Imminent Peril

by Melissa F. Miller

  “Actually, I’ve loved being home with the twins. That's not it at all. I talked to her last week during our break. She insisted her company trumped up a disciplinary infraction against her.”

  “Why would they go through all the trouble to bring her over here as a skilled worker in high demand and then set her up?” he asked.

  “I know, it’s paranoid. But she said she uncovered something at the company—a bad test result of some sort, maybe a safety violation. When she took it to management, they told her to let it go. She persisted, and, the next thing she knew, she was on probation and being required to take an anger management class to keep her job.”

  “Okay, that’s really bad. She still shouldn’t have missed class, though, knowing what the consequences would be.”

  “There's more, Connelly.”

  He gave her a look that said ‘of course, there is.’ “Why am I not surprised?”

  “I referred her to Mickey Collins.”

  “Mickey, the plaintiff's attorney?”

  “He also does some employment law, and he has a few associates doing immigration work. I thought he might be able to help her.”

  “Okay, so you tried to help her. You aren’t responsible for a perfect stranger’s failure to come to class.”

  “I know. But it just feels wrong.” She took a deep breath before going on. “Then today I found out that she works at Playtime Toys.” She paused meaningfully to let the information sink in.

  He waved his hand in the direction of the nursery. “It rings a bell. I think we have some of their blocks. And maybe a train set?”

  “No. The reason you recognize the name is because Playtime Toys is the company that Recreation Group is buying.”

  He turned to face her. “The company you’re arbitrating against?”

  “Right. And they just happen to have an employee taking the same anger management class as me?”

  “Coincidences do happen,” he pointed out.

  “That’s a pretty big one. And now she's gone missing.”

  “Wait. Failing to show up for a class she doesn’t think she should be required to take in the first place isn’t exactly going missing,” he said in a tone of voice she recognized as an effort to slow her down before she jumped to conclusions.

  “It gives me a bad feeling, Connelly.”

  He searched her face. Whatever he saw must have convinced him not to try to cajole her out of it. “Okay. What are you going to do about it?”

  “The first thing I’m going to do is talk to Will and Naya. Then I’m going to use my ample free time to poke around and see if I can figure out what’s going on.”

  “I’d tell you not to, but I know that's pointless. So let me just remind you that the last time you stepped in to help someone who didn’t ask you to, it didn’t end so well.”

  His words stung, and she wanted to shoot back with a quick retort, but, unfortunately, everything he said was true.

  “I hear you. I’ll be careful,” she promised.

  She snuggled into his side, and they finished their wine in silence, watching the twins entertain each other through the open door. She wished she could say her mind was at ease now that she’d unburdened herself by talking to her husband. But a new worry was spooling through her brain—did they have Playtime Toys in their toy box? Were they safe? Or was she unwittingly endangering her own children?

  She waited until Connelly led the kids into the bathroom to brush their budding teeth. Then she plopped down on the playroom floor and began combing through the toys, sorting them into piles, searching for Playtime Toys’ name on the bottom of a truck or a block, trying to weed out any danger lurking in their cozy house.

  17

  “Hello?” Charles Merriman’s voice was heavy. Not groggy, as if the ringing cell phone had awoken him from sleep, but thick and tired, as if he’d already switched off his workday persona and was relaxing with a book or movie, winding down before bed.

  The crisis management consultant had worked with the titans of industry long enough to know that when they called him, it was an urgent emergency, but when he was the one calling, it was an intrusion—particularly when the call came outside regular business hours.

  “I’m terribly sorry to bother you at this hour,” he said smoothly, “but you need to know that there's a situation involving your scientist.”

  “Oh? Do we need to meet?” Merriman was instantly alert.

  The consultant paused. Ordinarily, he liked to conduct all business face-to-face. In this case, however, given that he planned to tell his client a series of bare lies, he didn't see any benefit to doing so in person. And, given the substance of his lies, in the unlikely event that someone was monitoring the CEO’s telephone calls, it wouldn’t bother him to spread misinformation.

  “Considering the circumstances, I don’t think we can wait to arrange a time to speak in person.”

  “What is it?”

  “I was at her apartment today. She wasn’t home.”

  “Hmm. I was told by our human resources director today that she had requested a personal day, which was notable, as it’s the first day she’s taken off. Perhaps she took a short trip.”

  “If she went away, she certainly left in a hurry.”

  “How could you tell?”

  “Her door was unlocked, so I let myself in,” he lied easily. “Nothing appeared to be out of place, except …” He trailed off, baiting the hook.

  “What?” Merriman bit.

  “She left a note.”

  “A note? To whom?”

  “It wasn't addressed to anyone in particular. There was a journal or notebook lying open in her kitchen. She’d written a message. The gist of it was that she was terribly sorry to have disappointed her family, and she couldn't face the prospect of returning home to India in shame. I'll be honest, Charles. It read to me like a suicide note.”

  On the other end of the phone, the CEO wheezed. “She killed herself?”

  “I can't say for sure. As I said, the apartment was empty. But the wording had a finality to it.”

  “But, suicide. That’s … unthinkable.”

  “There’s a certain logic to it, unfortunately. It seems the threat of deportation weighed heavily on her. It may simply have been too stressful for her to bear.” He lowered his voice to a mournful note. He didn't want to go so far as to directly blame Prachi Agarwal’s disappearance and suspected death on the company.

  Merriman quickly connected the dots on his own. “This is terrible; human resources shouldn’t have pushed her so hard.”

  He murmured an agreement.

  Merriman went on. “Luckily, it turns out the database is no longer important. Excellent timing, actually.”

  The consultant swatted aside his surprise. Of course, the database was Merriman’s concern. Most corporate wrongdoing was, at its core, a function of greed, not evil. He, of all people, should know that by now.

  “Oh? How’s that?”

  “I learned today that Recreation Group has reconsidered. They’ve agreed to push back the arbitration until after the sale closes,” Merriman said with barely controlled glee, Prachi Agarwal’s fate all but forgotten.

  “Interesting. Did they say why?”

  “No. I assume it was the result of some machination of yours.”

  “As do I,” the consultant agreed. Then he returned to the subject of the scientist. “Now if Dr. Agarwal doesn’t turn up in the next day or two, you should have human resources call the police.”

  “Oh, yes. Of course.”

  “Also, talk to your immigration specialists. You may need to start the process to alert Immigration and Customs Enforcement about a missing foreign national.”

  He had no qualms about the Department of Homeland Security poking around. Unless Dutch fell down on the job, which was so unlikely as to be impossible, they wouldn’t find anything in Prachi’s apartment to trace back to him. And her body would never turn up. The feds would be chasing their tails for years
.

  “I’ll do that in the morning.”

  “Unless she shows up for work, of course,” the consultant added.

  “Of course.”

  He ended the call. He should have felt satisfied. His brilliant idea to have Harold sue the lawyer had solved Merriman’s problem and his own. Instead, the tight rock lodged on his chest was growing. Why did Prachi Agarwal have Sasha McCandless-Connelly’s business card in her pocket?

  18

  Sasha had been sitting at her favorite table at Jake's since the coffee shop opened its doors at six AM—nearly two hours ago. By now, she’d drunk far too much coffee—even for her admittedly high consumption levels—and was tapping her foot nervously under the table as she stared at the doorway, waiting for Will or Naya to walk by en route to the office.

  Will arrived first. He passed by in a hurry and started up the stairway to their law firm on the second floor. She stood and called his name. He turned and looked at her in surprise.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked as he walked toward her.

  She met him in the doorway and answered in a low voice, “I know you asked me not to come into the office, but I need to talk to you—Naya, too. When she gets here, I’ll buy you both a cup of coffee.”

  “She’s out in Stowe Township taking a witness statement this morning. You’re stuck with me. Let me drop off my briefcase and tell Caroline where I’ll be. I'll be back down in a few minutes.”

  “I’ll order your morning latte for you.”

  He headed for the stairs, and she went to the counter to place his order. While she waited for him to return, she gathered her thoughts. It was important that she not sound like a wild-eyed conspiracy theorist because she needed him to take her seriously. She closed her eyes to do a quick breathing meditation for focus; when she opened them, Will was sitting across from her.

  “Wow, you’re sneakily quiet,” she said.

  “You must have been deep in concentration.”

  She gave him a sheepish shrug. “I was doing a meditation for focus, trying to think of the best way to convince you that what I’m about to tell you is critically important.”

  “You and I have known each other for a long time, Sasha. We’re partners, for crying aloud. I obviously trust your judgment—the current situation notwithstanding. You don't have to craft an appellate argument for me. As Naya would say, spit it out.”

  Here goes nothing, she thought.

  “Okay. I met a woman in my anger management class. She mentioned that she was on probation at work and said she’d found a problem—a safety problem. When she brought it to the company’s attention, instead of addressing the issue, they trumped up a disciplinary infraction against her.”

  He frowned. “If true, that's terrible.”

  “I have no reason to disbelieve her.”

  “She likely has a retaliation claim,” he mused. “But if you’re suggesting that the firm offer to represent her, I don’t think—”

  “No. I mean, I agree she has a claim, but I referred her to Mickey Collins.”

  “Ah, yes, good. This sort of thing would be in his wheelhouse.” Will nodded and sipped his latte.

  “Right. But yesterday, she didn’t show up for class. And she’s in the country on a skilled worker visa. So now she’s not only going to be kicked out of the program, she’s most likely going to be deported.”

  He shook his head. “That’s unfortunate.”

  “There’s no way she would've voluntarily missed class.”

  “She could have gotten ill or been in an accident.”

  “Sure, emergencies happen,” she agreed. “I asked our facilitator for her contact information so I could check on her.” She paused. She knew Will wouldn’t approve of her snooping through Karen Hogan’s papers, so she glossed over the bit about her self-help. “And it turns out that Prachi Agarwal works for Playtime Toys.”

  Will frowned. “That’s odd.”

  “It’s more than odd. We have to tell Recreation Group.”

  “Now, wait a minute—”

  “They make toys. If this safety issue has to do with their products …”

  “Does it?”

  She hesitated. “I don’t know. But we have to find out. Dr. Agarwal said something about a bad test. That sounds like a product issue, doesn’t it?”

  “Maybe. Not necessarily.”

  “We have a duty to tell our client.”

  She watched him as he considered it. Finally, he said, “We can’t ask Naya to take this to Recreation Group. It’s unsubstantiated.”

  “So substantiate it. Send them a set of interrogatories or a document request asking for an updated list of their testing results. They have a duty to amend the materials they’ve provided.”

  “I’m aware of their obligations. But surely you know what their position will be—responding to supplemental requests that will be answered in the ordinary course when they turn over the database is just a distraction from their work, which is already delayed. We’ll end up with an even longer postponement.”

  “So what, then? We just stay quiet and let Recreation Group buy a potential headache?”

  He took a long drink of coffee. “You have a lot of time on your hands at the moment. And an active imagination.”

  She began to blurt out a protest but he kept speaking.

  “Sasha, I hear what you’re saying. And believe me, I share your concerns. But this is a sticky situation.” He gave her a long look. “It would solve a lot of problems if Prachi Agarwal turned up and felt like talking. I’m sorry, Sasha, but I have to run. Thanks for the coffee.”

  As she watched him leave, her chest was heavy with disappointment, but the wheels were beginning to turn. Prachi Agarwal would just have to turn up, then.

  19

  “Good morning. You’ve reached the Law Offices of McCandless & Volmer. How may I direct your call?” the pleasant, polished voice answered.

  “Yes, I'm trying to reach a Sasha McCandless-Connelly,” the crisis management consultant responded.

  There was a pause, just a half-second too long, and then the receptionist said, “I'm afraid Ms. McCandless-Connelly is out of the office on sabbatical.”

  Sabbatical, huh? As in, busy being sued personally? He smiled to himself. “How long will she be out?”

  “Indefinitely. May I ask the nature of your call? Perhaps another one of our attorneys can assist you.”

  “Oh, no—this was just a courtesy call, following up on a vendor satisfaction survey,” he ad-libbed.

  “I see. In that case, have a nice day.”

  “Thanks. You, too.”

  After he hung up, he stared down at the business card. The fact that she was out on leave was excellent news, evidence that his Plan B had indeed succeeded. Despite the fact that the Prescott firm insisted that Harold’s complaint would be tossed out on demurrer, whatever that was, if filed, the threat of the lawsuit had served its purpose. Not only had the arbitration been postponed, but Sasha McCandless-Connelly had been sidelined entirely.

  He still needed to get to the bottom of the relationship between the McCandless woman and Prachi Agarwal. He didn’t care for loose ends under any circumstances. A loose end that connected a woman he’d been hired to neutralize and a woman he’d killed was one he had to address.

  How, though? He tapped a fingernail on the business card and thought. He drew a blank. In frustration, he flicked the card off the table. It flew across the room.

  A display of temper, even in private, was unwelcome.

  He took a deep breath then crossed the room to fetch the business card. It had landed upside down. As he reached for it, he read the name and telephone number scrawled across the back in blue ink.

  Who was Mickey Collins? And could he be the answer?

  “Mickey Collins.”

  Sasha had to smile. Leave it to Mickey to answer his own line.

  “Hi Mickey. It’s Sasha McCandless-Connelly,” she said warmly.

  “Hey
, Sasha. What can I do for you?”

  “I’m calling about Prachi Agarwal—you remember, the Indian scientist I referred to you last week?”

  “Right. Thanks again for the referral. It looks like she's got a solid case.”

  “You’ve already met with her?”

  “Sure, she came in yesterday morning.”

  “Yesterday?” Sasha echoed, her excitement rising.

  “Yes.”

  “Listen, Mickey. I was supposed to see her last night, but she didn't show up.”

  “Okay?”

  “In a sort of funny twist, I don't have her number. Could you give it to me?”

  “Ahhhh,” Mickey blew out a long whoosh of air. “I don’t know, Sasha.”

  “Come on, it’s just a phone number. Tell you what, I’ll even buy you lunch.”

  “Jeez, I’m really swamped. You know how it is.”

  Not really, she thought. Her current schedule consisted of playing with her children, brushing the cat’s fur, and taking the dog for yet another walk that he really didn't want to be on.

  “We’ll keep it short. I could meet you at that overpriced Italian place in the lobby of Prescott’s building—right across the street from you.”

  “No!”

  “Wow, okay.” She bristled at the emotion behind his rejection.

  “Sorry. I mean, uh, why don’t I come to you? I have to run an errand in Shadyside anyway. I’ll meet you at that Tex-Mex place on South Highland.”

  Realization dawned. “You don’t want to be seen with me Downtown. Is that it?”

  “Don’t be like that. You know I don’t judge. But you gotta admit, you’re persona non grata in the Allegheny Bar right now. I mean, you got into a bar fight. And everybody knows that Prescott’s threatened your firm with a lawsuit. It’s the scuttlebutt.”

  She squeaked out a response, just barely. “I’m a legal pariah?”

  “This too shall pass, kid. Trust me. It always blows over. I should know. But until it does, you should keep a low profile around town.” His voice was kind.

  But she was shaking with embarrassment and anger. She reminded herself she needed information from him. “Right, sure. Tex-Mex sounds great. What time works for you?”