Imminent Peril

by Melissa F. Miller

  A wrinkle. But not a wrinkle that merited calling him. “So, tell her you’re looking into her concerns. Glad-hand her. Then bury her report.” This was basic management stuff. How had this guy gotten this far in the business world without figuring any of this out?

  Another cluck. “We’ve done all that, and more. One of the vice presidents ginned up a complaint about her. Human resources called her in. She’s on probation, attending anger management classes under the threat of deportation if she screws up again. She should be falling into line.”

  The consultant nodded, mildly impressed with their efforts despite himself. “So what’s the problem?”

  “She’s not falling into line. Our security system caught her on video sneaking into a storage room in a part of the building she had no reason to be in. She came out minutes later with something under her lab coat.”

  “Maybe she’s stealing pens.”

  “She’s not stealing pens. We inventoried the room. Three packages are missing. It’s the product she sounded the alarm about.”

  “She stole it?”

  “She took it without permission. I need to know why.”

  “So ask her.”

  “It’s not that simple.”

  The consultant crossed his arms. “It is that simple if the product isn’t defective. Did you forget to tell me something?”

  Merriman fell silent, tracing a finger over the gilt script embossed into to the leather cover of the cocktail menu. Then he sighed. “This is complicated. It’s not that the product’s defective. It works the way it’s supposed to. It’s just that we’re required by a federal statute to send it out to a third party to test the levels of a bunch of heavy metals.”

  “Why?”

  “Because we make toys, and children have a tendency to put things in their mouths. And if those things contain high levels of lead or arsenic, for example, it’s not good for their health.”

  “You’re selling children’s toys that contain unsafe levels of arsenic?” Maybe he had misjudged the man.

  “No, of course not. Our products are safe, made in the United States from natural materials. That’s a big reason Recreation Group wants to buy us—our reputation is stellar. But this product—one batch of it, to be precise—came back with unusual testing results. Out of the blue, we had a sample show high levels of mercury. She sounded the alarm.”

  “I need you to level with me. Is this product unsafe?”

  The CEO gulped. “No, of course not.”

  He couldn’t be sure if the man was lying or just worried. “So retest it.”

  “We can’t.”

  “What do you mean, you can’t?”

  “Well, we could. But it’s expensive and time-consuming. It’s a distraction we don’t need, not now with the sale. And if we send the samples back to the lab, we create a trail. We could come under fire for not recalling the product from the market until we get it sorted. And a recall would be a public relations nightmare.”

  “And it would impair your value. I imagine Recreation Group would want to lower the purchase price.”

  “I imagine so,” Merriman said grimly. “We’re a rarity in the industry because we’ve never recalled a product.”

  “So, you want to just let these little kids eat mercury and die?”

  The client jerked back as if he’d been slapped. “Of course not. We’re confident the testing results were flawed. The product is safe. We just can’t spare the expense and time to prove it right now. But we don’t need to.”

  “What do you mean, you don’t need to? You just said you’re required by law to test the stuff.”

  Merriman leaned forward with an excited gleam in his eyes. “My regulatory people tell me the product in question is currently categorized as a children’s toy, but, with a few keystrokes we can re-categorize it as an art supply, which isn’t subject to the same heavy metals testing. Problem solved.”

  “Part of the problem. Your regulatory suits can’t muzzle the scientist. If she’s willing to risk deportation, you’re well and truly screwed.”

  “That’s where you come in.”

  The consultant mulled it over. “I could silence her permanently, but that would mean your database deadline slips.”

  Fear filled the CEO’s eyes. “No, no, nothing like that. I was hoping you could somehow convince her to be quiet since the threat of deportation doesn’t seem to have done the trick. You know, just temporarily apply some pressure—like you did with the attorney.”

  “Ah, so Recreation Group agreed to postpone the hearing?” He’d put the wheels into motion by mailing the news item, but he hadn’t yet heard if the plan had worked. He was pleased that it had come to fruition so quickly.

  “Well, not exactly. But they removed her from the matter. It’s not as good—but it should slow them down.”

  His pleasure morphed instantly into rage. “No. You hired me to secure a postponement. You’ll get your postponement. Don’t worry.”

  He pressed his palms down flat on the table to stop himself from making a fist. He prided himself on not showing anger. Anger was an emotion of weakness. He wouldn’t reveal it to a client, but it roiled inside him. He’d have to come at the attorney from another angle. He exhaled.

  “Of course. But this other matter?”

  “I have an idea.”

  “She won’t be … put out of commission, correct?”

  “Correct.”

  Merriman’s tanned face relaxed and he raised his martini in a salute. “Wonderful.”

  “Don’t start celebrating yet. I have a question. If you lie to me, our business relationship is over. And believe me, I’ll know if you lie.”

  Merriman bobbed his head, wide-eyed. “I understand.”

  “Is this the first time you’ve got bad test results back—on any product, for any reason?”

  Merriman tried to hold his gaze, but his eyes ended up on the table. “No,” he mumbled.

  “Good. I just want to know what kind of man I’m dealing with.” He finished his drink and walked away. Merriman could buy this round.

  14

  Sasha took one look at Will and Naya’s matching expressions of doom, and her stomach plunged.

  “What?” she demanded.

  Naya glanced at Will for guidance. He reached behind him and closed Sasha’s office door. Not good.

  “Seriously—spit it out.”

  “Why don’t we go to Jake’s and get a coffee,” Will suggested. “Or maybe to that Tex-Mex place you two like. We can talk over margaritas.”

  Sasha dropped her pen on her desk and leaned forward. “When Will proposes cocktails at eleven-forty on a Monday morning, it doesn’t give me comfort. Can you two please just tell me what’s wrong?”

  Naya dropped heavily into one of Sasha’s guest chairs. Will stood behind the other, gripping the back. “I got a call from our former place of employment.”

  “Ugh. What do they want?”

  Another furtive look passed between Naya and Will.

  “It was a courtesy call. Although, honestly, it perverts the meaning of the word ‘courtesy’ to apply it to this situation.”

  “Will,” Sasha warned. She was losing her patience.

  Naya blurted it out. “Kevin Marcus is emailing over a draft complaint against you.”

  “Against me?”

  “You, personally. He’s been retained by Steve Harold.”

  Sasha tossed her head like Mocha trying to shake the water off his ears after a bath. “Pardon? The man from the bar?”

  “The one and only,” Will said wryly.

  “And he’s suing me for … what exactly?”

  “I haven’t seen the complaint yet, but from what Kevin said it’s basically an emotional distress claim.”

  “Oh, come on!” She shot out of her chair.

  “Take it easy, Mac,” Naya urged her.

  “This is beyond the pale.”

  “It is,” Will agreed.

  She paced around her o
ffice like a caged feline. “So, it’s a hold up? He’s just looking for a settlement, right?”

  Naya wet her lips to answer but Will beat her to it. “It’s a hold up, that much is certain. But Kevin says they’ll be seeking damages from the firm itself.”

  “What? On what basis?” Sasha exploded. She knew she was yelling. There was no doubt she could be heard in the reception area. But she didn’t give a flying fig.

  “No basis. It’s blackmail, pure and simple. But they must mean it. Why else would Kevin Marcus be involved?” Naya answered.

  Marcus had run Prescott & Talbott’s litigation group for a solid decade. He didn’t make it a practice to waste his time. Sasha let out a great whoosh of breath. “Well, I’d like to see him file it. It’ll get kicked on a demurrer. And I’m going to research possible misconduct charges against Prescott. And counterclaims against that weasel Harold. Does the district attorney’s office know about this?” She shook with pent-up rage.

  Another knowing look flew from Will to Naya.

  “Stop communicating through secret glances,” she snapped.

  “Sasha, we’re going to have to put you on leave, just until this blows over,” Will finally said. “Think of it as a paid sabbatical. Take a vacation, maybe.”

  Leave? They were trying to kick her out the door of the firm she started? The hell they were.

  She cocked her head and gave him an icy look. Then she turned to Naya and let her have the death glare, too. “I don’t need a vacation. Besides, I can’t go anywhere. I can’t miss my anger management class,” she hissed.

  “It’s for your own protection,” he tried.

  “Will, no—”

  “And ours,” Naya added in a soft voice. “You have to think about what’s best for the firm, Mac. I know it’s not fair. It sucks. But people depend on you for their livelihoods. It’s for the best. We ran it by the malpractice carrier.”

  The feeling of betrayal smacked her in the face like a fist. “How are you going to manage my caseload and yours?” she mumbled.

  “We’ll split things up and ask for extensions where necessary,” Will assured her.

  She fixed him with a look. “But not on the Recreation Group arbitration, right? I mean, that case is teed up. All you have to do is show up and argue.”

  He sighed. “I’m not you, Sasha. I don’t have the familiarity with the issues that you do. Without you here to answer questions and take over some of my workload, it’s just not feasible to keep the hearing date. We’ll do the hearing post-closing. The client understands.”

  “That’s a terrible plan,” she told him.

  “But it’s not your call to make,” he said in a soft voice.

  No, she supposed it wasn’t. She stared down at her feet, reeling from what had just happened.

  “Sasha?”

  She didn’t respond.

  “Are you okay, Mac?”

  “Call Connelly, please,” she finally said, still looking down at the floor through a watery blur.

  Leo watched his wife as she pushed Finn and Fiona on the tire swing. She smiled at each squeal of excitement that rose up from the swing, and her face gave no hint of hidden strain. And yet, Leo knew she had to be distracted, thinking about her conversation with Will and Naya.

  It was not in Sasha’s nature to go with the flow—not in her daily life and not in the aftermath of a crisis. In an actual high-stakes emergency, sure, she was preternaturally calm. During closing arguments in a big case or when she was literally physically taking down a bad guy, she was all steely nerves and complete focus.

  It was afterward, once the adrenaline rush had dissipated and reality set in, when she shut down. She retreated into herself—not eating, not talking. She would sleep for hours, all day if he let her, which was ironic considering she rarely got more than four or five hours of sleep—and it was interrupted sleep, at that.

  Maybe, he thought, she's reacting differently because now the kids were old enough to sense if she was upset.

  “Whee!” Finn shouted as he circled by in a blur.

  “Faster, faster!” Fiona called.

  Leo caught Sasha’s eye. “Don't get carried away. She’s a complete speed demon,” he called in warning.

  “I can't believe I get to be the one to tell you to relax for a change.” She laughed at him, and he had to admit her amusement sounded genuine.

  He gave Mocha’s leash a tug to get him moving. He’d been smelling the same bush in the mulch bed for the past eight minutes. Mocha gave the bush one last baleful sniff before trotting along beside him.

  He walked over to the swing set. She shielded her eyes from the afternoon sun and looked up at him.

  “Are you okay?” he asked in a low voice. “I mean, really, truly okay?” He kept his tone light but looked at her steadily to make sure she understood he wanted the absolute truth.

  She answered in a soft voice with her attention on the swing. “I’m as okay as I can be. It's not my decision to make, and it's not the decision I would have made. But Will and Naya are just thinking of the firm.”

  The words came out robotically like a poem someone had asked elementary school students to memorize without explaining the meaning.

  “Sasha—” he began.

  “What am I going to do about it? I’m not worried about the actual case—it’s a crap claim. I mean, sure I’m angry that Prescott would even contemplate representing that dirtbag, but mainly I’m mad that Playtime Toys is getting its postponement. But, what can I do? It’s out of my hands.”

  He searched her face. “And how does it feel to have something out of your hands?”

  He saw a flash of life in her eyes. “How do you think it feels, Connelly?” she answered, nearly spitting the words.

  “Sorry. Okay. Hey, Daniel and Chris invited us to one of their swanky dinner parties this weekend. We should go. It’ll cheer you up.”

  “We can’t.”

  “Why?”

  “My parents are going out of town, and despite Daniel and Chris’s repeated assurances that kids are welcome, their place is a freaking deathtrap. It’s nothing but glass and sharp corners. All they need is a barbed wire sculpture.”

  He laughed despite himself. The picture she drew of their childless friends’ pad was scarily accurate. “But still, we can’t hide.”

  “I’m not hiding.”

  Leo thought for a moment. “What about Jordana?”

  “What about her?”

  “She could babysit for a few hours on Friday night, right?”

  Sasha was silent for just a beat. He thought for sure she was going to shoot down the idea. Then she shrugged. “I guess,” she agreed without enthusiasm.

  15

  Prachi practically bounded up the stairs to her apartment. This was the most lighthearted she’d felt since she’d discovered the test results. Hopeful, she thought. That was the feeling. She felt hope that someone was going to help her.

  She'd risked Maureen’s wrath and requested a personal day—her first weekday away from Playtime Toys since she’d arrived in Pittsburgh. She’d used the time to meet with the attorney who Sasha McCandless had recommended. He’d given her great comfort. He was self-assured and made her feel as though the matter was in good hands. He would protect her so that she could do her job properly. She was sure of it.

  She turned the key in her door and dumped her mail on the counter. She still had the entire afternoon free. Part of her—the diligent, well-trained part—considered going into the office to work on the database even though she wouldn’t be paid for her efforts during a personal day. But she knew that setting foot inside Playtime Toys’ space would dampen her mood instantly, and she wanted to prolong her happiness.

  Perhaps she would take herself to a matinee movie or do some midday shopping. Tomorrow, after work, she would stay late after everyone left and run the tests on the samples. Her gaze fell on her oven and she laughed softly. After she’d taken the samples from the storage closet, she couldn't r
isk leaving them at work until she was ready to use them; so she’d smuggled them home. Then, on a whim, she decided to stow them in her oven. Storage space was at a premium in her postage-stamp-sized apartment, and the oven served no other purpose. Given her work hours, she hadn’t turned it on in months.

  She reached into her tote and pulled out the journal she’d stopped and splurged on at the bookstore. Although the lawyer had told her she could use anything—a sheet of loose-leaf paper, even a series of sticky notes—to memorialize what had happened and to start keeping contemporaneous notes, she wanted to mark the undertaking in some way to recognize its importance to her. Because it was important. She was living up to her name.

  When she saw the beautiful writer’s notebook, she was instantly drawn to its richly colored cover and its satisfying heft in her hand. Looking at it now, she was inspired to write. She sat down at her square kitchen table and uncapped her pen. Before she’d even dated her first entry, though, the image of her mother writing out letters longhand while drinking tea on their sunny patio entered her mind. A mug of tea would put her in just the right frame of mind for her task.

  She hummed to herself as she filled the kettle with water. While it heated, she dried and put away her breakfast dishes, which she’d washed and left to drain before her appointment with the lawyer.

  The first time she heard the noise, she dismissed it. Between the clatter of the dishes and the hissing of the kettle, the muffled bumping sound could have been anything—or nothing.

  The second time, she knew it was not nothing. Someone was in her apartment.

  Someone was in the apartment, the consultant realized with a start. He wheeled around Prachi Agarwal’s tidy bedroom looking for a place to hide. The closet was miniscule—and also the first place she’d look. He bent and lifted the comforter to check under the bed. No space. Solid wood drawers lined both sides of the platform.