Imminent Peril

by Melissa F. Miller

  “Naya’s on her way,” Will said when he returned to the line.

  After a brief silence, which Sasha made no effort to fill with chitchat, she heard Naya’s voice.

  “Hey, Mac.”

  “Hi,” she responded.

  “Okay, the gang’s all here. Naya has a legal pad to take notes; my door’s closed; we’re all yours,” Will said in a cheerful voice.

  “So, Naya, as I told Will, I'm calling as your client with regard to Steve Harold's draft complaint,” Sasha tried to ignore the weirdness she felt talking to her two closest colleagues and good friends this way. “Have you heard anything more from Prescott & Talbott?”

  Will fielded the question. “No. I did reach out to Kevin Marcus yesterday afternoon. I left him a message explaining that we've begun working up the case file and we’ve uncovered some interesting facts. I encouraged him to rethink their complaint. So far, he hasn't responded. I’m sure he’s got to huddle with whichever associate is actually doing the work on this matter first.”

  “I’d like to turn up the heat,” Sasha said.

  “How do you mean?” Naya asked.

  “Knowing what we now know about Mr. Harold’s history, I’d like you to draft a counterclaim.”

  “On what theory?”

  Sasha smiled to herself. “You’re the lawyers. Come up with one.”

  “Come on, Mac.” Naya laughed.

  “I don’t know. Pick one—defamation; interference with contractual relationship; fraud? But this can’t stand. It’s impacting my reputation and the firm’s financial situation.”

  “Well, maybe …” Will mused. “We’ll have to look at the case law.”

  “That’s fine. I don’t want to file something specious, obviously. But I also don't want to treat this Harold guy—or Prescott & Talbott, for that matter—with kid gloves. We all know the true purpose of their draft complaint is to cow me. I'm not going to be cowed. So you can tell Marcus I’m not interested in settling. Tell him if they want to file, file. And then tell him to be on the lookout for our counterclaim. But I’m not going to sit here and let their ridiculous complaint hang over me like a cloud.”

  Will began to hem and haw.

  Naya piped up. “What if we keep our powder dry on the counterclaim and tell them we’re going to seek a motion for pre-complaint discovery?”

  Sasha considered that for a moment. “That’s kind of brilliant. We’d end up positioning ourselves as the plaintiff, and we wouldn’t have to stretch to come up with a claim that might not be solid. But we could still compel answers to interrogatories and notice Harold’s deposition. What do you think, Will?”

  “Well, while it's not my nature to rattle a hornet’s nest, I do understand that you're impatient and frustrated. And there is merit to holding Prescott's feet to the fire. Yes, Naya’s suggestion is a good compromise. I’ll call Marcus again and tell him they have until close of business Monday to affirmatively state that they are not going to file or we’ll move for pre-complaint discovery. The only danger is that we’ll force their hand, and they’ll file this afternoon rather than admit they were bluffing.”

  “I’m willing to risk it,” Sasha said. “That complaint’s so flimsy that even without evidence of Steve Harold’s fraud scams it won’t survive a demurrer.”

  “Very good,” Will said. He added, “I know this is difficult for you. It’s not easy for us either.”

  “I know.” She felt shaky and emotional, as if she might start to cry. She took a breath and plowed ahead, “While I have you both on the phone, I want to ask you to reconsider going to Recreation Group with my concerns about Playtime Toys.”

  “Does this mean you found Prachi Agarwal?” Will asked.

  “No. She’s still missing. The police did a welfare check and found a note and some other evidence at her apartment that’s led them to open a criminal investigation,” Sasha said in a small, tight voice.

  “What kind of criminal investigation?” Naya asked.

  “I don't know the details. But I think she’s presumed dead.”

  “Dead?” Will echoed.

  “Please don't say anything about that to Recreation Group. I don’t know how much the people at Playtime Toys know, and I don’t want it to get back to them through us. But I do think that, in light of the police investigation, we can't sit on the information she shared any longer.”

  “Ah, let me think about this,” Will said.

  “Think fast,” she told him.

  27

  As a rule, the crisis management consultant wasn’t fond of lunch meetings. And he generally sought to avoid mid-price chain restaurants—especially those that embraced a theme. But when a client sounded as close to the edge as Charles Merriman sounded, he made all sorts of exceptions. So, he settled into the pleather booth and perused the colorful vinyl menu. What in the devil was a cod burger?

  He waved away the waitress, who appeared to be dressed as a pirate’s wench, explaining, “I’m waiting for someone.” Then he checked his watch.

  When he looked up, Merriman was sliding into the booth across from him. “Dr. Agarwal’s been missing for four days,” he said without preamble.

  “Yes, I suppose she has.” The consultant sincerely hoped that little announcement wasn’t why he’d been dragged to Salty Sal’s Seaside Fish Shack, which was not even remotely seaside, situated as it was in a suburban strip mall. The most he could say to commend it was that it was more than twenty miles from Playtime Toys’ office building, so they were unlikely to be spotted by any employees out on a lunch break.

  Merriman glanced furtively around the mostly empty restaurant and leaned over the table. “Apparently someone called the police and asked them to check on her. They went to her apartment this morning. Then they showed up at the office, asking a lot of questions.” His voice quavered.

  “Did you mention the products she stole?”

  “Of course not. I can’t risk drawing attention to that issue. I did instruct our human resources director to show the police her personnel records, including the write-up and referral to anger management. I strongly suggested that she was emotionally unbalanced. But I can’t have law enforcement poking around our offices. Not now. What do I do?” He was nearly wailing.

  “The first thing you need to do is to pull yourself together.”

  “Yes, right.” The man straightened his spine.

  “Good. Now, I imagine that the police would have found the same note that I saw in her apartment. I’m sure they’re in the process of coming to the regrettable conclusion that she's taken her own life. Of course they need to investigate. It was smart to introduce the idea that she wasn’t in a good place mentally. You just need to be patient. And don’t panic.” He spoke in the soothing tone one would use to calm a frightened child.

  The CEO exhaled. “Have you had any luck locating Dr. Agarwal?” he asked hopefully.

  “No, I don’t have the foggiest idea where she could be,” he answered truthfully.

  Merriman gasped. “I was just struck by a thought. What if the police find your fingerprints in her apartment?”

  He arched his eyebrow and pinned the man with a dour look. “They won't.”

  The pirate wench waitress returned and they ordered a couple fish sandwiches and iced teas.

  After she departed with their orders, Merriman gave him an embarrassed smile. “I feel silly dragging you out here. I just … I suppose I panicked.”

  “It’s understandable,” the consultant assured him. “I wouldn’t expect you to know how to handle a visit from the police. Why would you?”

  When he returned to his hotel room after choking down his fried fish sandwich and sending Merriman on his way with some final words of encouragement, it was already mid-afternoon. He had one final call to make.

  He dialed Kevin Marcus’s line at Prescott & Talbott.

  “Mr. Marcus’s office. May I help you?”

  “I need to speak to Kevin.”

  “And who may I sa
y is calling?” the secretary responded in the same silky voice she’d used to answer.

  “I’m calling regarding the Steve Harold matter against Sasha McCandless.”

  “Mr. Harold?”

  “No, this isn’t Mr. Harold. I’m financing the litigation. And I need to speak to Marcus. Now.”

  “Yes, sir. One moment, sir.” The secretary morphed from officious gatekeeper into flustered assistant in a flash.

  Kevin Marcus’s voice boomed on the other end of the line. “Why is my secretary on the verge of tears?”

  Only one of his former fraternity brothers could get away with speaking to him that way. “Sheesh, what a delicate flower,” he countered. “Listen, I need you to pull the plug on the complaint.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Why does it matter? Just do it. Call Will Volmer and tell him your client is dropping the claim against Sasha McCandless-Connelly.”

  “It's not that easy,” Kevin protested.

  “Sure it is. It’s exactly that easy.”

  “Wrong. And as a matter of fact, I heard from Volmer just this morning, calling your bluff. I have until close of business on Monday to file or they’re going to seek pre-complaint discovery. I can’t tell them now that we’re not going to sue her. It’ll make you look weak.”

  “It won’t make me look any way. It might make you or Harold look weak, but that’s not my problem.”

  He listened as Kevin sputtered wordlessly for a moment. Then the lawyer found his voice. “I'm urging you to reconsider.”

  “Aren’t you the one who told me the claim was a piece of crap?”

  “I believe what I said was that it lacks merit and is unlikely to survive a demurrer, which is the state court equivalent of a motion to dismiss.”

  “Right. And that sounds like lawyer for ‘it's a piece of crap.’”

  Kevin laughed mirthlessly. “Be that as it may. There's no guarantee that withdrawing Harold's claim means they won’t pursue claims against him. The genie’s out of the bottle, so to speak. And if they are going to file a lawsuit against him, it's better to have ours teed up and ready to go. Playing offense is always easier than playing defense.”

  “You’re mixing your sports metaphors,” he noted. “Listen, Kevin, I don't actually care if they sue Steve Harold. He's judgment-proof anyway. But I’m paying the bills, and I'm instructing you to shut this down.”

  After a long silence, Kevin said, “As you wish. I'll let Volmer know and then close out the file. Shall I send a final invoice to your banker in the Cay Carroway?”

  “Yes, thanks.”

  “You know, it’s been years since I’ve seen you. You never come to the reunions. If you’re ever in Pittsburgh, we should—”

  “I have no plans to come to town,” he said as he stared down at Pittsburgh’s iconic Point State Park Fountain from his wall-sized window. He dropped his cell phone as if it were crawling with bugs and dug through his wicker basket for a skein of yarn and his needles. He’d finished the lap blanket but he needed to do something with his hands.

  28

  Sasha had just finished drying her hair and was twisting it into a loose up-do when the doorbell rang.

  “I’ll get it,” Connelly called up the stairs.

  A moment later she heard Jordana enter the living room and greet the kids in a flurry of laughter. They loved it when Jordana babysat. She had an innate knack for art projects, and Sasha and Connelly invariably came home to a new creation and a house that looked like a glittery glue bomb had gone off.

  Sasha fastened her bracelet around her wrist, grabbed her clutch from the dresser, and trotted down the stairs.

  “Hi, Jordana. Could you zip me up?” she said, turning to Connelly as she walked into the living room.

  His warm hand pressed against her bare upper back and she shivered. He slowly pulled up the zipper and kissed her lightly on the nape of her neck.

  “You’re all set,” he murmured against her skin.

  Fiona looked up, and her eyes grew wide. “Mommy, you look like a princess!” she exclaimed in an awestruck tone.

  Sasha laughed. “Thanks, honey.” she twirled and the white skirt of her black and white cocktail dress flared out around her knees.

  “Pretty Mommy,” Finn agreed, fluttering his eyelashes.

  “Aw, thanks.” Sasha crouched on the floor and kissed both sweet faces. “Have fun with Jordana and be really, really good.”

  Jordana grinned broadly. “I have this great mosaic tile project we can do. Don’t worry, they're not real tiles. We’ll rip up colored tissue paper and make a glue paste. It’ll be awesome.”

  “Sounds great.” Sasha was already envisioning spending an hour or so pulling little squares of sticky tissue paper off her kitchen floor.

  She used the mirror over the fireplace mantle to check her reflection while she swiped a cranberry lipstick over her lips. She gave each of the twins a final lipsticked kiss, leaving a mark on each of their faces. They giggled and pointed at each other. Sasha’s mother used to leave a bright red lip print on Sasha’s cheek and each of her brothers’ cheeks on the rare nights her parents went out. She smiled at the memory and dropped the lipstick and her cell phone into her small purse.

  “Do you have any questions before we go?” she asked Jordana, her hand already on the doorknob.

  “Nope. Mr. Connelly filled me in. I'll make sure Mocha gets to go out in the yard and Java gets his ear drops. The kids and I will be fine. You guys have fun.” She gave them a big smile.

  Connelly kissed the tops of the twins’ heads then held the door open for Sasha.

  “It’s a nice night. Why don’t we walk over to Chris and Daniel’s?” he asked.

  “Definitely,” she said. She linked her arm through his as they strolled down their front stairs to the sidewalk.

  After they’d walked about a half a block, she said, “Hey, did your police officer friend happen to say whether they found anything weird at Prachi’s house?”

  “She didn’t mention anything, but if there was anything out of place, they’d have found it. But if they swept the apartment, they would have done a thorough job—inside the toilet tank, the ductwork, every imaginable space. Why? What are you thinking?”

  “I’m thinking that she would have hid whatever it was she wanted to retest at home.”

  “Why?”

  “Because she was on thin ice at work and she knew it. Better to sneak the thing out than have someone find it in her desk. Can you just call and ask Officer Minet if they found any toys or anything?”

  “You’re a lousy date,” he informed her. But he pulled his cell phone from his pocket and placed the call.

  She listened while he was connected to the officer and asked the question. She could hear the officer’s peal of surprised laughter through the phone. She waited impatiently while Connelly yapped at the woman.

  Finally, he ended the call and turned to her. “Well, you were right. They found three packages of kids’ bathtub crayons in the oven, which they thought was odd since Prachi Agarwal is childless and has no bathtub, just a glass block shower stall. And also because they were in the oven.”

  “The oven is a classic storage spot for people who don’t cook. It’s just a big, empty rack,” she informed him. “File it away for future reference.”

  “If you say so.”

  “What will they do with the crayons? Will they keep them as evidence?”

  “Sure.”

  “Chain of custody, the whole deal?”

  “Well, yeah. Why?”

  “Because I might need them.”

  He looked at her for a moment with one of his typical unreadable Connelly expressions. Then he said, “Oh, there’s been one other development. Officer Minet said she was just getting ready to call me. The canvas turned up a resident who was on his way back into the building after walking his dog at lunchtime the day Prachi disappeared. He ran into a white guy leaving the building. The guy with the dog said this guy seemed out
of place.”

  “Since when is a white guy out of place in Bloomfield?” she wanted to know.

  “This white guy was. His suit was a little too expensive; he looked a bit too corporate. He was just off enough that the dog walker noticed him.”

  “So now what?”

  “They've got the resident working with a sketch artist. The police have a lead. You found out about the crayons. Now can we enjoy our date night?” He stuck the phone in his pocket and interlocked his fingers through hers.

  “Not yet. I have a call to make.”

  He sighed while she dialed Mickey Collins’s cell phone number. When he answered, she could tell he was at a bar or restaurant, someplace noisy, with loud conversation and louder music.

  “What’s up, Sasha?” he shouted.

  “I don’t want to interrupt your post-trial celebration,” she told him. “I just have one question.”

  “Shoot.”

  “The product Prachi Agarwal was worried about—was it crayons? The police found crayons in her apartment.”

  Mickey paused. “Are you asking me why Prachi Agarwal had three packages of children’s bathtub crayons in her oven?”

  Sasha blinked. “What?”

  “You know who I ran into the other day? Judge Cook. He said to tell you he said hi.”

  What? How drunk was he? “Mickey—”

  “Good luck, kid.”

  Mickey ended the call. She thought for a moment. Mickey had obviously known all about the crayons. And he’d mentioned Judge Cook—the federal court judge who’d presided over the case where she and Mickey had held hands and jumped off the ethics bridge to prevent a crime. A shiver of excitement ran through her. He was confirming, without confirming, that the bathtub crayons were the product that Prachi was worried about. She was finally making some progress.

  Connelly was watching her. She bumped her hip into him playfully.

  “Now, we can enjoy our date night,” she told him.

  Sasha was listening to Bertie Steinfeld, Daniel's mother and Chris's mother-in-law, describe the cruise from which she and her husband Larry had just returned. Sasha's own personal experience with cruising hadn’t left her a fan, to put it mildly. But Bertie was beyond ecstatic, rapturous even.