Marcus started to ask why it was important, decided to let the man lead on. “Charlie Hayes is a retired federal appellate judge. Gladys Nicols was a former local judge, she’s now been raised to the federal district bench. We three headed up the program.”
Granger nodded twice, as though agreeing with some internal voice, then launched straight ahead. “Business in China, Mr. Glenwood, has nothing near the same transparency as you find under U.S. law. The Chinese do not have as well-developed a legal system or commercial system. You have to look at business relations in China with a certain degree of skepticism. In the United States you have rule of law, you have regulatory bodies, you have precedent, you have an existing legal structure. China is the Wild West by comparison. They don’t have a standardized process under which their rapid commercialization is taking place. The result is a haphazard body of law and regulation, one based more on the preference of people in power than on the rights of average citizens. The little people are squeezed hard, but they have no voice, no legal recourse, no democratic means of affecting policy. The people in power just cruise along. This is particularly true of companies not directly in the spotlight. Smaller companies, including many international joint ventures, operate in a netherworld, beyond the pale of what we would consider normal constraints of law and regulation. These legal vacuums are being sought out and exploited by the wrong kind of U.S. company.”
Marcus heard him out, understanding little beyond a single fact. “I think I need to trust you fully.”
Granger smiled thinly. “Big mistake.”
“I have a more serious problem than what I just said. Do you know New Horizons Incorporated?”
“The name, sure.”
“Have you ever represented them?”
“Not a chance. Look around you, Mr. Glenwood.”
“Call me Marcus.”
“I work with the small-fry. Companies like New Horizons go for the higher-priced spread. There’s a group called the China Trade Council, they exist to service the needs of companies that size. The council charges a quarter mil a year to join the elite, but its members have access to the top guys on both sides of the ocean. People like New Horizons press their case at levels I can’t reach. We don’t operate in the same spheres.”
“Gloria Hall was apparently kidnapped while researching labor abuses at a Chinese factory. One allegedly operated jointly by New Horizons, called Factory 101, located in something called the Guangzhou Industrial Compound.” Marcus waited for a response, and when none came, said, “If this was a United States-based situation, I would press for criminal proceedings.”
“It’s not the United States,” Granger replied flatly. “You contact the boys over at State?”
“And the FBI. All we know is they are making inquiries through their embassy.”
“Which will get you precisely zip. You know about the Vice President’s upcoming visit to China?”
“Yes.”
“Their primary concern is trade. The guys with the fat wallets are not interested in backing an administration that focuses on human rights. Or even on missing Americans. Those who bankroll the election campaigns want free trade, open borders, hands off everything to do with making money.”
Marcus asked, “So what do I do?”
“Find out who is responsible for that factory. Determine who is the top local man. Remember what I said: Business in China is all about who holds power. See if pressure can be applied directly to the top dog.”
“Can you do that?”
Granger rose to his feet, offered his hand. “Give me a few days.”
IT WAS DARK and well past the worst of rush hour by the time Marcus entered Georgetown. He snagged a parking space several blocks from the house on P Street. He walked through a misting rain as cars drove by slowly, tires whispering on the wet asphalt. Lights were softened by the rain, the sidewalk and the street and the houses transformed into an unfinished painting. He saw no one and enjoyed the moment’s solitude.
Kirsten opened the door before he could knock. There was no pleasure in her greeting, and scant welcome. “Something’s come up. I’ve been called back to the office.”
Disappointment was becoming a familiar response to this woman. “I was looking forward to a nice evening.”
The only consolation she offered was an absence of anger. She pushed open the door, said, “I’ve made us a salad. It’s all the time I have.”
Marcus followed her retreat through the house. Every light in the kitchen was on. The place was neat as a model home. Two plates were set on the kitchen counter, two stools drawn up at right angles, water glasses, no smell of food. Just bread and cheese and a bowl of lettuce. He glanced to where Kirsten stood hugging her middle, ready to accept his irritation. So he just smiled and offered, “Looks great.”
Over dinner he related his meeting with Ashley Granger. She toyed with her food, avoided his gaze, said almost nothing. He finally ran to the end of his tale, made his first question as casual as he could. “How did you come across Ashley’s work?”
“From Gloria’s papers.”
“Is there much more I haven’t seen?”
Her gaze rose from the countertop to dance over the ceiling and the corners of the room. “No. Not much at all.”
“When can I have the rest? I need anything that would help tie New Horizons into an actual collaboration with the Chinese—”
“You never told me how you met your wife.”
He stared at her and the flitting gaze. “Excuse me?”
“I was just wondering.” Her tone sounded light, but her features were taut as stretched hide. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want.”
“No, no, it’s fine.” Speaking words he scarcely heard himself, searching for what she seemed determined to keep hidden. “I met Carol when I was finishing my law studies up north. She was everything I had never known or had, as alien to me as if she’d been raised on Mars. Rich, old-family rich. So settled in their wealth and their power they acted as though it was their right to be happy and well and strong and in control.”
Somehow his words melted her. He did not know what it was he said that could have caused such a reaction, but he liked seeing the tension and the barriers dissolve. So he kept on, though the act of speaking raked his heart with razored spikes. “I think we both knew from the beginning it was a mistake. At least, I’d like to think now that I had the wisdom to see what I was doing, but chose not to accept it. It’s a lot better than accepting that I was blind and dumb all along. She was happy with the status quo, and expected me to fit the mold shaped by her father and her uncles and every other man she’d been close to. Socially active, opera, golf, donations to the right charities, house on the right street, vacation home here, apartment there. Working for her daddy’s companies, sitting on boards because her family held controlling interests in the companies, wielding power without ever raising my voice.”
He smiled at his own folly, and found strength in the way Kirsten twisted her mouth in time to his own. It was like looking in a mirror and seeing his own pain reflected in her beautiful face and pale lips and shattered turquoise gaze. “Only I hate the opera and I never liked golf. I was hungry and felt like the only way I could ever be the person she needed was to fight my own way to the top. Which was crazy, I know. Any money I earned would be new money, any power tainted by my ambition and my hard work.”
Marcus stopped, astonished at his confession. It was the most he had spoken about himself in over a year and a half, the first time he had ever consciously shaped the ribbons of thought that laced the early hours of almost every day. He had to turn away from all he had said, all he had shown to himself with unaccustomed clarity. The only way he knew was to ask, “How did you wind up here?”
“I was at Georgetown studying law.” She struggled with herself, tried to pull the taut mask back into place. But the words came almost of their own volition. “My parents were killed in a car accident. I told you that already.”
�
��I’m so sorry, Kirsten.”
“They were the greatest parents anybody ever had. When they died, I fell apart.” A big breath. “If it wasn’t for Gloria I don’t know what I would have done. She looked after me, helped me sell the family place up in Boston. I was an only child. I couldn’t ever go back. The funeral was bad enough. The very thought of packing up their stuff …”
“I understand.”
“She helped me find this place, pick up the pieces, start over. I never went back to law school. It all seemed, I don’t know, something from another life. Gloria knew about a charity that needed help. She got me up and going in the morning. Day after day. She wouldn’t let me stop. Wouldn’t let me lie around and mope.”
“She sounds like a great person.”
Kirsten’s effort to draw the world back under tight control rocked her entire body. Back and forth, struggling to quell the talk and the emotions. Marcus resisted the urge to reach over, halt her struggle and her movement by holding her close. Then it was over, the openness a myth as fragile as steam. “This is not about me, Marcus.”
He had no choice but to nod.
“I’ve been between men for a very long time. Which is exactly how I intend things to stay.” She rose and gathered plates and filled the air with brisk clatter. “And you really should be leaving.”
“Can you tell me something about Gary Loh?”
The question froze her solid. “Who?”
“Gloria’s boyfriend. You didn’t know him?”
“I’m not sure.” Her motions were jerky, as forced as her words. “She might have mentioned something.”
“I need whatever you can give—”
“I told you I’ll get it to you as soon as I can. But it’s not much.” The plates were slammed down hard. “And you have to go. Now.”
THE PHONE CALL woke Randall Walker an hour after midnight. The gray voice said simply, “You were right.”
“Call me back in five minutes.” Randall hung up the phone and slipped from his bed. His wife stirred, but did not roll over. With clients all over the globe, late-night interruptions were common. Randall walked to his bathroom, washed his face, regretted the third scotch he had drunk that night. And the fourth. His reflection looked more than tired. It looked old. And very worried.
He took the second call in his study. “I’m listening.”
“You were right all along.” Hamper Caisse sounded as worried as Randall had ever heard. “That Stanstead woman has another file.”
Perhaps it was the hour, but it took Randall a moment to recognize the cold hand that gripped his gut as fear. “Tell me.”
“She had dinner with Glenwood at her house. She told him there was more information. Not a lot, but some.”
“You searched her place.” It was not a question.
“And her office. Top to bottom. Nothing.”
“Then she’s got it hidden.” He sighed, wishing it was over, cursing the compilation of stupidities that had landed him in this situation. “This could be bad.”
“She said it isn’t much.”
“We can’t take a chance she was lying.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Stay on her. Try for an intercept. Something to lead us to where she’s got things stowed.”
“I could, well, stop her.”
“And risk letting the press find whatever she’s got hidden, and blow the horn even louder?” He emitted a puff of breath that fluttered his flaccid cheeks. “I’ll get to work on something at this end.”
Randall hung up the phone, rose, and headed for the bottle on the wet bar. He didn’t want another drink, but he needed it. He could already taste the burning smoke as it settled down and filled the hollow spaces inside him. Or at least numbed them enough to let sleep return.
NINETEEN
MARCUS’ WEEKEND WAS given over to an exhaustive review of evidence and pleadings. His only time away from the growing clutter in his office was church on Sunday, and that was merely a two-hour review from further afield. By Monday evening he was so tired the stairs threatened to defeat him. He stripped and collapsed into bed, his final thoughts of a soft-edged blond woman and the mystery of why she so desperately wanted to be harsh.
He awoke to sunlight and voices and rumbles from downstairs. The nightmare was nothing more than a vague murmur at the back of his mind, like memories told by a stranger. The light was not the muted horizontal of dawn, but strong and closer to directly overhead. He glanced at his watch, and swiveled his feet to the floor. The dial read half past ten.
He dressed hurriedly and started down the stairs still knotting his tie, only to be halted midway by the sight of Oathell and Darren hauling his conference table through the front door. Marcus had picked it up at the same auction as the law books. In a previous life it had graced a formal dining room and seated twelve most comfortably. Marcus watched as Oathell snagged the carpet and almost tumbled.
“You watch where you put those big feet of yours!” A matchstick of a woman climbed into view carrying a lamp in each hand. Marcus recognized her as Fay Wilbur, Deacon’s wife. “You mess up this floor and you’re gonna be catching my business, you hear?”
“Yes, Aunt Fay.” Oathell’s normal scorn was nowhere to be found. And for good reason. Deacon Wilbur’s wife looked ready to hammer him with either lamp. “It’s heavy, is all.”
“Hmph. You don’t watch your step, I’ll give you heavy. I’ll give you so much heavy you’ll need all the angels in heaven just to carry that load.”
Deacon Wilbur grunted his way through the open door, carrying what was to become Marcus’ office chair. He glanced up to where Marcus stood, then looked away. But the one glance was enough.
Fay Wilbur swung around and showed Marcus a face like an angry washboard. “Just how long did you aim on living in this mess of a half-finished house?”
Marcus pulled his tie free and draped it over the edge of the banister. “Just until your husband gave the trim a final coat.”
“Deacon’s done. He’s been done.” She glared at the silk tie like she would a dead snake. “You aim on leaving your mess hanging there?”
Marcus whipped the tie free. “No ma’am.”
“That’s good. ’Cause I’m too old and too angry to be picking up your messes.” She eased the lamps to the floor, straightened up, and set knobby fists on her hips. With the squinty eyes and the jutting chin and tight frown, the arms looked cocked like two triggers. “Now you listen up. I don’t do windows, you hear what I’m saying?”
Marcus knew better than to argue. “Loud and clear.”
“Then you best be remembering as good as you’re hearing.” She paused long enough to watch the three men hustle back through the door. They were all sweating and puffing hard. “Y’all get a move on, now. We got lots to do ’round here.”
Marcus called out, “I’ll be right there to help you.”
“No you ain’t gonna do no such thing. You got yourself some lawyering to tend to. What you think brought me over here, my health? I got five children and fourteen grandchildren and a growing church making all the messes I’ll ever need. I don’t need to take on yours. No sir. Only reason I’m here is on account of my husband not knowing when it’s time to stop painting and start finishing.”
“Excuse me.” Netty appeared in the side doorway. She said to Marcus, “Randall Walker is on his way out.”
“Randall Walker is coming here?”
“Any minute now. I was just going to have Oathell go up and wake you.” Her tone was apologetic. “I thought you’d want to see him.”
“You thought right.”
“He said it was extremely important. And urgent.”
“It’s fine, Netty.”
“There, you see now?” Fay Wilbur had listened all she cared to. “You get on to your lawyering, you leave this shifting about to Deacon and the boys.”
Marcus said to no one in particular, “I need a cup of coffee.”
“Pot’s bee
n cooking up all morning. Oughtta be just about right. Dropped an eggshell in it for flavor, just like your granddaddy liked it.”
Marcus stared at the wizened woman. “You knew my grandparents?”
“That’s for another time.” One bony finger rose in the air between them. “Right now I got just one more thing to say to you. I’ll come back ’round from time to time to help clean and give this place a woman’s touch. Can’t say when, can’t even say how often. I’ll come when I can. But on one condition.” The finger moved in closer. “Don’t you ever bring no outside messes inside this house. You do and I’ll quit ’fore I get started. You hear me?”
“Yes ma’am.” Marcus watched her heft the lamps and stump away.
His secretary gave him a satisfied smile and said, “About time somebody brought you in line.”
Marcus walked to the kitchen and was halfway through his first cup of coffee when Deacon huffed his way through the back door. “Marcus, I can’t tell you how sorry—”
“It’s fine.”
“No it ain’t. Fay’s not like this often, but when she is, there’s just no stopping her.”
“It’s better than fine. You want a coffee?”
Clearly this was not the reaction Deacon had expected. “Better not.”
“I was going to try to get Charlie Hayes and the Halls together and take them to a pig picking today. You want to join us?”
The old man’s eyes lit up. “Law, I do surely love a country pig picking.”
“See if Oathell and his brother will join us. I need to thank them for all this.”
“No, Oathell’s got to get on to his office and Darren’s got some piecework he’s picked up for this afternoon. That’s why we’re hurrying.” The concerned expression returned. “But all this commotion, and in your house while you were still upstairs—”
“It’s better than fine,” Marcus assured him. “It’s a gift.”
MARCUS WAS ON THE PHONE with Austin Hall when his secretary showed Randall Walker into his newly appointed office. Randall did a slow sweep of the room as Marcus finished up with, “So you’ll pick up Judge Hayes and meet us here in an hour? Thank you, Professor, that’s great. Good-bye.”
The Great Divide Page 16