Cesari.”
Natasha chimes in, “Done. I had a feeling you’d say that. I’m already in contact with a few people who aren’t happy where they are. One is at Dior and is tired of what he calls ‘old-lady fashion.’ The other is at Missoni and says he ‘hates prints.’ So, I’m on it.”
Isabella nods and tells Natasha to handle the vetting and the hiring.
Natasha writes some notes. “I shall arrange for a press conference and a new ad campaign.”
Isabella continues. “We will need coverage in W, in American, French and Italian Vogue magazines and Condé Nast, of course. Also, Esquire and all the ‘gentlemen’s magazines.’ Maxim and the like.” Isabella waves her hand in a dismissive manner.
“Yes.” Natasha is taking notes. “You want skin in those?”
“Yes. Some. Nothing tasteless. Skin sells. Sex sells.”
Natasha nods.
“Yosef, how about our wire transfers? Any issues there?”
Yosef speaks for the second time. “Smooth as silk,” the Israeli says. He is a man of few words but much action, despite his pedestrian look. This is part of the reason the firm hired him as a partner. Like most Israelis, he is quick and decisive in his actions. If Yosef wants to kill you, you will be dead before you ever hit the ground. It is the Israeli way. Yosef, despite his looks and his seemingly soft manner, is a stone-cold assassin.
The wire-transfer operations prove a valuable tool for moving and laundering money.
Money, girls, sex and power.
These four things make Isabella’s world go around.
“This meeting is adjourned. If any of you are contacted by this Dr. Catherine Powers or anyone one else from law enforcement, I want to know about it right away.” These are Isabella’s last words to the group as she gets up and walks out with Clayton on her heels.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Success is like a liberation or the first phase of a love affair.
—Jeanne Moreau, quoted in Oriana
Fallaci, The Egotists
Roxie Jennings waits for the partners to leave the conference room. She says nothing to them. She keeps her head and eyes down, appearing to be reading letters from a file and typing a letter for Thomas Pierce to sign. Her fingers fly over the computer’s keys at lightning speed.
She can feel a single bead of sweat roll down the middle of her spine and sink into her waistband, even though Black and Knight’s offices are AC cooled.
Secretly, she can’t wait for the partners’ meeting to be over.
Some of them look a bit agitated as they walk past her when the meeting is finished. Clayton Pierce is his cool, calm, collected self, although he does not leave the meeting first. He strides behind Isabella, his eyes glued to her nice-looking ass, his spine straight and his face serious. From the way he moves, Roxie wonders if he was ever in the military. He moves like a military man does, no wasted movement and straight ahead. He is aware of his surroundings. His eyes laser focused like a falcon’s eyes. His body taut.
Roxie pretends not to notice him.
She will wait until Thomas Pierce goes to lunch and then duck into the conference room to see if, by chance, some of the meeting’s materials have been inadvertently left out or in the trash because of all the emotion.
She can’t be too careful.
She remembers Cat’s warning.
She does not want to lose her job or her life.
But Anna is worth it.
Finding out the truth about what happened to Anna is worth it.
Roxie continues working until one in the afternoon. She knows that Thomas Pierce has a meeting with a potential new client in one of the smaller conference rooms that is away from the main reception area. She wonders why Pierce does not want to use the main conference room as he usually does to impress the client.
Thomas Pierce strides past her at five minutes to one. “Did you have lunch ordered in?”
“Yes,” Roxie says, a bundle of nerves.
Thomas eats the same thing every day. Smoked Nova Scotia salmon on cream cheese bagel with all the fixings and ginger ale. An odd combination.
Once Thomas disappears around a corner, Roxie waits five minutes, periodically checking her watch. She tries not to look nervous, but it is difficult. The secretarial bay where Anna used to sit is still empty. The associates on the floor are having their weekly review meeting.
That’s another thing that is odd, Roxie thinks.
Normally, Thomas Pierce is part of that associate review meeting. He is, after all, the firm’s managing partner. But not today. Today, he has chosen to meet with a potential new client instead.
Roxie can’t shake the feeling that something is not right. But she can’t think of it anymore now. She has work to do.
She grabs a bottle of spray marble cleaner and some paper towels and goes into the conference room where the partnership meeting took place.
She sprays the cleaner on the huge marble table and begins wiping it down, trying to look casual about what she is doing. She does this after every meeting, making sure things are clean and tidy and the room is ready for the next closed-door session. But today, she feels on edge.
As she reaches across the table to wipe, she is peaking below the table, checking the wastebaskets below it to see if there is any paper in them. All are empty but one. The one next to Thomas Pierce’s chair has something in it. Something white and crumpled up into a ball.
Her breath catches in her throat.
Roxie tries to control her breathing.
She tries not to stare at the paper.
She cannot believe it.
Could it be with the highly charged emotions at today’s meeting that the normal protocol of shredding all meeting materials was not followed? Was Thomas so rattled by Clayton’s appearance at the meeting that he forgot these basic rules, which seemed to be followed at every other meeting? Or did Natasha’s little tirade so anger Thomas that he forgot?
Whatever the reason, Roxie prays this is her lucky day.
Looking around, she makes sure that no one sees her take the paper out of the trash can. She is leaning over the table as she does it so to the camera’s lens, just outside in the ceiling, she looks like she is just doing a thorough job of cleaning the long black slab of marble.
As her fingers touch the paper, a slight shudder runs up her spine.
She grabs the cleaner and walks back to her desk, with the paper cupped in her palm along with the used paper towels. After opening her purse underneath her desk, she drops the paper ball inside. She takes out some lipstick, applies it and puts it back in her purse. She closes her purse and puts it back farther under her desk. Trying not to tremble, she discards the used paper towels in the trash. This whole sequence takes less than ten seconds.
Up to this point, it is the hardest ten seconds of Roxie’s life.
She dares not look at the paper here.
She dares not look at it in front of the cameras.
She dares not do anything that will call attention to what she is doing.
She knows the firm has video monitoring and camera equipment running 24/7.
Another bead of sweat rolls down her spine, then another. She feels sweat under her armpits but pretends not to notice. She walks to a file cabinet, takes out the Myers litigation file, pulls up Mr. Pierce’s dictation on the case on her computer, puts her earbuds in and starts typing up a set of discovery questions that he has dictated. The
y will be ready for him to review in draft when he returns from lunch.
Smile, her internal voice keeps saying.
Everyone loves a girl with a smile.
Smile.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
True virtue is life under the direction of reason.
—Spinoza, Ethics
Roxie heads home at her normal hour from Black and Knight’s offices.
As usual, stepping from the office’s AC into Florida’s humidity feels oppressive.
On her way home, Roxie pulls over to study the paper she retrieved from the trash. She smooths it out as best she can on her lap and puts on her reading glasses to take a closer look. She can see there are a bunch of numbers and a reference to a language school in Yekaterinburg. This must be why Thomas and Isabella regularly go there. On the paper, there are references to movement of “the stable,” but Roxie does not know what that means.
Roxie looks up.
In her rearview mirror, Roxie can see the familiar candy-apple red Audi is five cars back, and behind it, she can see the unmarked cop sedan driven by Doyle with Murray sitting in the passenger seat. As her Camry sits on the side of the road, both cars whiz by at high speed.
She watches them go by. She cannot see who is in the Audi, but she knows that they are watching her. Murray and Doyle pass as well, pretending not to notice her.
Roxie gets home from work at six fifteen.
Thankfully, the black Audi is nowhere to be found.
Maybe the guy has been scared off. Maybe the lookout worked and scared him off. Maybe, just maybe, he will leave her alone now.
That’s good news.
She is almost out of breath on her cell phone to Catherine as she walks in her front door, telling her about the meeting.
Her beagle, Buddy, is there to greet her.
“Good boy.” She pets the dog’s head watching his tail wagging.
She is holding the paper in her hand, juggling the phone to her ear.
Suddenly, the hair on the back of Roxie’s neck stands up. Someone is in the doorway behind her. A dark figure right behind her. She can feel he is behind her. Roxie tries to drop down to prevent an attack, but it is no use. As quickly as she moves, this man matches her movement. It is as if he can read her mind.
Is this real?
Buddy is barking in her direction.
Roxie can hear Catherine on the phone, but it is impossible to speak. Buddy is barking so loud she cannot think.
Yes, it’s real.
Someone has his hands around Roxie’s neck from behind. Big hands. His grip increasing. Pressure on her neck. Around her throat. Squeezing. It is crushing her. Pain and a sharpness shoot through her spine. She is struggling to find air.
Roxie can feel the life going out of her.
Yes, it’s real.
“Cat, Cat . . . ,” Roxie is saying into phone. Her voice is not normal. It carries that sick raspy sound. Roxie’s words are barely audible. She can hear a ringing in her ears.
In her mind, Roxie knows that Buddy is down there somewhere trying to do his best to attack this intruder.
But it’s no use.
This man is too big and too strong.
Roxie can feel her life flowing out with each panicked breath she is trying to take.
Yes, it’s real.
She can’t get any air into her lungs.
No oxygen to her brain. Little black dots float in front of her eyes. A first, it is just a few of them. Then they seem to multiply in front of her field of vision. There is a sick feeling in her stomach. The buzzing is louder in Roxie’s ears.
But she must tell Catherine about the papers.
She must.
She must save herself and Buddy from this man.
She must do something.
Instinct takes over. She remembers taking one of those stupid self-defense courses five years ago. Now it doesn’t seem so stupid. It seems like the best decision she ever made.
She drops the phone and the paper.
She can hardly see. But she hears Cat on the phone pleading with her to tell her what is going on. Roxie prays Cat will figure it out and send help. In the meantime, she knows that she is on her own.
Roxie reaches an arm and bent elbow forward and up and rams it back down with all the force she can muster in the direction of her assailant.
Her elbow catches the guy in his throat and jams his lower jaw. She hears his teeth crunch and his jaw snap.
He sounds stunned for a moment and his grip releases ever so slightly. On the phone, Roxie can hear Catherine pleading, “Roxie, Roxie are you all right?” Buddy is barking wildly. The black spots in front of Roxie’s eyes start to fade away. She can see some of what is going on.
Roxie looks up into the eyes of a mountain of a man. His shoulders are three times the width of hers. He fills the entire door frame.
Fear grips her heart.
How will she get away?
How will she fight this beast of a man who wants to kill her?
She remembers her training from the class.
She remembers the instructor’s demonstration. She remembers doing then what she must do now.
But this man is so big.
She has no choice.
There is no one to do it but her. She has one shot to get this right.
She remembers the instructions that underneath an attacker’s jaw is the most vulnerable place on his body.
Without thinking of anything else, she does what must be done.
Roxie jams her hand up under the man’s jaw, to the fleshy area, above where his hard neck bones start. Under the chin. This is the area she remembers is vulnerable to attack. She does what she needs to do, jamming her acrylic fingernails up into his flesh. At the same time, she knees him as hard as she can in the groin. Instinctively, she watches as his hands go to protect himself and his torso buckles down. Her fingers and nails find their mark ever deeper in his flesh as he makes this instinctive movement.
He makes a sound like a wounded animal.
His eyes go wide just inches from her face.
She can smell his breath. She can feel her own sweat.
His warm blood is running down her fingers.
With his hands off her, she can find air to breathe again.
Roxie shoves her fingernails deeper. In the far-off distance somewhere, it seems Buddy is barking and biting something.
Roxie can hardly believe what she is doing to this man.
This man who would kill her, given the chance.
She can see his face. He is shouting at her to stop, grabbing at her wrist with one hand, trying to get Buddy off his lower leg with the other.
On the phone, somewhere that seems far away, Catherine’s voice is screaming, “Roxie are you all right? Roxie?”
The man’s blood is all over the place. Buddy is there at his feet, biting down hard on the guy’s calf muscle. The man is shaking his leg, trying to get the dog to let go. Buddy will not let go.
The man reaches up, grabs hold of Roxie’s wrist. He yanks her fingers down and away. Roxie must be in shock because when she looks at them, she can hardly believe that her hand, her fingers, are wet and shining red.
Roxie looks down. Buddy has drawn blood too. From the man’s lower leg and quad muscle. She can see his pants are torn. Below that, his flesh is torn. Blood is running down the man’s calf and foot to the floor. As if knowing his master is free, the dog releases his grip too. He continues to bark.
The man turns on his heels and is running out the front door. Gripping at his throat. Trying not to bleed out right here in a quiet South Florida residential neighborhood.
Roxie watches as his figure disappears behind some trees.
Buddy is out there chasing him.
Roxie continues to suck air. It feels like nothing is getting into her lungs.
She reaches for her neck.
I am going to be okay. I’m in pain. But I’m okay.
She tries to call for Buddy, but h
er words do not come out right. As she tries to speak, her neck hurts. A shooting, searing pain that sends a shock wave though her body. Her words are a croak instead of a command. She is injured. That much is for sure.
She closes her eyes and concentrates for a while. Concentrate on breathing. Ignore the pain.
The second time she calls for Buddy, Roxie’s words come out better. She is able to say the dog’s name. In front of her, she watches a red Audi speeds away. Buddy is running back to her. He looks uninjured. Thank God.
Seemingly in the distance, the voice. It is Catherine, still on the phone, pleading for Roxie to say something, anything.
Roxie picks up the receiver smeared with the assailant’s blood. She takes a deep breath and struggles to say, “I’m here. Someone tried to kill me.”
She hears Cat hang up and Roxie drops the phone.
Buzzing in her ears gets louder.
Roxie struggles to retreat into the house. She struggles to try and close the front door. Now that the encounter is over and her adrenaline is returning to normal levels, Roxie feels weak and disoriented. She cannot find the strength to close the front door.
In her own living room, Roxie feels her knees give out. She falls to the floor surrounded by her attacker’s blood. She can feel Buddy standing guard over her, licking her face and her injured neck until she hears police and Cat arrive outside.
* * *
As day turns to night, Cat is out of the squad car running toward Roxie’s open front door. Something’s very wrong.
As she rounds the path, Cat can see Buddy standing over Roxie. Roxie is on the floor covered in blood. Blood all around her. Roxie’s white front door is open to the night air. It has a full palm print and fingerprint left in blood. As Cat approaches, Buddy goes wild. He is still in protection mode.
Cat gets down at the dog’s level to calm him. “It’s okay, boy. It’s okay. Roxie’s going to be okay.” As if he can sense it, the dog knows Cat is no threat. The dog turns back to Roxie, continuing to lick at Roxie’s neck. Her eyes have glazed over. Her face is pale. She looks like she is in shock and going unconscious, her lips quivering although it is not cold. From the amount of blood, Cat cannot tell if Roxie has been stabbed.
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