by David Chill
I considered this. "Probably not. To be honest."
"My lawyer didn't want me to do this."
"But here you are," I observed.
"Like I said. I owed you this. A meeting. Listen to whatever it is you want to tell me. We worked together for two years. I liked you. I just didn't like what you did to me."
"Because we fired you."
"Yes."
"All right," I said, feeling my face grow stern, the Decadron providing me a jolt of needed energy and bluster. "Look, first off, I do want to apologize for how sudden our actions were. We didn't give you notice, we didn't give you warning. That probably wasn't right."
"It wasn't. A lot of what transpired wasn't right."
"Well, I couldn't control what Blair was doing. And if the two of you were engaged in an affair, that was your business. Until it spilled over onto me. When you tried to seduce me."
Haley shrugged. "Blair and I had split up by then. I'm not as horrible as you think."
"Why did you come on to me?" I asked. "I don't look like Blair or act like Blair. I'm married and never made any overtures toward you. Haley, what made you think I'd be receptive?"
Her expression grew icy. "Do I really need a reason? I liked you, I felt close to you. You were a mentor. Maybe all that sex talk in the focus groups got me going. I don't know. We were in a hotel, traveling together. Hotels are like an escape from the world you're in. It felt romantic. You said no. I could accept that. I couldn't accept getting fired over it."
"I understand all that," I said, and tried to keep from growing too testy. "But I want to explain a few things to you, and I hope you'll consider them. I've gotten legal counsel. They've told me I should expect to spend, at minimum, twenty thousand dollars as a retainer, and probably more as this moves through into depositions and arbitration. You know you can't get a jury trial. Part of your employment agreement."
"I can win at arbitration."
"No, you can't," I told her. "Or, you won't in the end. That's what multiple attorneys have told me, and you should look at all of this very carefully. There's a reason employers push for arbitration. The arbitrators are retired judges, they do this as a sideline. They're hired by employers and most of the time they side with employers. They want to get hired again. If you had a solid case, with solid proof of any harassment, you might prevail. But you don't, and it will cost you a lot."
"You don't know that I'll lose," she said defiantly.
"Not for certain. Of course not. But the odds say you will, ninety percent of these cases are decided in favor of people like us not in favor of people like you. I'm not saying this to be cruel. This is just how things work. But think about something else. Going forward you won't have a career in this field. What employer would ever hire someone who filed a lawsuit like this? You think word won't get around? It sounds unfair, and it's probably illegal. But most companies are low-risk these days. Anyone who brings with them even the hint of trouble is not going to be hired. That's just the business world today."
"And just what are you suggesting? That I drop the suit? Just like that? Just because you think I'll lose? You sure are sounding definitive. You're usually the guy who has all the questions, not all the answers. Is this the new Ned?"
I took a breath and then a long sip of coffee. "I'll let you in on my plans, Haley. I'm sure you know Amber Sudeau's political career is dead in the water. Garter is pulling their sex drug. One of the networks did a hit piece on it, Garter's being referred to as a company selling snake oil. I won't be getting any more work from them and I don't really care. And with Blair's passing, our company is being shuttered. There is no Baker Lipschitz Team going forward. No BLT. I've told the staff. It's finished."
"Well, you'll just re-open under another name. Big deal."
"I'll probably do some work as a consultant. Maybe Wanda might work with me if I get some focus groups to moderate. Maybe I'll do something else. Once our daughter's in college, we'll be selling our home. Nothing lasts forever. To be truly honest, I really don't know what the hell I'm going to do because short-term, my future is, to say the least, cloudy."
"Then what do you want from me? I'm not dropping the suit."
"Here's what I'm proposing. You filed a multimillion dollar lawsuit. You won't win, but even if you do, I don't have anywhere near that kind of money. You'll never collect it. But I do have some assets, and I want this lawsuit to go away. So your attorney is probably working on contingency. He collects one-third of whatever you get, right?"
"Something like that."
"I'll pay you thirty thousand dollars. You'll get twenty, your attorney will get ten. He'll go for it because it's an easy ten grand for him. These types of attorneys are more like financial negotiators. All he had to do was file some paperwork. Ask him. And ask yourself if it's worth the risk of getting nothing, ruining your career, all for a little revenge. And remember. I never had sex with you and never instigated anything with you. And whatever your relationship was with Blair, I'm sure it was consensual."
Haley looked down at the table and processed this. "I don't know. I'm very upset about all this. I wasn't treated right. Someone should pay."
"I know all about not being treated right," I said softly. "I know all about the unfairness of things. More than most people will ever know."
She looked up at me, and I sensed a softening in her eyes. The toughness in her face no longer looked tough. In fact, it looked a little fragile.
"I want to ask you something," she said. "And please be honest. I need to know. Why did you turn me down? It would have been easy, it would have been fun. No one had to know."
I sighed. "Look. You're attractive, you're desirable. I'm married, but it isn't just that. I had a life I liked. An existence that made sense. One that I wanted to continue. Unabated. Having a fling might have been fun. But it would have upended the apple cart I spent so long trying to build."
"And then the apple cart got upended anyway."
"Apparently it did."
"Then in the end it might not have mattered."
"It would have mattered to me. I still have to live with myself. For however long. And I need to do it with a clear conscience. If I have to be looking back on my life, I want to do so without a lot of regrets. Sleeping with you would have been a regret. Sometimes you just have to look beyond what's right in front of you."
Haley turned away, her gaze toward the window and the traffic flowing along the twisty path of San Vicente. Spanish for Saint Vincent. I recalled a Sunday school teacher once telling us the backgrounds of some of the saints, and Vincent was one them. There were a number of Saint Vincents, the most famous of which passed away in a drowning accident. He died because he could no longer breathe.
"I guess this is my history," she said wistfully. "It keeps playing out."
"Why do you say that?"
"Growing up. My parents got divorced. My dad cheated on my mom. With his secretary. Then he married her. And then, surprise, surprise, he went and cheated on her, too. It all came full circle. He's on his fourth wife now."
"You thought that's what people do in the business world. Because that's what your father did."
"I guess. All it took was five years in therapy to figure that out."
"And then you repeated the pattern," I said. "Except you played a different role. Have you forgiven your father?"
She thought for a moment. "No, I suppose I haven't."
"I know it's hard. I know that all too well. It takes time."
"Apparently," she said sadly, an empty look on her face. "You know, I'll need to speak with my attorney about all this."
"Of course."
"I'm not promising you," she said, a bit of bravado coating her words. "But I'll consider it."
"That's fine. And if you agree, I'll even write you a letter of recommendation. I want to be fair with you, Haley. You did a good job. There's no need to part as enemies. This can be worked out."
She took this in and I thought I saw
the hint of a smile, however fleeting. Finally she got up to leave, moving her shoulders back to accentuate the protrusion of her breasts, a movement that was no doubt intentional, a display to let me know what I had missed out on. I had the briefest thought of asking if more therapy might still be in order, but some questions, as well meaning as they might be on the surface, should clearly never be asked.
Chapter 32
The Detective sat back in his chair and put his feet up on the desk. He wished he could have lit up a cigar. That's what he used to do when he had a good day, and today was a very good day. The phone call this morning put a smile on his face. Chief of Detectives. Reporting to the Deputy Chief of Police. The big promotion that would now lift him up out of Robbery-Homicide. At one time he would have reached into his drawer and pulled out a big, fat Robusto to smoke. But that was years ago, before his doctor advised him that the human body was equipped to keep him alive for a long time. If he played by the rules.
In his career, the Detective had worked scores of murder and manslaughter cases. He had seen firsthand the senselessness of killing. The husband whose limits had been stretched to the point where stabbing his wife had crossed into the boundaries of acceptability. The commuter whose outrage at having someone raise their middle finger and shout obscenities at him was suddenly too much to endure. The gangbanger whose neighborhood had been disrespected by a rival, to the extent that he scoured enemy territory every night for a week before finding and destroying his prey. If indeed he found the right culprit.
But these were crimes of passion. Eruptions where stress and anger and pride had boiled over. Even the cholo who prowled his rival's turf night after night was consumed with a red hot fury, the misguided notion that he was protecting his neighborhood. They were just the human element overreacting, failing to set reasonable limits, unable to control animal instincts. It was sad, it was mindless, it was a stain on humanity, but the Detective was able to see it from the antagonist's point-of-view, whether he agreed with them or not.
This case was different. A demented killer who did not have any passion, nor did he claim allegiance to any particular side. The Assassin was the consummate professional, cool and detached, the one who did not kill indiscriminately. He plied his craft for a well-thought-out purpose, but a purpose which emanated from a place the Detective could not understand. The Assassin was paid handsomely, and he was well regarded in the circles in which he moved. But he was different from all the other killers the Detective had faced. The man killed because it gave a sense of meaning to his life. He was smart and he could get away with it. He even floated the insane idea that he was compassionate. But only the irrational mind could ever go down this path, the twisted idea that his actions came from a place of kindness. Taking lives in order to establish and define who he was. But in this instance, the Assassin was not alone. It didn't take much for him to give up the vice president's chief of staff, whose reasons for involvement were far more obvious.
Amber Sudeau and Randy Greece. The Detective was now playing in a more sophisticated league. He was initially stunned at the plan Greece had hatched, to get Amber to the White House by first using her husband and then removing her husband. He made sure Ned Baker and Iris Hatcher were around the Century Plaza when the Assassin took out the vice president. Nice smokescreen. Gave the Secret Service boys something to chew on for awhile and it allowed Wolfowitz to leave the scene unscathed. But something always goes wrong in these capers. And after the word spread that the Assassin was in custody, Randy Greece had disappeared, finally being spotted a few weeks later in the Ukraine, where the Russians grabbed him before Interpol could. The vice president's chief of staff laughingly pleaded for asylum, but it was clear Greece would be extradited eventually. After the Russians got what they needed from him. As for Amber, there was nothing that could be traced back to her, other than some flinty accusations that would not stick. It was the age-old story. Underlings take a bullet for the boss. It does not work the other way.
The Detective had never worked a case with an ending that was this gratifying. The Chief of Police had concurred, and when they went public with their findings, the attention of the world became focused on the deft and canny work of the LAPD. How they cracked a conspiracy that had baffled every federal law enforcement agency. How they did it the old-fashioned way, simply sending the photos Ned Baker provided to local hotels, asking if the Assassin had stayed there recently. Fortunately, Loews responded quickly and informed them he was still a guest. After the collar, the data boys combed through his laptop and saw he had purchased a plane ticket for Bali, scheduled to depart the very next day. They linked the GPS device the Detective found on Ned Baker's Honda Pilot back to the Assassin. The Detective still relished the reaction of the Feds, the humiliation that some local yokel had bested them at their own game. He didn't need to hack into Baker's emails or monitor his phone calls, he solved the case without resorting to being a peeping Tom. If only the Feds understood what good detective work really involved. And their final response was even more laughable. The FBI blamed the Secret Service, who in turn blamed the DHS. And they all blamed the CIA.
The CIA. The Assassin had been with the Company for years, and he had kept a lot of things bottled up inside. The Detective knew about men like that. Deep down they wanted to talk, they needed to talk. These operatives had few outlets. They had seen all sorts of atrocities, but they could rarely speak of them. Some agents would talk quietly amongst themselves, but the Assassin had left the Company years ago. He had no confidantes.
In the end, the Detective knew it would be a relief for the Assassin to talk with someone. He was a tough hombre, but the Detective wasn't about to serve him up to the Feds so they could get credit. He made it easy for the Assassin. No threats, he just laid out his options. The man revealed the intricate details to the Detective, because he did not want to reveal them to the Feds. Their mutual distaste for Federal law enforcement became their bond. The murder of Blair Lipschitz was an airtight case, and that was what caused his dam to break. The knowledge that there was no way out. The realization that the Assassin had no cards to play, only the desire for a lethal injection that would never come. Not in California. Not anymore. But he told the Assassin he could arrange for him to die quickly. Prison yards did not have many rules.
The CIA had abandoned the Assassin years ago, burned him, left him to die in Pakistan. That was a risk these agents took when they signed up for covert operations, the government will hang you out to dry if a situation deteriorates. But even when that happens, most agents don't go rogue. It wasn't just the money and it wasn't just vengeance that led Wolfowitz down this murderous path. The man's case was highly complicated in a psychological sense, but the Detective was able to simplify it. The Assassin needed to validate his self-worth. This is how he chose to do so.
The more the Detective mulled over things, the more he realized he had gotten lucky on this case. But he also knew that an investigator could make his own good luck. That by simply being nearby, being accessible, the Ned Bakers of the world could find their way to his door. Baker had done the wrong thing for the right reason. He never should have withheld this evidence from the Feds. But if he had relinquished Iris Hatcher's gift indiscriminately, the paperwork Ned Baker had sitting on the floor of his Honda Pilot might indeed have fallen into the wrong hands. Maybe into a bureaucrat's hands, the hands of those who held a badge but did not comprehend the meaning of the badge. Maybe into an incompetent's hands, those kind were found everywhere, nestled silently within the body of the bureaucracy, the type that would slowly kill an organization. But the net result would be the same, a psychotic murderer roaming free, another death looming, an active cancer preying silently on the global community. And the Detective would still be searching, in this instance, for a long, long time. The Assassin was very smart. And he was able to adapt. Just like cancer.
He thought of Ned Baker. The man had been calling this week to speak with the Detective, to ask questions
, to get closure. The Detective would meet with Baker eventually, he owed him as much. A month had gone by since that vehicular homicide, the seemingly ordinary car accident, the one the Detective had insisted on handling himself, rather than passing it down to a subordinate. The murder that had brought the case full circle, the one mistake the Assassin had made. Had the Assassin left town quickly, he could have indeed disappeared into the wind, and the critical manila folder in Ned Baker's car would not have been worth anything.
Baker surely wanted to know more about the Assassin, why Blair Lipschitz was targeted and why he was not. Why the Assassin came to his house after Iris Hatcher was strangled. The Detective could provide some answers now, and more when Wolfowitz was convicted and sent up to Pelican Bay. The answers might or might not provide Baker with the closure he was looking for. That Lipschitz knew too much and Baker knew too little. That Lipschitz casually provided intimate answers while Baker was more likely to just ask questions. That the crucial element sparing him from death hung on the judgment of people who judged life to have marginal value. For once, curiosity did not kill the cat, and in fact, it might well have been Baker's salvation. He'd let Baker know this. Just not today.
The Detective had been on the job for twenty-two years. He could retire, but he wouldn't. There were too many victims he needed to help, too many bad people he needed to put away. Mary Lynn had all the plans laid out for their retirement, the world travel, the visits to see the grandkids, the ideas to start a home-based business. That was before she got sick, before she was taken from him. Her death was one of those random horrors of life, the type of shattered dream he had previously only seen in other families. The irony that he was a smoker but she was the one who contracted cancer was not lost on him. Life did what it did. The Detective thought of Mary Lynn and sighed. He wished he could talk to her right now, celebrate with her. He reached into his drawer, not certain of what he was looking for, but he did find a Milky Way bar. Unwrapping it, he took a bite and chewed the candy slowly, savoring the taste. It lingered on his palate for a brief moment, sweet but fleeting, a moment's respite before he went back to work.