“I don’t either.” Sophia looked around her office.
“Those bastards, that’s my client.”
Roger turned to leave.
“You forgot the correspondence file.”
He grabbed the file from the desk and left.
Sophia shut her door.
“Like hell he forgot the correspondence file. He never came for it,” she mumbled as she walked over to her bookshelves.
She opened the box of notes she had saved. It was empty. She started toward the door after Roger and then realized there was nothing to be done.
Sophia hurried over to the upper drawer where she had taped the calendar. She checked. It was there. Evidently, Roger had missed the defining Sherlock Holmes movie.
She picked up the phone and called Paul. It went to message. She hung up and called Tricia.
“Can you come up here? We have to talk. And not on the phone.”
⌘
Chapter 44
The Spider and the Fly
While Sophia waited for Tricia, she went through the rest of her drawers and papers. Roger had rifled through everything. She also took a minute to call Carlisle to find out what she was supposed to do with Baxter Peterson’s case.
As it had turned out, the minute Baxter learned of Frank’s death in the news, he transferred his matters to another downtown firm. So Sophia no longer had the files. Although Baxter was fifty percent Roger’s client, she knew Frank had taken over all contact and probably had also done an excellent job of undermining Roger. So, with no Frank and all confidence in Roger undermined, Baxter really had no choice but to jump firms. Roger retained no hold on Baxter. That was the danger of the client-stealing game the Management Committee played.
“What’s up?” Tricia bounced in and took a chair across from Sophia.
Sophia got up, locked her office door, and then sat down at her desk. She told Tricia about the Baxter case disappearing from the firm and Roger’s loss of his client.
“That just goes to show these partners should not be badmouthing the junior partners to the clients. Not that I mind Roger getting his comeuppance.”
“He’s evil for sure. When I came back from lunch, I caught him red-handed going through my office and all my drawers.”
“Wow, that’s huge.”
“I know.”
“Did he take anything?”
“Well, he took the notes and papers I saved from the desk. But he didn’t get Doug’s calendar with the dates and meetings.”
“I thought you threw those away?”
“I just . . .”
A heavy knock at the door interrupted them.
“Steve here,” the detective called out, jiggling the handle.
“Just a minute,” Sophia called and then whispered to Tricia. “Damn. I don’t need this now. Will you stay? I don’t want to talk to him.”
“He’s cute, but I have a deadline. And don’t worry about all that stuff Roger took. You’re better off without it. Just keep your mouth shut.”
“I will.”
“From this moment on, just stay out of it. You know nothing. And we just did 1.0 on Super Vacuum. Conference re: discovery, okay?”
“Sure, but say something about vacuums.”
“Ethics rearing its ugly head?”
“Please.”
“Okay. Your assignment is to find the discovery cutoff date and call me with it. Then we’ll do the minimum of .25 for the phone call re: discovery cutoff. See ya.”
Tricia opened the door and was face-to-face with the detective.
“Hello, Ms. Manning.”
“Detective.”
He moved aside for Tricia and then shut Sophia’s door and sat down.
“What do you want? I do work here for a living, you know.”
The detective was in a beige suit that washed him out, but he was still gorgeous.
“I’ll make it short.”
“I have a meeting soon. So you’d better. But go ahead and have a seat.”
Detective Rutger cocked a half smile. “I did.”
“I can see that.”
Sophia’s mind raced. She hadn’t made a decision whether to tell him about Roger or not, but she had made a decision that her survival at the firm was paramount.
“My condolences to you for Frank.” The detective surveyed Sophia’s office as he talked.
“Thank you. I would like to have worked with him more. He was a good lawyer. Now . . . what do you need?”
“It seems partners are dropping around here like flies. I have to talk to you about the night Judith died. And now we have San Francisco, too.”
Detective Rutger stopped inspecting Sophia’s office and looked directly at her. “What do you know about the night Judith died?”
After studying depositions, Sophia knew she should object on the grounds that his question called for a narrative, but instead she said, “Nothing really. Like I said before, I was just returning to the building from dinner when her body was being rolled out.”
“And who did you have dinner with?”
“Come on. Don’t waste both our times. I’m sure someone here has given you my interview schedule, including the dinner. But to refresh your recollection, let’s say Taylor Meston, Joe Steinert, and Roger Morelock.”
“So you all saw her body wheeled out?”
“Yes. I mean . . . except Roger. He went back before dessert.”
Sophia bit her tongue. She just couldn’t stop volunteering information.
“How much before?”
“Earlier. Joe might know.” She took Tricia’s advice and pointed the detective to someone else for information.
“So far, you’re the only one who remembered Roger left early. Go figure. Did Roger say where he was going?”
“No.”
Sophia lied. She knew Roger was going to talk to Carlisle about his contingency case, but this was the new her. She needed to stay out of this mess.
She noted the detective did not repeat his theory that Judith’s neck was not broken from the fall. He volunteered nothing. Instead, he was focused on facts, where people were, who knew what. There were two deaths. Every detail was important. He wanted to prosecute someone. He was digging, and Sophia didn’t want to be his shovel. Since she was first generation Greek, her parents and uncles and aunts had instilled in her a distrust of the police. Even the friendly visit from Officer Dan in elementary school couldn’t overcome the indoctrination. She remembered her father’s stories about when he misbehaved and his mother would always threaten him in broken Greek with calling the “po-lí-chēē man.”
“Okay, let’s move on,” Steve said. “If you don’t know anything else about the night Judith died, then you don’t. Tell me about Frank’s murder.”
“Murder?”
“Slip in the rain? Truck running the red light? Truck over the curb? ” The detective said with distinct sarcasm. “Come on, Sophia.”
“I . . .”
“You know you could be in danger here if you saw anything.”
Sophia had surmised that possibility, especially after finding Roger in her office. She wasn’t stupid. But she didn’t trust the detective and his agenda. She didn’t want to be a key witness, even though she was convinced Roger was at the intersection and had the motive to hurt Frank. She also was unsure if any one else did. Did Taylor? Had he called her that morning in San Francisco to stall her leaving for the depo? No, how could he have known about the truck?
Sophia needed time to think. She stifled her fears and held back an overwhelming need to tell all.
“I wasn’t with Frank. I was buried back in the crowd.”
“Is there something I should know?” Detective Rutger saw a chink in the armor, a break in her composure. “I read the report. You’re involved whether you like it or not, and I am here for you, Sophia. You are in over your head.”
“I . . . I heard the truck driver say he had the green and Frank jumped out . . . But . . . I was back in the crowd I don’t know if
. . .”
Sophia’s phone rang.
“Let it go, Sophia.” The detective leaned forward and touched her hand on the receiver. “Please.”
“Excuse me, Detective.” She grabbed the receiver and pulled her hand away from his. “Hello?”
It was Dante. Sophia was late for her meeting with the Management Committee.
“Yes, I’m coming.”
Sophia hung up the phone.
“I have a meeting.” Sophia terminated the detective’s interrogation. “I have to go.”
“I know . . . to meet with the Management Committee.”
“Right. Of course you know.”
As Sophia hurried to Dante’s office, she worried about what she hadn’t told the detective, but she also worried about what she had disclosed.
⌘
Chapter 45
Uneasy Lie the Heads
Sophia knocked at Dante’s office door, steeling herself for the Management Committee’s inquisition. If these two deaths were not a coincidence that is what it would be—an inquisition.
“Sophia, come in.” Chet held the door open. “We’re sorry if the time was inconvenient, but we thought we should talk to you while things were fresh in your mind.”
She looked at Chet as he spoke in his calm, low-timbered, confident voice. She thought that voice, his height, and mane of silver hair must have served him well with judges and juries.
“I’m sorry I’m late.” Sophia scanned the now smaller management group. “Detective Rutger came by.”
“A smart man." Chet led Sophia in. “He has the firm’s interests at heart.”
“Yes.” Sophia knew she had to appear to be cooperating with the detective.
“Have a seat here.”
She sat in the indicated chair next to Chet.
“And what did Detective Rutger have to say?” Carlisle asked with just a hint of his Southern accent.
Sophia noticed that Carlisle could ratchet his accent up or down whenever it served his purposes.
“He said he was following up on Frank’s death for the San Francisco Police, and Judith’s, as well. But you called, so we didn’t have much time. Have you talked to him?”
All three ignored her question. She was here as fodder for them, not the other way around. Sophia didn’t elaborate. If they were going to play hide the ball, so would she. Sophia toyed with asking outright to whom she could bill this wasted time besides administration, but didn’t have the chutzpah. Instead, she sat quietly.
From behind his desk, Dante’s small eyes examined her. “Did Detective Rutger tell you Judith and Frank were more than likely murdered?”
“Yes, he did.” Sophia knew she should add an expression of disbelief, but didn’t care.
“Well, Sophia. What did you tell him?” Chet asked. “Let’s not make this difficult.”
Sophia saw she had to be more forthcoming to get out of there. She would. She could play their game.
“I told him the truck driver said Frank jumped in front of him. That he had the green and Frank just stepped out.”
“Huh.” Chet crossed his legs and leaned toward Sophia. “But what did you see, Sophia? We don’t want useless hearsay.”
She detested being the centerpiece of the investigation. She was being interrogated by three of the most skilled cross-examiners in the world. She knew nothing, and could only speculate with circumstantial evidence and that, as they noted, was no better than useless hearsay. She decided to be honest, but circumspect.
“I understand what you are asking, Chet. But I was at dinner when Judith died, and I was not with Frank when he died. I was back from the corner, buried shoulder to shoulder in a crowd of people and umbrellas in the pouring rain. There was chaos and screaming. The truck driver saw Frank die. Not me.”
“But you saw what happened after. Right?” Dante probed.
“No. I didn’t. I didn’t even know it was Frank until the crowd started to cross the intersection and I followed.”
There was silence. Sophia didn’t fill it. She didn’t want to. She hadn’t signed on for this.
She looked around the room again. There had been five, then four, and now there were three. She looked from Dante’s unreadable face layered with fat, then to Chet’s, schooled in pleasant neutrality, and finally to Carlisle’s unemotional façade crowned by his slightly askew auburn toupee.
All of a sudden, it became clear to her that these men were afraid. They needed her help, because they believed they were the next targets. Their eyes betrayed their unspoken thoughts. They were the eyes of frightened, trapped animals looking for escape.
“I’m sorry.” Sophia filled the silence because of her humanity and sympathy, but still did not waiver from her commitment to staying uninvolved. “I didn’t see Frank get hit. I wasn’t close enough.”
There was a pause.
“The night before when you had dinner with Frank?” Chet began. “Even though you didn't know Frank well, did he say anything . . . shall we say unusual or . . . did he seem down?”
They were grasping at straws. She actually started to feel sorry for them.
“No. He didn’t. In fact, he was quite pleased with some Cuban cigars he had bought. He seemed happy.”
Dante grunted, “His Cubans. Of course.”
Sophia saw she had to disclose Roger and Frank’s argument because she knew Roger already had in some form or another.
“Roger and Frank argued, though.”
“Roger told us about that,” Chet said.
“They were always fighting. Roger fights with everyone.” Carlisle dismissed Sophia’s disclosure with politeness.
Dante took another tack. “Tell us everything you can about that morning.”
“I walked out of the hotel to go to the depo by myself. It was raining hard and the wind was whipping it sideways. It was crowded and everyone had umbrellas, which made it more crowded. I recognized Frank’s umbrella from behind. He was waiting at the curb to cross. I tried to catch up to him.”
“Did you?” Chet asked.
“No. I told you, I was back in the crowd. There were just too many people.”
“Did you see Roger with Frank?”
Sophia gave a specific, and technically true, deposition-worthy response skirting the truth, “No. I did not see him with Frank.”
She was not protecting Roger, especially having caught him going through her office. She just didn’t want to be involved, even for Frank, who had been instrumental in getting her into the firm. Which was something she was regretting more and more.
Again there was silence. The silence of resounding, intense individual thought. The silence of fear.
“Thank you, Sophia. Naturally, we consider this meeting confidential.” Carlisle got up to walk Sophia to the door.
“Yes. And I am so sorry about Frank. I want to help. If you need to talk to me again let me know.”
“We will. And we expect you to cooperate fully with Detective Rutger, who has his full team on this.”
She left them in their silence, which she knew would turn to a cacophony of dissonance after the door was shut. A common thread—a motive—a reason—that is what they needed. She felt justified in holding back information about Roger; after all he was nowhere near the stairwell. He was not the common thread.
As Sophia went back toward the stairwell and her office, she didn’t even notice the opulence of the halls and offices. She felt she should have helped more, but there was only one way she could. Which was to accuse Roger. She wasn’t going to do that. She was afraid of Roger, and also afraid she could be wrong.
The thought of Judith’s bloody face and Frank’s oozing head made her change her mind about using the stairwell.
⌘
Chapter 46
Taylor-Made
When Sophia got back to her office, it was almost four. She saw that Marlene was already gone for the day. Not that she wasn’t literally gone all day anyway, playing with and tormenting Toak. Images of
those two little people rolling around naked on Toak’s desk flashed in her mind. She immediately shut them down.
On Marlene’s desk Sophia saw Toak’s ever-present five tapes still lined up in the same corner. They were obviously props, as she suspected, to avoid working for her salary. Not that servicing Toak wouldn’t be work for any self-respecting woman. Sophia stopped and changed the order of the five tapes for fun, sliding them around like a shell game. She thought that if she were on the Management Committee, this salaried affair would be unsalaried in one minute. She was no “gentleman.”
As Sophia approached her office, the door was ajar and she saw a man leaning over her desk. Roger? Again?
She walked in, loaded for bear. But it was Taylor writing on her yellow legal pad. Sophia had learned from a junior partner at Bode to leave a pad and pen on your desk. Then people leaving a note had no ready excuse to go through your drawers “looking for a pen.” But she had learned too well that it didn't stop someone like Roger.
“Taylor! Hi!” Sophia shut the door.
“Hi!” Taylor looked up with his wonderful smile punctuated by his soft dimples. “I was leaving you a note, but now I don’t have to.”
Taylor crumpled the page he was writing on into a ball and threw it into the wastebasket, free-throw style.
“So how did your day post-Frank’s-demise go?” Taylor asked.
“Wow. A little callous!”
“Hey, no love lost there.” For fun, Taylor crumpled up yet another page of Sophia’s legal pad and tossed it in the basket. “Two for two. I came by to see how you were doing.”
“I don’t know.” Sophia stood behind her desk. “Okay. I guess.”
“You don’t look okay.”
“I . . .” She burst out crying and couldn’t stop.
Taylor went to Sophia and hugged her. “Everything will be fine.”
“I don’t know what to do.” Sophia rested her head on Taylor’s chest, sobbing. “I believe I know things . . . things I should tell someone. Then, I think I’m crazy.”
“Then, tell me. I’ll help.”
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