by Sydney Bauer
‘He's in there with the District Attorney.’
The man kept staring.
‘You know, the DA from the courts and everything. It's all very important, very hush-hush.’
The man nodded. ‘What are they talking about?’
‘The Sienna Walker case, of course. She killed her baby, the one Dr Davenport helped her have. Talk about ungrateful.’ She shook her head.
‘I thought the doctor was friends with Mrs Walker.’
‘Well he was.’
‘But the DA, he's the one trying to send her to prison.’
‘Yes, but it's the doctor's responsibility to tell him the truth. That's what he told him, when he called him.’
‘The doctor called the DA?’
‘Yes. He said he felt he had to be honest about Sienna Walker's priorities.’
‘Her priorities?’
‘That's what he said.’
The man nodded again, obviously impressed by the information Madonna had provided him.
‘Did he say anything else?’
Madonna smiled. ‘You think I eavesdropped on their entire conversation!’
‘I think you are an incredibly diligent personal assistant and you like to keep your head around the doctor's responsibilities – you know, just in case he needs you to fill in the cracks.’
‘Oh, I'm always filling in his cracks.’
‘I don't doubt it.’
Madonna smiled before swivelling completely around in her seat. ‘Well, they didn't say much else because the call was mainly to set up this meeting. But Dr Davenport, he said that he was a creator of life and that he helped people conceive and that it was sort of wrong when – you know, people wasted what they were given.’
The man nodded so she went on.
‘And the DA, he said he understood and he told Dr Davenport that he'd be happy to meet with him but that he shouldn't go talking to the defence people. Dr Davenport said the defence person, someone named Cavalier or something, kept calling him but that he hadn't returned his call as yet and the DA said that he shouldn't because this Cavalier would find a way to manipulate his comments and given Dr Davenport was a man of such high repute it would not do him any good to be associating with, you know – the opposite side.’
‘High repute,’ repeated the man.
‘Exactly,’ said Madonna.
She was about to go on – maybe mention something about not having any plans for dinner, just to see if he took the hint – but then he looked at his watch and pulled out his cell.
‘They won't be too much longer. You should wait.’
But now the man was dialling a number and next he was leaving a short, vague message on someone's voicemail, his focus momentarily diverted elsewhere, so Madonna went back to her computer and played at being aloof once again, given there was not much else she could do.
‘I'm sorry,’ said the man then, getting to his feet. ‘I'm afraid I have to go.’
Shit, thought Madonna. Think of something to keep him here a little longer, or better still (stuff aloof), offer to take him for a drink.
‘Okay,’ she said. ‘It's late – and I'm sure the doctor wouldn't mind if I left also. Would you like to … you know … get a drink on the way home?’
The man smiled. ‘Maybe some other time,’ he said as he got up and walked toward her before … offering her his hand!
‘It was nice talking with you, Madonna,’ he said. ‘You've been a great help.’
She blushed before: ‘Hey, how do you know my name?’
‘It's not a name someone forgets,’ he said.
She could not help but smile. ‘Maybe some other time then?’
‘Maybe,’ he said as he turned to leave. ‘Oh, and you can put that red queen on the black king,’ he offered.
‘Excuse me?’
‘Red queen, black king.’
She shook her head, finding something endearing about his honesty despite her being caught out. ‘I didn't even get your name.’
He smiled as he reached the door. ‘I'm Cavalier,’ he said.
The reference momentarily confused her. ‘Oh, I get it, you're cavalier!’
‘Apparently,’ he said, before rushing quickly out the door.
*
David's cell rang the moment he stepped out of the building.
‘What's up?’ asked Joe.
‘I'm just leaving Davenport's surgery.’
‘What did he say?’
‘Nothing,’ said David, using his bleeper to undo the central locking on his car. ‘I didn't see him. He was behind closed doors in his surgery, with the DA.’
‘The Kat's at his surgery?’
‘Davenport called him, set up a meeting.’
‘Shit, he's going to sell her out.’
David got into his car. ‘He was always going to sell her out, Joe – it's just that I didn't think he'd be so upfront about it. He'll be called as a witness for the prosecution. He'll bury Sienna with a look of contrition on his face.’
Joe said nothing – because he knew this was true.
‘Did they know you were there?’
‘No.’
‘Probably better.’
‘I figured.’
Joe paused. ‘Frank and I are following another lead. We've got a warrant for Davenport's old assistant's apartment. The woman was a nurse. She left unexpectedly, told some lies about her whereabouts.’
‘That doesn't make any sense, Joe,’ said David as he headed east up Beacon toward his apartment. ‘If this is about Hunt and his insider trading, why the hell would Davenport's old assistant do a runner?’ David had filled Joe in on their suspicions regarding Jim Walker's trip south to Washington.
‘I don't know,’ said Joe.
‘I don't like this, Joe. Hunt has gone quiet. He's stopped calling, leaving messages. He's up to something, preparing to play his next card.’
‘I understand, David, but there's not much we can do there until Hunt reveals his hand.’
David considered this. ‘We have to move, Joe. We have to stay one step ahead.’
‘Okay, but we better make sure any move we make is the right one.’
‘I'm on my way home. I'm going to talk to Sara.’
‘Okay,’ Joe repeated. ‘Call me.’
41
It was late, almost 8.15 pm. Sara left the office in a hurry, knowing she had said she'd be home by eight. Their nanny, Stacey, had worked overtime three times in the past week and Sara had promised to relieve her so that she could go out on a date. Stacey Gilmore was a godsend and Sara knew it. The twenty-one year old was practically part of the family given the hours David and Sara worked and how much Lauren loved her. And so, with Sara unsure how long David would be at his unscheduled meeting with Dick Davenport, she literally ran to her car so that she could drive the five blocks to their apartment building, praying the heavy Downtown Crossing traffic would not delay her too much.
‘Sara.’
Sara heard him before she saw him. Daniel Hunt was standing at the exit ramp of the parking station. He was dressed impeccably in a charcoal single-breasted suit.
‘Mr Hunt,’ she said, swallowing the apprehension that rose in her throat. ‘I … are you waiting for your car?’ she asked, not knowing what else to say.
‘No. I was waiting for you,’ he said, calling a spade a spade. ‘Do you have a moment? I would like to buy you a drink.’
His forthrightness made her squirm. ‘I am afraid not. I have to get home to relieve my nanny.’
‘I don't think that will be necessary.’
‘Excuse me?’ Sara was taken aback.
‘I called your apartment and your nanny explained you were still at work. She told me you should be home within the half-hour and so I came straight here in the hope that I could catch you. Before we hung up, I mentioned we were working on a case together and told her there might be a chance you'd be a little late. She replied, and rightly so, that if she received such an instruction from you, she could stay a little later
than was originally planned.’
Sara swallowed once again. ‘Mr Hunt, first up, we are not, as you put it, working on anything together, and secondly, I find your enquiries more than a little intrusive.’
Hunt shook his head. ‘I am sorry,’ he said, the overhead fluorescent light from the exit sign casting a shadow across his perfectly proportioned face. ‘I have a tendency to think ahead. It is the nature of the way I do business and sometimes I find myself overstepping the mark when it comes to the etiquette of simple social interaction.’
Once again Sara was speechless.
‘I promise you I would not be intruding on your free time if it was not important,’ Hunt continued. ‘It is about the Walker case. Something you should know.’
Sara considered him, all the time aware of their suspicions and what David would think of the conversation now taking place. She knew she should walk away from him, but she was also curious as to what he intended to say. She thought of their client, and decided that, even if what Hunt was about to share with her was a lie, that any clue, even a false one, might help lift their nonexistent case from ground zero. ‘I'll need to call my nanny, confirm she can stay a little longer.’ She made the snap decision, even then not sure it was the right thing to do.
‘Please,’ he said, pointing at the cell in Sara's hand.
‘Half an hour tops,’ said Sara.
Hunt nodded. ‘Alibi at The Liberty,’ he said.
‘I know it,’ said Sara of the upmarket bar at the Charles Street hotel.
‘I'd offer you a lift,’ he said gesturing at the chauffeur-driven car behind him. ‘But something tells me you'd like to drive solo.’
‘Half an hour,’ she said after a beat.
‘You have my word.’
And so Sara turned her back to him and walked as quickly as she could to her car before she had a chance to change her mind.
*
The Liberty Hotel on Charles Street was one of Boston's most talked about hotels – not because its bars and restaurants had become the ‘in’ place for local business executives to discreetly talk shop, nor because it was strategically located at the foot of the prestigious enclave of Beacon Hill, nor because its rooms gave the finest of views of the Charles River, but because its previous residents consisted of some of the city's most hardened and notorious criminals.
The hotel was the former Charles Street Jail, the overcrowded hellhole that housed the likes of Malcolm X and Frank Abagnale Jr of Catch Me If You Can fame. But the hotel didn't deny its controversial heritage, in fact it went out of its way to play up its criminal history, including restoring some of the old prison cells and giving its bars and restaurants names like Alibi and Clink.
Sara and Daniel Hunt were in Alibi, Sara drinking an ice-cold vodka, lime and soda while Hunt sipped slowly on a $50 a nip bourbon. The lighting was so subtle that it made Sara uncomfortable. They were surrounded by couples leaning close across their tables, or sharing the bench seats backed against the original cellblock walls.
She looked at her watch for the third time in five minutes. ‘Mr Hunt, as I said, I don't have long.’
Hunt nodded. ‘It's Daniel, and I understand. I just thought you would prefer it if we refrained from discussing the case until the waiter delivered our drinks.’
But Sara was determined to remain on the front foot. ‘I'm sorry, but I am not at liberty to discuss the case with you. As you can appreciate, it is in the best interest of our client, given the intense media scrutiny, that we treat our defence with discretion.’
‘Forgive me but I am not one to be deterred by the standard brush-off, Sara.’ She met his eye. ‘Which I am sure is no surprise to you given your husband has no doubt expressed his opinion of me to you.’
Sara swallowed. ‘Believe it or not, you are not the subject of our discussions with any great deal of frequency, Mr Hunt,’ she lied.
‘It's Daniel,’ he repeated, ‘and I find that hard to believe.’
Hunt slid his drink just a little to the left, the chink of the ice on the cool glass acting to punctuate his point. ‘You told David that I offered you a job.’
She hesitated.
‘That's all right,’ he said. ‘I understand your loyalty to him would prevent you from considering it despite the money it might make you. Was he jealous?’
‘No,’ she lied.
Hunt said nothing, merely offered her the slightest of smiles.
Sara shifted uncomfortably in her seat. ‘I'm sorry,’ she said, leaning down to retrieve her handbag, ‘but I really have to go.’
‘No,’ said Hunt, reaching across the table to place his smooth, cool hand over her wrist. ‘I apologise for seeming antagonistic.’
The man's expression shifted and Sara noted, for the first time, a look of genuine concern on his face.
‘The truth is,’ Hunt continued, ‘this case troubles me deeply. To be frank, I feel somewhat responsible for Sienna's situation.’
Despite herself, Sara put her handbag back down on the floor. ‘How is that?’
‘Jim Walker was my associate.’
‘We've heard this before.’
‘Yes. But my point is, as such, I probably spent more time with him than his wife did. I work my employees hard, Sara.’
‘I don't doubt it. But that has nothing to do with this case.’ Sara knew where this was going. David had been right – this was one big fishing expedition. Hunt wanted to know what they knew and, worse still, he thought Sara was stupid enough to tell him.
‘Honestly, Mr Hunt, I don't know what it is that you expect from me. You asked me to dance, you offered me a job, you flattered me in one way or another.’ She was angry, perhaps even embarrassed, by his attempts to manipulate her in such a way. ‘But this little rendezvous is pointless. The workings of our case are confidential.’ She looked down for her bag again.
But he leant that inch closer, his fingertips resting provocatively against the end of her own. ‘You think I was flattering you in order to garner information on your case?’
She pulled her hand away. ‘I'm not stupid, Mr Hunt.’
‘It's Daniel and yes you are,’ he said.
Her blood began to boil.
‘Forgive me but this has nothing to do with you. I can have my pick of smart and beautiful women, and while, admittedly, it is unusual for a woman to pique my interest with such immediate intensity, I have never been ruled by such banal temptations, so you need to put your ego aside.’
Temptations … ego … Sara's insides began to burn.
‘It appears to me that you are allowing your husband's opinions to jeopardise your responsibilities to your client. Jim Walker was my associate,’ he changed tack to make the point again. ‘I knew things about him – his worries, his fears, thoughts – that perhaps his wife did not.’
Sara took a breath. They had spent the entire morning discussing Jim Walker's ‘fears’, all of them, in reality, centred around the conceited asshole before her. ‘Where the hell is this going, Mr Hunt?’
Hunt leant back, just a little, to slide his hand into his inside breast suit pocket. He pulled out a small leather-bound Filofax. ‘The night of the accident, Jim was on a job for me. He was meant to be in New York, picking up some confidential documents from a client – a man named Markus Dudek.’
Sara said nothing. According to Sienna there had been nothing in her husband's diary regarding meeting with Dudek. Maybe he had an appointment and failed to note it – but even so, why was Hunt mentioning it now?
‘Jim picked up the papers but then he kept going. I never sent him to Baltimore, Sara, and I am not even sure Jim knew where he was headed.’
Sara swallowed once again. Where in the hell was this conversation going? And why was it that Hunt seemed to be shadowing every aspect of their investigations? Could it just be a coincidence that Hunt was discussing matters they had speculated on a mere ten hours ago? No, there was no way he could have known of that conversation.
Sara tried t
o make sense of it, and finally it came to her. David was right – Jim Walker was on his way to meet Congressman Ted Baker in Washington, and Hunt thought Walker had told his wife about his intentions – and she had, in turn, passed this information on to them, and this sick little get-together was Hunt's attempt to head them off at the pass.
‘What are you saying, Mr Hunt?’ Sara was determined to hide the panic that was fast growing inside her. She fought hard to keep her expression neutral.
‘I'm saying …’ He had inched forward without her even noticing, so close now that she could feel his breath on her cheeks. ‘… that Sienna was having an affair.’
Sara felt her lungs contract. It was as if she had been sucker punched, the burning in her chest now fierce.
‘You think our client was cheating on her husband?’
‘I don't think. I know.’
‘How in the hell could you know such a thing?’
‘Jim told me.’
‘And Jim Walker is dead. How convenient.’
Hunt shook his head. ‘You're not getting this, Sara.’
‘Then maybe I'm not as smart as you give me credit for.’
‘No – you're smart all right. You just don't want to hear what I am telling you. Jim adored his wife. He found out about the affair. He was torn apart, devastated, so much so that he fell into a deep depression, a depression so deep that he –’
‘Jesus Christ – you're suggesting Jim Walker took his own life!’
‘He didn't fall asleep at that wheel, Sara.’
‘And I didn't come down in the last shower.’ Sara had had enough. She yanked her handbag from the floor, and began to pull away from the table.
But his hand was back around her wrist in seconds. ‘No,’ he said.
The people at the next table cast glances in their direction, and Sara was more than aware that this looked like a lovers' quarrel.
‘You need to listen to me if you want to save your client.’
‘I need to do no such thing,’ she said, holding her ground. ‘This is a load of bullshit, Daniel,’ spitting his first name like venom. ‘You know nothing about my client, and –’
‘I know she carries the guilt of her husband's suicide. I know she found out that he knew.’