Indispensable Party (Sasha McCandless Legal Thriller No. 4)

by Miller, Melissa F.

  Colton surveyed the dismal room and selected an ugly green armchair whose stuffing was exposed in several spots. Bricker sat across from him in an even uglier chair, with battered and scratched brown leather worn almost white in spots.

  Bricker unbuttoned his wool peacoat and tugged the knot out of his scarf, then leaned back in the chair. He got right to business, a trait Colton shared and appreciated.

  “Do you have it?” Bricker asked.

  “Yes.”

  “How much?”

  Colton also appreciated the other man’s economy with words. Although Bricker had insisted the dive bar was a safe spot, Colton saw no reason to run any unnecessary risks: he’d seen “Casino.”

  “The price we previously agreed to,” Colton said, cocking his head to the side and narrowing his eyes.

  Bricker threw his hands up in a gesture that said he meant no harm. “Of course. I just wanted to confirm you aren’t interested in the trade I proposed.”

  Colton snickered. The trade. This pseudo-officer idiot had actually proposed bartering him doses of Serumceutical’s vaccine for a vial of the virus. It had amused him at the time, but he wasn’t interested in going over this again. He shook his head no.

  “Suit yourself.” Bricker stood and crossed the small room. He opened a cheap plywood closet to reveal a large fireproof floor safe. He crouched and shielded the keypad from Colton’s view while he keyed in the combination. He swung the door open and removed a stack of silver bricks. He hefted them and dropped them heavily at Colton’s feet.

  “Do you have a bag or something? They’re heavy,” he said.

  Colton reached into his pocket and unfolded a reusable cloth shopping tote. He shook the creases out of the fabric and piled the silver inside. Bricker watched him, his mouth curled in mild amusement.

  Colton didn’t care. He would look out of place trudging around his luxury building with a duffle bag or rucksack. He’d blend right in with a Trader Joe’s bag. Even a heavy one. He lifted the bag by the handles, testing the bottom. It would hold. He let the bag fall to the floor with a thud and reached into his breast pocket.

  He removed one vial, which he’d wrapped in a small rectangle of bubble wrap, and held it out to Bricker.

  “You remember the terms of our deal, I trust?”

  Bricker took the vial gingerly and unwrapped it. He turned it over in his hand, watching the thick liquid roll around inside. Colton suspected he was marveling that something so small could hold so much death.

  Bricker met his eyes. “Yes. I told you, your timetable isn’t a problem. Our people are getting vaccinated now. We won’t have full immunity until Tuesday, at the earliest. And the families, probably not until Wednesday or Thursday—”

  Colton cut him off. “I don’t care about the details. Just remember. Don’t release it any earlier than Thursday morning. Beyond that, do what you like.”

  Bricker pressed his lips together in a white line but said nothing. Colton imagined he wasn’t used to taking orders. Tough.

  Colton put on his coat. He hefted his Trader Joe’s bag and nodded to Bricker. Then he opened the door and walked straight through the bar and out into the night without looking back.

  CHAPTER 12

  Sasha ignored Connelly’s grumbling and pulled on her winter running tights. As she stuck her head through the opening of her SmartWool base layer, she saw him dig his own running clothes out of his duffle bag, despite the steady stream of mumbling he kept up.

  She turned away so he wouldn’t see her smile. Yes, it was nearly midnight. Yes, they’d had an emotionally draining, mentally exhausting day. Yes, Tate had more or less jumped through the phone and demanded that she file a temporary restraining order against ViraGene immediately. All true.

  But she knew what they needed. A long, fast run in the raw December wind would take their breath away and clear their minds. And, afterward she’d promised him an equally long, hot steamy shower for two.

  He glared at her and jammed his wool cap down over his ears.

  She pulled up her hood and flashed him a smile.

  “Let’s do it,” she said and headed for the door. He trailed her down the corridor to the stairwell, down the stairs, and through the lobby. She waved a gloved hand at the security guard lazing near the Christmas tree and pushed the vestibule door open into the gale.

  “Jeez,” Connelly complained, the minute they hit the pavement.

  It was cold. But Sasha had a destination in mind that would silence all his complaints.

  She headed toward Penn Avenue. He fell into step beside her, and they ran in silence. Their shoes slapped out a rhythm in the quiet night.

  The storefronts were dark, and traffic was light. Sasha let her mind wander as they passed the Bloomfield Bridge, ran through the burgeoning arts district and entered the Strip District, headed toward downtown.

  The call with the board of directors had gone as well as they could have expected. The board had been of the unanimous opinion that Connelly should share all the information they had with the task force and that Sasha should file an emergency temporary restraining order against ViraGene. Tate—who, Sasha was certain, had been cozily sitting in front of a roaring après-ski fire—had, without consulting his outside counsel, promised the papers would be filed electronically within twenty-four hours.

  Sasha and Naya had flown into action after the call, leaving Connelly to set up the meeting with the task force and then wander around Shadyside brooding. But the temporary restraining order was in good shape, if Sasha said so herself.

  She and Naya were like an old married couple, anticipating what the other needed and balancing each other’s strengths and weaknesses. Sasha had concentrated on telling a compelling story through the brief, confident that Naya was lining up the factual support she’d need for each legal point.

  By eleven that night, they’d had a work product they were happy with, and Sasha had emailed it to Oliver Tate for his review and comments. She was tired, but it was a satisfied sort of tired that came from pulling out all the stops to meet a deadline. She could tell from the faint smile on Naya’s face that she shared the same feeling.

  They’d walked Naya to her car and extracted a promise that she’d call to let them know she made it home safely. Then, they’d headed back to Sasha’s place. Connelly had been preoccupied, quiet. His forehead was furrowed with anxiety, and his eyes were distant and worried.

  She knew he was picturing a hellscape caused by the release of the Doomsday virus. So she’d decided to do something to drive the images of death and despair from his mind. The run was only the first part of her plan.

  When they reached the end of Smallman Street, they hung a left. They jogged past the dark, utilitarian Greyhound station that sat hunched in the shadow of Union Station. Sasha slowed her pace to take in the sight of the grand old train station with its spectacular rotunda and sweeping arches. Beside her, Connelly slowed as well.

  She jogged across the busway to Grant Street and stopped short at the US Steel Plaza. The second part of her plan loomed in front of them. Long stairs led to a sixty-four-foot wide, forty-two-foot high stable: the Pittsburgh Crèche.

  The crèche filled her heart with a sense of wonder and faith in humanity every time she saw it. Judging by the amazement splashed across Connelly’s face it had the same effect on him.

  “What in the world?” he asked.

  “It’s the only authorized replica of the Vatican’s crèche. The original is on display at St. Peter’s Square in Rome. You’re looking at an exact duplicate.”

  The crèche filled a good portion of the plaza in front of the USX Tower. The two dozen figures were larger than life-sized and intricately crafted. At a glance, the people and the animals inside the house-sized stable seemed to breathe and move. Soft lighting bathed the nativity in an ethereal glow.

  “Wow,” he managed.

  She just nodded. It was impossible to feel overwhelmed or defeated in the face of such painstaking artistr
y. She loved to come to the plaza late at night, when the choral groups and lunchtime visitors were long gone, and soak in the manger scene’s quiet beauty.

  Connelly finally turned to her and said, “Thank you. For bringing me here. For this.”

  She let a slow smile spread across her lips. “You’re welcome. It’s going to be okay, Connelly. It really is.”

  He looked back at the crèche before answering. “I hope so.”

  She rubbed her gloved hands together and bounced on her heels. “It is. You’ll see. Now, what do you say to a race home?”

  She took off, sprinting down Grant Street before he could answer.

  Sunday

  CHAPTER 13

  Sasha was stretching in the living room, when her Blackberry buzzed to let her know Tate had sent along his comments to the brief. She hurried to silence the phone before it woke Connelly, and then grabbed a travel mug of coffee and headed to the office to finalize the temporary restraining order and papers in support.

  Naya, not a morning person under any circumstances, growled a greeting when Sasha walked past her open door.

  “Morning, sunshine,” Sasha said in response to what she believed was a muttered expletive.

  “If you say so, Mac.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  Sasha’s mood was light and optimistic. She’d paged through Tate’s changes on the Blackberry; they were minor. There was no reason they wouldn’t be able to make the revisions and get the papers filed electronically well before Naya’s pageant rehearsal.

  Naya exhaled, frustrated. “Nothing. Sorry. I’ve just been wrestling with this PDF/A thingy that the federal district court in D.C. requires for e-filing the exhibits. It’s a pain in the rear.”

  Sasha walked into the small, neat office and came around to peer over Naya’s shoulder at the monitor.

  “Are we screwed?”

  Naya twisted in her seat to glare at her boss.

  “Not if you back off and leave me alone. Go make Tate’s changes to the brief. I’ll figure this out.”

  Sasha raised her hands in surrender and backed out of Naya’s space. In her own office, she booted up her laptop and cranked the Christmas carols at top volume.

  She had to admit Tate’s changes strengthened the papers. Reading through the arguments, she was convinced the court would grant the temporary restraining order. She found herself whistling “Walking in a Winter Wonderland” while her fingers flew over the keys. In fact, it was so strong that she decided to file it under Rule 65(b).

  The federal rules governing civil procedure allowed a court to grant a ten-day temporary restraining order without first providing notice to the defendant under certain circumstances. In practice, the circumstances that justified issuance of an ex parte order were rare. The plaintiff had to show that it would suffer an immediate and irreparable loss before the court could hear the defendant’s side of the story. Ordinarily, Sasha would have counseled her client to provide notice, but given the importance of the vaccine contract to national security concerns, she’d agreed with Connelly and Tate that if they could put together compelling papers, they should seek the ex parte order.

  She nodded, satisfied that they had the goods to justify it. All she’d need was for Connelly to verify the complaint. After their run and the crèche visit the previous night, they’d agreed he’d stop by the office before lunchtime.

  She checked the time. She was done—with time for a beverage and some chitchat. She e-mailed the file to Naya and shut down her laptop, then wandered across the hall to harass her legal assistant into grabbing a cup of coffee at the corner table at Jake’s on the first floor of the building.

  Naya put up a halfhearted fight, but the truth was, all they really needed was Connelly’s signature, and then they could file the temporary restraining order. The tidy stacks of papers lining their desks and unread emails filling their inboxes could wait until Monday.

  There was no reason they couldn’t while away half an hour or so with conversation and Jake’s winter blend—a dark, spicy full-bodied roast. Naya closed her browser and followed Sasha down the stairs to the coffee shop. Instrumental jazz versions of Christmas songs played to the mostly empty room.

  At the counter, Sasha tried to wave off the dark chocolate caramel brownie that Kathryn forced on her.

  “Jake’s orders,” Kathryn insisted. “He said you’re getting too skinny again now that Leo’s not cooking for you.”

  Sasha rolled her eyes and grabbed two forks from the silverware bin.

  “You’re sharing this with me,” she informed Naya as they wove their way into the table they favored, jammed in between the bookcase and the window.

  “Oh, yeah, twist my arm, Mac,” Naya deadpanned.

  They settled into their table and dug their forks into the dense treat while their steaming mugs of coffee cooled to a drinkable temperature. Sasha watched through the window as shoppers hurried through the cold to get from one boutique storefront to the next in the faint late morning light.

  She turned to Naya, about to ask about her church’s pageant, when Naya kicked her under the table and turned to nod meaningfully toward the table to their right.

  Sasha smiled. She and Naya both loved to people watch. When they’d worked at Prescott & Talbott, they had both traveled extensively, working on cases that were pending in jurisdictions scattered throughout the country. Whenever they were assigned to a trial team together, they’d passed countless hours sitting in mediocre restaurants and swinging night spots watching the natives.

  And, now—right under their noses, in the coffee shop in their building—they’d been given the gift of a couple having an awkward blind date just one table away. Sasha leaned back and picked up her coffee as she appraised the pair. Naya, whose back was to the couple, scooted her chair over next to Sasha’s under the guise of sharing the brownie, so she, too, could have an unimpeded view of the date unfolding at the next table.

  Both the man and the women were probably in their early forties. The woman was tall and thin with thick, copper-colored hair that sprang back from her face in a tangle of curls. She sat facing Sasha. When she spoke, she gestured broadly with her hands. She had an eager, hopeful smile pasted on her face. The man looked kind. From what Sasha could see, he had a boyish face and most of his hair.

  The blind nature of their date was obvious from the halting, biographical questions the two lobbed back and forth. Sasha learned that she was a labor and employment attorney employed by the City of Pittsburgh. He was an architect. They were both divorced. He had a seven-year-old daughter. She had two sons, four and two years of age. She was a Pittsburgher, born and raised; he’d moved to the city with his ex-wife and didn’t seem to be impressed by its many hidden treasures.

  For the first few moments, Sasha thought the two might be a good match, but then Naya’s right eyebrow flew up her forehead as if it had wings.

  “What?” Sasha asked. Her mind had wandered to Connelly briefly, and she must have missed something.

  “Just listen to this jagoff,” Naya muttered, stabbing at the brownie.

  Sasha leaned forward to hear what he was saying.

  “So, you have no hobbies, no outside interests? Nothing at all?” he said in a disbelieving, disapproving voice.

  The woman smiled even more broadly and tried to explain, speaking quickly and gesturing all over the place, nearly tipping over her mocha. “I work really long hours, and that keeps me away from the boys a lot. When I have free time, I want to spend it with Henry and Charlie. I feel like I miss so much as it is.”

  He shook his head, dissatisfied with her answer. “But what about the weekends when they’re with your ex-husband? Why don’t you take a pottery class or take up a sport or something to fill that time?” he demanded.

  Sure, Sasha thought, and the laundry, cleaning, grocery shopping, and all the other attendant tasks involved in raising two small children would just magically take care of themselves.

  The woman fl
icked her eyes away from him and caught Sasha’s gaze. Sasha saw a hint of exasperation before she looked away, so she was hopeful the woman would put him in his place.

  Instead, she murmured, “I guess I could use that time differently.”

  He straightened in his chair and launched into a speech about his horseback riding class, his card club, and his judo class.

  Sasha rolled her eyes at Naya, who whispered, “Bet you could whip his judo-loving hiney.”

  Sasha swallowed a giggle and took a quick sip of coffee to hide the laughter. She bet Naya was right.

  The Renaissance man hit the woman with his follow up question, “Don’t you worry that by having your identity so wrapped up in being a lawyer, you run the risk of being combative and unpleasant?”

  Sasha and Naya waited for the woman to unload on him, but she took her time answering. Finally, she said, “Well, I don’t just identify as a lawyer; in fact, I think I principally see myself as a mother.” The wide smile stayed fixed in place.

  But that, apparently, was no better an answer. “Please, don’t tell me you’re one of those adults who claims to enjoy crawling around on the floor stacking blocks and racing toy cars around. My ex always maintained she enjoyed that stuff. Let’s be honest, here. Child’s play is fun for children, not grownups. I mean, children are inherently selfish. Take Emma, my daughter. She always wants me to do things she’s interested in, never what I want to do. She’ll ask me if I want to play with Legos. Of course, I don’t want to play with Legos. But I will occasionally do it so that she can get the interaction that she seems to want. I have a clock running in my head, though, so that I do it for the minimum amount of time that I have to in order to check that box.”

  Naya snorted, and the woman looked at their table. Sasha saw a sadness and a resignation in her eyes, as if she knew the architect lacked a soul, but her options were sufficiently limited that she was willing to settle for this loser.

  Sasha wanted to shout at her. Presumably, he was on his very best behavior, trying to make a good impression. This display was as good as it was going to get. What was this woman thinking? How could she ignore the red flags that were popping up over his head?