by Tim Tigner
“Don’t lie to me,” the voice hissed. “Lying makes me twitch.”
“I’m not lying.” We won’t learn the details of his billion-dollar idea until after we win.
Skylar gave the pencil another twirl.
“Tell me about Scarlett Slate,” Vicky whispered. “Her strengths and especially her weaknesses.”
Vicky continued to barrage the drugged lawyer with questions that gave them valuable intel without disclosing her identity. As the clock neared 4:00 a.m., Rogers voiced the words he’d been thinking with increasing frequency. “I need to pee.”
“Hold it in. We’re not releasing your bonds until you’ve answered all our questions.”
Vicky kept pressing. Their captive’s answers became ever less guarded as he found it increasingly difficult to think about anything but relieving himself. He was using images of prison cells and monstrous bunkmates to steel his will, but his bladder was relentless.
Only when he was close to giving into the indignity of soiling himself did they loosen his bonds enough to work a wide-necked bottle into position.
Once his business was completed, Rogers asked, “Are we done?”
Skylar looked at the lengthy scroll of incriminating thought and nodded the affirmative. They didn’t have everything, but they had more than enough.
Rather than responding directly to the crooked lawyer’s question, Vicky slipped her new device over his ears and reinserted his gag. She didn’t know if the emissions from her zapper would be noticeable, much less painful, but with the bodyguards standing by, she wanted to play it safe.
Once the socks were stuffed back in, Skylar cupped a hand over Rogers’ mouth and Vicky hit the switch.
The lawyer tensed for a few seconds, then went limp.
Vicky’s face reflected surprise and then concern, but she kept the current flowing for the full minute she believed was required to denature all the target cells. Meanwhile, Skylar couldn’t help but picture an egg exploding in a microwave.
Once the complete dose was administered and the zapper withdrawn, Skylar slowly removed her hand from over Jim’s mouth.
He didn’t react.
She checked his carotid pulse, then put her ear to his chest. She felt nothing. Heard nothing. “He’s dead.”
Vicky nodded slowly as panic contorted her face. “My calculations were off.”
The news sent Skylar’s thoughts in a very different direction. “He won’t be going to work. We’re trapped in his apartment—with his corpse.”
59
The Morning After
VICKY STARED at the corpse of the man she’d killed. She’d killed.
“He murdered Chewie,” Skylar said, as if reading her mind. “And he tried to kill you, twice. His death is essentially the ricochet of a bullet he fired.”
“Thank you.”
“I’ve been there. I got through it, tougher and wiser. You will, too.”
Vicky stared at the body. “What do we do now? We can’t leave, but we can’t be caught here with the corpse either.”
“The bodyguards!” Skylar said.
Shoeless, they ran to the front door where Vicky put her eye to the peephole. Both guards were lounging in chairs, awake but with their eyes on their phones. She flashed Skylar a thumbs up, then stepped aside and pulled out her phone to see what they were thinking. The screen stayed blank.
“What’s on their minds?” Skylar whispered after glancing through the peephole herself.
“Nothing. They’re watching TV. No thinking is involved.”
Skylar cocked her head at the profound revelation, then tucked it away for later analysis. “Let’s call Chase.”
They retreated to the bedroom, where the lawyer appeared to be sleeping. “Rogers is dead,” she told Chase with the phone on speaker.
“How did he die?”
Skylar looked at Vicky. “A massive hemorrhagic stroke. It’s probably going to look weird in the autopsy, since he likely bled from multiple points rather than the typical one, but nobody is going to guess what really happened.”
“So the coroner will have a clear and common cause of death?” Chase asked, his voice crisp and operational.
“Right.”
“They’ll find the Rohypnol in his bloodstream, so you need to leave the box in his nightstand. It’s sold overseas as a sleep aid, so it will look normal enough there, given his international profile. But first, wipe it clean of your fingerprints, inside and out, and then apply his. Can you do that?”
“I’m on it,” Skylar said.
“You’ll want to make the room look normal. Including the body. The picture should say ‘he died in his sleep.’ Got it?”
“We got it,” Vicky said, happy to have clear marching orders. “But what then?”
“Then we let things happen exactly as they would if he’d actually died in the night from a stroke. He won’t come out at 7:50 as he usually does, so around 8:15 or so his bodyguard will likely knock or call. When he doesn’t answer, the bodyguard will go in and find him. He’ll call 911. The police, an ambulance, and eventually a coroner will appear. Then they’ll carry out the body.”
“And we’re supposed to be hiding in the closet through all that activity? The police and paramedics?” Vicky asked with strained voice.
“No, you’re going to slip out when the bodyguard goes into the bedroom.”
“What if he sees us? Or hears us?”
“Assuming the scene looks natural and nonthreatening, his eyes are going to be locked on the body. As for him hearing you, Rogers’ alarm clock should take care of that. Find what he uses and make sure it’s on at a good volume.”
“What about Sackler’s bodyguard? Won’t he see us leave?”
“Sackler is the early bird. He’ll be in the office on his second cup of coffee by then.”
“Right, I forgot,” Vicky said.
“This probably goes without saying, but use the stairs to avoid the elevator video. I’ll be waiting in the stairwell, and I’ll have something with me to block the door after you in case you’re being pursued.”
“You mean a door jam?”
“Something like that. I still have to figure it out. Good luck.”
They spent the next hour returning the apartment to normal. They began with Rogers himself and worked their way to the bed and the greater bedroom until eventually they were back at the closet where they’d literally lain in wait. There they removed the duck blind, returned the relocated clothes, and packed all their supplies, including Vicky’s deadly earphone zapper, into the backpacks they’d used to tote it all in.
“Had you heard about their fifth partner before?” Skylar asked once the waiting game began.
“Trent Keller? Yes and no. His name rang a bell and I finally figured out where. I think it was on the building’s list of tenants. I haven’t seen the partnership papers Rogers referenced,” Vicky added.
“I’ll text Chase to look into him. He’ll be happy to have something to research while we’re waiting.”
“Have him research Fredo Blanco too.”
“That was creepy,” Skylar said, putting her hand on Vicky’s shoulder. “Hearing the name of the assassin attempting to kill you.”
Vicky had seen Fredo’s face, so he was plenty real to her already. “In hindsight, I wish I’d asked Rogers about him. It might be useful to know his background. Terrifying, but useful.”
“Whoever Fredo is, he’ll stop coming when Trent tells him to. We just have to figure out how to make that happen.”
Once satisfied that the dead man’s apartment looked normal, the two infiltrators slipped into their new hiding place near the entrance. As Vicky closed the coat closet door to a peep-able crack, she realized that what lay behind them was the easy part. The tough part would be waiting for the call or knock that would signal the start of their escape—or capture.
It came five minutes earlier than Chase predicted, at 8:11 a.m. Vicky wondered if the bodyguard had called at 8:10. Fr
om the closet, Skylar might have missed the ringing phone over Rogers’ alarm, which she said was playing a collection of Bach violin sonatas at an invigorating volume.
Skylar signaled when she heard the front door open, and Vicky caught the verbal probe. “Mr. Rogers? Mr. Rogers?”
A second later, the bodyguard walked past their hiding place toward the bedroom.
Barefoot and barely breathing, they slipped out of the closet and through the front door as quietly as possible, hoping that the guard would not silence Bach before the lock clicked closed behind them.
He didn’t.
Before Vicky knew it, they were running down the stairs with Chase. Toward what, she had no idea.
60
One of Us
WHILE THE JUDGE, jury, and courtroom full of reporters all watched with rapt attention, Scarlett glanced at her co-counsel before taking the witness questioning in a new direction.
The jury is intrigued, Sackler thought for her benefit. Maintain the same tone.
Scarlett refocused on Beth Barrymore, the second of the now four witnesses accusing Archibald Pascal of sexual assault. “Ms. Barrymore, you’ve been working in the tech sector for the past fifteen years, correct? Ever since graduating college?”
“Yes.”
“And how many companies have you worked for during those fifteen years?”
“Let me see,” the plump, thirty-eight-year-old redhead said. “Eight.”
“Eight companies, in fifteen years. Is that a lot?”
“Tech is a volatile industry. People move around all the time.”
“Was it stressful, changing companies every other year?”
“I found it refreshing.”
“But why so many changes?”
The prosecuting attorney, Oliver Branch, shot out of his seat. “Objection, your honor. Relevance.”
“Goes to mindset,” Scarlett said, knowing that Judge Whitcomb wasn’t buying “refreshing” any more than the jury.
“Overruled. The witness will answer the question.”
Barrymore momentarily bowed her head. “Better opportunities came along.”
“More money? More responsibility? A better title?” Scarlett asked.
“That’s right.”
“But you started as a marketing associate out of college, and you were a marketing manager at Mr. Pascal’s company. Isn’t that just one promotion in fifteen years? At eight companies?”
“Two promotions. I was a senior associate as well.”
“How many times did you lodge complaints with the Human Resources departments at those eight companies during those fifteen years?”
Branch rose again. “Objection, your honor. Relevance.”
“We’re establishing a pattern, your honor.”
“Overruled. The witness will answer the question.”
“I don’t recall,” Barrymore said.
“How many times at your first employer, Lutech?” Scarlett asked.
One, two, three. “I don’t recall.”
“Does three sound right?”
Barrymore looked at Branch.
Branch nodded.
“Something like that.”
“Something like that, or exactly that?”
“Yes, three.”
“Were all three complaints for unwanted attention?”
Again Barrymore turned to Branch. Again he nodded.
And so it went until Scarlett got Barrymore’s twenty-two prior grievances on the record and Judge Whitcomb tabled court proceedings until the following morning.
Scarlett’s relief from a day well played turned to concern when she spotted Colton Resseque and Trent Keller waiting for them in the back hallway by the restroom door. The partners of RRS&S had learned early on of the importance of freshening up before going out front to talk to the press. They always made a pit stop before exiting to flashing cameras.
Colton’s expression did not reflect the contentment or relief she was feeling after a triumphant day of courtroom combat. In fact, he appeared downright grim. Keller’s expression, as usual, reflected nothing.
“What is it?” Sackler asked.
“Not here. Judge Holstein has given us the use of his chambers.”
That wasn’t a good sign. Scarlett wanted to slip on her glasses and get a preview of coming attractions as they followed their partner upstairs and down the hall, but she resisted the temptation to break Rule One.
Colton ushered them into the judge’s office, closed the door and gestured to the small conference table.
The four sat.
“Jim suffered a stroke last night. He didn’t survive.”
Scarlett couldn’t believe her ears. “What?”
“A stroke?” Sackler said.
Trent nodded. “They rushed the autopsy for me. It’s not complete yet, but the cause of death, as confirmed by a CT scan, was a massive hemorrhagic stroke.”
“A stroke,” Sackler repeated. “Dead from a stroke at fifty-one. I can’t believe it.”
“Was it due to natural causes?” Scarlett asked.
“His bloodwork was clean of amphetamines and cocaine, which apparently are leading causes in people our age. The only odd finding was Flunitrazepam, more commonly known as Rohypnol.”
“The date rape drug?” Scarlett asked.
“Apparently it’s a common sleep aid outside the United States. He had an Ambien prescription for sleep, but it wasn’t in his bloodstream.”
I use Lunesta, Scarlett thought.
Sackler nodded.
“They found a box of it in his nightstand, beside the Ambien bottle,” Trent said.
Scarlett put her head in her hands. “I can’t believe he’s dead. One of us.”
“A massive hemorrhagic stroke at fifty-one,” Colton said, his voice strained rather than silky. “I can’t stop thinking about that. The odds of a healthy white male our age dying from hemorrhagic stroke are less than one in a thousand. I asked.”
“It is tragic. But as we well know from our work, tragedies happen all the time.”
“I know, I know. It’s just, well, an unexpected death, coming at a time when we’re doing what we’re doing. I can’t help but be suspicious.”
“Stalin died of a hemorrhagic stroke,” Trent said in his typical monotone. “There’s speculation that he was killed with rat poison.”
“Rat poison causes strokes?” Colton asked.
“That’s right,” Sackler said, still in a daze. “It’s an anticoagulant. The rats bleed out. Or rather bleed in.”
Trent grew an ironic smile. “Wouldn’t be the first time someone inflicted a rat’s death on a lawyer.”
The three all turned to glare at him.
He held up his hands. “But we know that’s not what happened to Jim. As I said, his bloodwork was clean.”
61
Rising Up, Powering Down
CHASE WAS SCROLLING through the thought and voice transcripts on Vicky’s phone for the second time when she walked into the room. He immediately set the special glasses aside, rose and returned them to her. It wasn’t unusual for people to experience anxiety when separated from their connected devices, and that had to apply tenfold in Vicky’s case, since her phone literally functioned as her ears. “Thank you. Do you feel better after your nap?”
“Much. Skylar still sleeping?”
“She is.”
After returning to their apartment from Rogers’, the women had collapsed. Chase caught a few winks as well, but curiosity soon roused him.
“Did you finish?” Vicky asked, waggling her phone.
“Read most of it twice. It’s concerning to say the least.”
“What’s concerning?” Skylar asked, walking into the kitchen. “Or rather, which concerning thing are you discussing?”
Good point. Their list of concerns was growing, not shrinking. “No discussion yet. We’re just getting started.” Chase kissed his wife and continued making coffee. “I was referring to Pascal’s plan to monetize t
he lawyers’ mind-reading technology. The transcripts indicate that Rogers didn’t know how Pascal plans to use it, just that his idea’s worth billions.” Chase turned to Vicky. “Did you learn or sense anything more?”
“No. We wanted to probe, of course, but as you know we couldn’t ask about it, even tangentially, in case he ended up remembering the encounter despite the Rohypnol.”
Chase nodded. “I understand.”
“With hindsight, I wish I’d pressed harder. But I don’t think he knew much more than what we intercepted.”
“If they don’t know what Pascal’s plan is, then clearly they didn’t go to him with the idea. Which means Pascal came to them. But how did Pascal learn about their technology?” Chase asked.
“I don’t know, but I can speculate,” Vicky said. “Archibald Pascal is a genius and an innovator. His core strength is studying the big picture and identifying ways to improve it. As a fellow scientist, I can tell you that one of the tactics used is studying exceptional performers with the aim of figuring out what they’re doing differently. For example, what allows lizards to climb walls? Or seals to survive arctic waters? Or hummingbirds to hover?”
“Or lawyers to never lose,” Skylar said.
“Exactly. When a guy like Pascal reads an article about America’s most expensive lawyers, he doesn’t simply assume that someone has to be the best, the top 0.001 percent. He studies them to determine what they do differently.”
“And he studies them with the eye of a technology guru.” Chase said, rising to stretch. “So he figures it out, but doesn’t stop there. He takes it further than even they ever did. He doesn’t ponder the best way to use the technology today, he contemplates what it could be tomorrow.”
“Right,” Vicky said, nodding along. “When it became clear that I couldn’t continue as a scientist, because that would require disclosure, I looked at careers where I could use my invention in secret. It never occurred to me to create a whole new profession.”
Skylar set her cup down. “I don’t know. Pascal is obviously a creep and probably criminal in his treatment of women. But do we really think he’d unleash mind reading on humanity in order to make a few more bucks? Surely, he came to the same conclusion that you and the lawyers of RRS&S reached about what it would do to the world. And even if he didn’t, it’s hard to imagine the lawyers going along with a plan that inflicts that plague on society.”