by Tim Tigner
70
Greed
SCARLETT HUGGED COLTON HARD as he walked through her front door. They’d been in an exclusive relationship for years, since back before becoming wed to their careers, and they still enjoyed the occasional roll. Usually that took the form of a midnight walk across the connecting foyer, when one was feeling the need for release without courtship or complications and the other was willing.
The same had been true on the eleventh floor.
The four were eminently compatible in more ways than one. Their intellects, preferences, and personalities were all on par.
Trent was a bit of a misfit. While his IQ equaled theirs, his instincts and inclinations were a tad mismatched. Nonetheless, the shared history and parallel goals made the five of them an effective unit. A team that had not seriously struggled in twenty-five years.
Scarlett released her partner and gazed into his eyes.
“I know,” he said. “I know.”
At least that form of mind reading still worked. “This is absolutely the lowest point of my life.”
“Mine, too.”
“But I’m fearful that I have yet to hit bottom,” she said, leading him to the living room seating area she’d set up for their meeting.
“Me, too,” he repeated, taking his usual seat. “It’s particularly painful because just one week ago, we were at the high point of our lives and living with the expectation of rising even higher.”
“Exactly, Colton. That’s exactly it. How could this happen so fast?
“I’ve been thinking about that. Our situation is not so uncommon.”
“What?”
“Happens all the time. Successful people like us, cruising along, enjoying life while optimistic about the future. Then Wham! the doctor says ‘Cancer.’”
Scarlett hadn’t thought about it like that before. She didn’t think that doing so now would help.
“And we’re going to do exactly the same thing those people do,” Colton continued. “The smart ones anyway. We’re going to fight it and we’re going to beat it. Mind over matter—plus the right kind of medicine.”
“And what medicine is that?” she asked, hopeful that he had news.
“Well, answering that question is why we’re meeting.”
“What question?” Sackler asked, as he and Trent walked in.
“How to cure our cancer,” Scarlett said, deflating.
“Nice analogy. Feels like testicular cancer to me,” Trent said.
Scarlett changed the subject. “Any word from Fredo?”
“Nothing.”
“But he is in New York, attempting to capture Cassandra, correct?”
“Right on both counts.”
“Good.”
“Have we completely ruled out hardware?” Colton asked, also turning to Trent. “I know that even the old glasses don’t work, but that’s not definitive, is it? There could still be some common component that expired, right? It’s possible?”
Trent took Jim Rogers’ usual seat. “The only way to completely rule out this being a hardware issue is to put a pair on someone else and then ask them what they’re hearing.”
They all nodded solemnly, knowing that could never happen.
“So I did.”
“What?!” everyone said at once.
Trent raised both palms. “Relax. I did it with a random guy I’ll never see again. A dishwasher taking a smoke break out behind a restaurant on Staten Island.”
“Still, now someone knows. He’s going to talk,” Resseque said, his voice an arctic blast. “Anyone who learns that mind reading is possible is going to talk.”
“Come on, Colton. Where’s your lateral thinking? Did you lose that, too?”
“You killed him?” Scarlett asked.
“You guys. Seriously. Has fear frozen your brains?”
“None of us are ourselves at the moment, Trent. Please, tell us, why won’t he be talking? And more importantly, what did you learn?” Sackler asked.
Trent calmly opened a bottle of water and took a sip before replying. “I memorized a few lines of dialogue from The Bold and the Beautiful and repeated them in my head while holding the glasses on his temples. Then I took them off him and asked if he’d heard the soap opera. He thinks it’s a new style of wireless headset.”
That was smart, Scarlett thought.
“So it worked? They work? The glasses are fine?” Sackler asked.
“It’s definitely a software issue,” Trent said, continuing with the euphemism.
“Crap,” Colton said, expressing what they all felt.
Scarlett rose and stared out the window, buying a peaceful moment to think before returning her attention to the group. “We’re not going to fix a software issue before court tomorrow. And it’s highly unlikely that we’ll figure it out before Pascal’s case goes to the jury. Agreed?”
Everyone nodded.
“So rather than waste time on that, we need to pour all our efforts into two things. One,” she threw a finger. “We need to win. A week ago, the Pascal contract was a nice-to-have. Now, with our legal careers essentially over, it’s a must-have—which we won’t get if Pascal is in prison. Agreed?”
Colton and Trent said, “Agreed,” but Sackler asked, “Why do you say our legal careers are over? We can still practice without mind reading. It’s what literally every other lawyer does. Our perfect reputation will take its first hit if Pascal gets convicted, and that will be a big hit, but we won’t have any trouble finding clients willing to pay astronomical fees.”
Scarlett recognized the emotion behind her partner’s reasoning: greed. She wasn’t immune to it herself. They’d earned tens of millions as attorneys, but they’d also spent accordingly. Society life in New York City was exceedingly expensive, and they’d availed themselves of all of it. You only live once, right?
Even so, they’d have been fine if they hadn’t invested almost everything with Bernie Madoff. When his firm collapsed in scandal, their life savings were among the $17.5 billion that vanished.
Fortunately, they had one huge investment that had gone untouched. Their apartments. The block of six apartments had appreciated very nicely, and as of last month, the mortgage was paid off. Each of them owned tens of millions of dollars in real estate, plenty to fund a luxurious retirement—outside New York. She’d be happy to move, as would Colton. Trent was an unknown. But Walter definitely wanted to remain in the Big Apple. To do that, he had to keep the paychecks coming.
Scarlett sensed a major clash brewing. The first since the founding of their firm.
71
Unintended Consequences
SCARLETT EXPERIENCED a chill of foreboding as Walter’s words sank in. Practicing law without mind reading? She wanted to kill that idea in the crib.
Colton beat her to the punch. “We all agreed that we were tired of practicing law, and that was with our superpower. Working without it, for the first time, at this stage in our careers—” He shook his head. “That would be about as pleasant as a car crash.
“Imagine what life would be like if every day were as disastrous as today. We knew Ms. Maestretti was mixing half-truths and lies into her story, but we couldn’t string her up with her own words because we couldn’t read her mind. We had to sit there and take it on the chin while smiling for the circus. It was humiliating.”
Colton waved his arms. “And now— Now we’re hiding from both the media and our own client for chrissakes. Phones off, office closed. Scared and shy as kicked cats. It’s disgraceful, Walter. Last week, we were lions. No, sir. I will be retiring. No question about that.”
Colton shook his head while everyone stared at him in silence, then he turned to glare at Sackler. “Theoretically, you could continue practicing law if you wanted, but you’d be smart to put yourself on suicide watch first.”
“Why did you say theoretically?” Sackler asked, ignoring the emotion and focusing on the details, as a good attorney should.
Colton dropped his bo
mb. “I, for one, will be voting to dissolve the firm after the Pascal case. That way, we either retire on a high note with a perfect record, or we retire after our first loss—which would also be the stuff of legends. They went undefeated for twenty years and then dissolved the firm after their first and only loss. Can you believe it? Those are both legacies I can live with. A slow spiral into disgrace is not.”
“I agree,” Scarlett said, jumping in forcefully with both feet. “No matter what, this is the last case for Resseque Rogers Sackler & Slate.”
Sackler couldn’t hide his disappointment. “What about our other cases? Colton, you aren’t even on Pascal’s team.”
“I’ve already handed off my existing case load. I gave them to friends, citing ‘personal reasons.’”
“What personal reasons?”
“I’m not saying, and they’re not asking. But with Jim’s recent sudden demise, it’s not shocking anyone.”
Trent rapped his knuckles on the coffee table. “Can we get back to urgent business? How are we going to ensure a not-guilty verdict for Pascal? I ask because we’ve had two disastrous days in a row, and are now huddled here hiding from the most important client in firm history?”
Instead of answering Trent, Sackler turned to Scarlett and picked up on their prior thread. “What’s the second thing we need to be pouring our efforts into?”
“Glad you asked,” Scarlett said. “But let me answer Trent first. Regarding getting to not guilty, all we can do is focus on strategy tonight, and then on flawless execution tomorrow. All four of us. Agreed?”
“Agreed,” all replied.
“Good. Our second essential task is to absolutely, positively ensure that Pascal does not learn that we’ve lost the ability to read minds. Certainly not before we sign the contract, if we sign the contract.”
“What do you mean, if we sign the contract?” Sackler asked. “Is there any question?”
All three partners turned their laser like stares on her, but Scarlett ignored the heat. “Yes, there is a question. We can’t sign the contract until we know what Pascal is going to do with the technology.”
“Right. That’s been our plan all along,” Sackler said. “We weren’t going to give him exclusivity on our technology if we didn’t believe his business plan was viable. But we never really questioned that it would be. At least not in my mind or in any group discussions. This is Archibald Pascal, after all. The top investment managers bet on him all the time.”
Scarlett took a deep breath. “Right. That’s all true. But the reason we might not want to sign has nothing to do with Pascal’s business sense—”
“But you just said: ‘We can’t sign the contract until we know what Pascal is going to do with the technology,’” Sackler interjected.
Tensions were high all around, Scarlett noted. And rightly so. “I did. Look, if Pascal is going to use it to personally make billions by running some super hedge fund or whatever, fine. We’ve had a good twenty-year run and he will too.”
Everyone nodded.
“But if Pascal has some other use in mind. Something that will expose large numbers of people to whatever medical condition we have. Whatever killed Jim. Assuming it was a side effect of wearing the glasses and not Vicky Pixler. Well, then by signing the contract with Pascal, we’d become mass murderers.”
72
The Transformation
SKYLAR COMPARED Vicky’s face to the one on the photographs for the hundredth time, then said, “I think it’s time to show Chase your transformation.”
“I agree,” Vicky said, rising from the vanity stool and slipping on her new pair of glasses.
They walked out to the main room, where Chase was busy on a laptop.
“What do you think?” Vicky asked.
He gave her a quick study, then made a few mouse clicks, no doubt pulling up the same surveillance pictures of Scarlett Slate’s assistant that Skylar had been using. His eyes went back and forth a few times as Vicky slowly rotated her head. “You don’t know what I think?”
Vicky glanced at her phone screen, but Skylar didn’t need to read it to know what was on her husband’s mind. They’d nailed the match, achieving a look that was at once sexy and sophisticated.
Vicky blushed before removing the horn-rims. “Thank you.”
The three of them had spent Sunday brainstorming ways to locate and then interrogate Pascal. Finding him was not easy—at least by conventional means. Half the New York press and paparazzi were searching for the tech CEO while he was in the city for his trial. Fortunately, it was nearly impossible to hide information like that from a woman who could read minds. When asked, even Pascal’s stone-faced driver couldn’t help but recollect the name of the Cathcart, a midsize luxury hotel a few miles from the courthouse.
The real trick, of course, was creating an opportunity to interview Pascal in private, again at a time when half the New York media was angling for exactly that honor, and Pascal had ordered his bodyguards to prevent it.
Chase discovered the first piece of the interview puzzle when he noted that one employee at RRS&S looked a lot like Vicky would if she were blonde, busty, and presented with the right clothes, hairstyle, and makeup. That employee, he then learned, was none other than Scarlett Slate’s assistant. Meaning that Pascal was likely to have seen Margaret Gray, but probably had little if any direct interaction with her.
“You really do look just like her,” Chase added.
“At least the part that matters most to a guy like Pascal,” Vicky said with a smile and a downward glance.
The padding in her bra was not the usual foam. Chase had employed a CIA trick that he said was devised in Moscow during the Cold War. He’d used feminine hygiene products rather than foam to provide the alluring lift, thereby creating a diaper into which drinks could be poured when one wanted to get an adversary drunk. “Works great with vodka shots,” he’d said. “And presumably with Pascal’s favorite vodka martinis. But he’s also a fan of red wine, which would be wise to avoid.”
Skylar had helped Vicky practice covertly emptying various types of glasses into her boosted cleavage, to get the drainage just right. She seemed to have the technique down, but was wearing a burgundy dress just in case. One with all the right cuts and contours, of course.
The second piece of the get-to-Pascal puzzle revealed itself to Skylar on Monday—in court. While Vicky and Chase were busy in her workshop creating eyewear that matched the RRS&S trademark style, and concealing a second device in a pair of hair barrettes, Skylar was watching the train wreck performance of an attorney unaccustomed to working without mind reading. Although that was a satisfying confirmation that Sackler had been zapped, it wasn’t the breakthrough.
The key insight came after court as a direct result. It struck during a hushed and huddled conversation, which left Pascal furious and frustrated while watching his attorneys walk away. A gap was growing between client and attorney. An opportunity gap.
The acrimony worsened on Tuesday when the remaining RRS&S partners were also forced to work without cheating. The stress and strain created an opening which Vicky was about to exploit. Or rather “Margaret Gray” was.
Chase offered Vicky two items after she set her new glasses aside. The first was a fake RRS&S building security card key, created to resemble Margaret Gray’s actual ID. It wouldn’t unlock anything, but it would perfect her disguise. The second item was a tube of lipstick. “Please take this with you,” he said, holding it up.
“I’ve already got one in my bag, but I don’t expect to need it since we won’t be eating.”
“It’s a gun.”
“What?”
“It’s only good for one shot, but it should slip past the bodyguards. It’s a last-resort option. Think of it as a security blanket.” He went on to demonstrate while she warmed to the idea. “You need to prime it before firing. Do that by rotating the bottom two full turns after removing the cover. You’ll feel it click when it’s ready.
�
��To fire, you hold it between your middle and ring fingers with the base firmly against your palm, like this, and you punch your attacker as hard as you can. Preferably in the head, back, or chest.” He demonstrated different strikes a few times, emphasizing grip and arm movement. “Got it?”
“I think so.”
“Repeat it back while you show me.”
She did, then asked, “Where did you get this?”
“Made it in your lab. I’ve made them before. It’s a simple construction. Keep it in your jacket pocket, rather than your purse. That way it will always be handy. Put a tampon next to it as a camouflaging deterrent.”
“A camouflaging deterrent?”
“The guy searching you will be that much less tempted to take a close look if the lipstick’s not alone. Trust me.”
Skylar produced one, on cue.
“I will,” Vicky said, pocketing both before adding, “Armed and dangerous.”
The lipstick wasn’t the only weapon she’d be taking into the most important battle of her life. In her handbag, she had the zapping headphones and a second cell phone that was linked to her barrettes. It had been modified to self-wake ten minutes after being powered off. Finally, Chase had form-fitted Rohypnol tablets under her long acrylic pinkie and ring fingernails, where they’d be easy to access without anybody noticing.
“Skylar and I will be in the lobby, sitting as close to Pascal’s bodyguard as inconspicuously possible, tracking your phone. If I spot trouble, I’ll pull the fire alarm. If you hear it, run like the building’s burning.”
“Got it.”
“Wait!” Skylar said. “She can’t hear fire alarms.”
Vicky flashed an appreciative smile. “My phone recognizes alarms for what they are and will vibrate until silenced. It’s a safety feature.”
“The hotel will also have strobe lights in hallways and stairwells,” Chase added.
“Glad to see you’re both way ahead of me,” Skylar said before turning to hold Vicky’s eye. “You sure you’re okay with this plan? It might not be necessary. Pascal might lose. Sackler and Slate are floundering without their secret skill.”