Indispensable Party (Sasha McCandless Legal Thriller No. 4)

by Miller, Melissa F.

  Sasha was about to suggest he call Grace, when she saw a willowy blonde in a fitted leather trench coat running past the ambulance and down the drive toward them.

  “Here comes Grace,” she said, nudging Connelly, who was staring down at his phone.

  “Call Oliver,” he said as he opened his car door and stepped outside.

  She pressed the number for Tate’s ski chalet and urged the phone to ring. On the third ring, a female voice answered, formal and pleasant despite the very early hour.

  “Tate residence.”

  “Yes, I need to speak to Oliver. It’s urgent.”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am, Mr. Tate left yesterday evening,” the woman said.

  “Left?”

  “Yes, ma’am. He and the girls decided to cut their trip short.”

  “Why? Where did they go?”

  The woman’s tone took on a sharp edge. “I wouldn’t know. I take care of the property, not Mr. Tate’s social calendar.”

  “Of course. Sorry,” Sasha said, rushing to hang up and dial Tate’s cell phone number.

  It rang only once and then the call rolled over to his voicemail, which announced in a tinny electronic voice that his mailbox was full before disconnecting her.

  She stared down at the phone in impotent frustration for a few seconds. Then she shoved it in her bag and opened the passenger door.

  Later, she would remember that the next moments seemed to slow down. From her Krav Maga training she knew this perception was common in a crisis. The brain sped up, became hyper-alert, and analyzed as much information as possible as part of a survival mechanism.

  When she replayed the scene in her mind, Grace, Connelly, and the FBI SWAT team in their navy blue jumpsuits with their submachine guns pointed at the car all seemed to be moving with exaggerated slowness. For what seemed to be a very long time, Grace ran toward Connelly, waving her arms and yelling at the SWAT team.

  Connelly slowly raised his arms over his head. And a gun-toting FBI agent lowered a shoulder and plowed into Connelly, dropping him to the ground.

  Another agent wrapped his arms around Grace’s waist, holding her back.

  By the time Sasha stood outside the car and closed the passenger door with shaking hands, she was surrounded by three agents.

  “Down on your knees, ma’am!” the nearest of the three barked, pointing toward the ground with the muzzle of his weapon.

  Sasha dropped to the ground, her hands over head. Twenty feet away, Connelly was being hauled to his feet, with his hands shackled together behind his back. He twisted his neck to meet her eyes. They maintained the contact until the agent restraining Grace released her, and she came storming toward Sasha.

  “What’s wrong with you? She’s the company’s attorney!” Grace shouted, tugging on the arm of the agent who stood over Sasha, handcuffs out and ready.

  A dark-skinned man in a soft tan coat jogged over, stiff-legged with his hands in his pockets. As he approached, Sasha realized it was Anthony Washington, the Justice Department attorney who’d been at the task force meeting.

  “Stand down, stand down,” he said as he huffed to a stop, out of breath.

  “Sir, she was with the target. It’s procedure,” explained the agent whom Grace had been manhandling.

  “I understand, but Mr. Connelly’s in custody now. Ms. McCandless doesn’t pose a threat,” Washington said.

  “Sir, we haven’t searched her person or the vehicle,” the agent protested, flicking his eyes toward the cluster of suits that clumped around the sedans.

  “I’m not armed,” Sasha offered, rising to her feet slowly just in case anyone was trigger happy. She was pleased to hear that her voice sounded reasonable and calm despite the panicked fluttering of her heart in her chest.

  A look passed between Grace and Washington.

  “What?” Sasha demanded.

  Grace cleared her throat. “They aren’t looking for a weapon.”

  A stocky, prematurely gray-haired man broke off from the pack of supervisors near the cars and headed their way. Sasha recognized him from the meeting, too. He was the attorney with the longest title on his business card: Deputy Counsel with the FBI Office of General Counsel’s National Security Law Branch.

  “Mr. Hubert,” Sasha said, thankful for her seating chart cheat sheet and her fail-proof memory.

  Howard Hubert nodded at her. “Ms. McCandless.”

  Then he turned his attention to the agents. “Gentlemen, a word?”

  The trio followed him to a spot about five or six feet away and engaged in furious whispering.

  Sasha focused on Washington and Grace.

  “Is someone going to tell me what’s going on?”

  “The FBI received an anonymous call this morning. A male caller claimed there was a vial of the Doomsday virus in the top desk drawer of Serumceutical’s chief security officer. He disconnected the call without providing further details,” Washington said.

  “That’s insane! All this is over a crank call?” Sasha exploded.

  Grace shook her head and said in a quiet voice, “No. There was a vial in his desk.”

  Sasha looked from Grace to Washington, not sure she understood.

  “You found a vial of live virus in Connelly’s desk?”

  “The contents haven’t been tested yet, but, yes, it appears so,” Washington said.

  “Well, it’s obviously a set up!”

  “Sasha, believe me, I am with you, okay? I don’t for a moment believe Leo did this,” Grace said in a tone that was both placating and mournful.

  “Are you sure, Grace? You didn’t call to let him know what he was walking into,” Sasha turned on her.

  Washington stepped between Sasha and Grace.

  “We wouldn’t let her. You seem very sure that Mr. Connelly is being framed. Are you aware no one else has a key card that can access his office?” Washington asked.

  Sasha stared at Washington for what felt like a long time. Then she simply said, “He didn’t do this.”

  Hubert returned, flanked by SWAT team agents and trailed by a fresh-faced woman wearing a blue FBI windbreaker.

  “Ms. McCandless, this is Agent Nickels. With your consent, she’s going to perform a search of your person,” Hubert said, gesturing toward the woman, who flashed Sasha a reassuring smile.

  Sasha dug into the recesses of her memory for criminal law information that she’d long since relegated to the category of trivia. If the assembled law enforcement officers believed she had a weapon—and she could craft a compelling argument that a deadly virus was a weapon—they were entitled to pat her down over her clothes even if she objected.

  “You can pat down my clothing and inspect my bag,” Sasha offered, “but you’re insane if you think I’m consenting to a strip search.”

  The agents gave her sidelong glances as if she were a criminal for not merely agreeing to strip naked in a snowy field because they asked politely, but the two government lawyers shrugged. She was within her rights, and they knew it.

  Agent Nickels snapped on a pair of rubber gloves and stepped forward.

  “You don’t have a latex allergy, do you?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “Open your coat, please,” she said.

  Sasha unbuttoned her coat and gripped the lapels. She stretched out her arms and held it wide open, like she had wings.

  Nickels squatted in front of her and ran her hand along Sasha’s inner legs. She unzipped Sasha’s boots one after the other and felt along the lining, then she re-zippered them quickly. She stood and patted Sasha’s stomach and chest, as if maybe Sasha had a bottle of the flu virus stuffed into her bra. She motioned for Sasha to drop the coat, and Sasha let it fall and hang open. Nickles slipped her hands into both pockets.

  She turned to Hubert and said, “Ms. McCandless is clean.”

  Sasha gestured to the car. “Don’t you want to check my bag? It’s in the car.”

  The pat down had been cursory, at best. She sensed it h
ad been a compromise between the lawyers and the SWAT team, so that the agents didn’t lose face in front of a civilian.

  Nickel’s response confirmed that theory. As the female agent walked away, she said over her shoulder, “Let the jerkoffs do it. They’re itching to tear something apart.”

  Hubert put his hand up like he was a crossing guard, “I’ll look through Ms. McCandless’s bag. You gentlemen can get started on the search of the vehicle.”

  One of the agents trotted to the car and fetched Sasha’s pastel blue bag. He thrust it at Hubert wordlessly. The attorney opened it and peered inside. He didn’t move anything around or take anything out, just pawed through the papers, opened the zippered compartment that held her quilted change purse and her lipstick, and then handed the bag over to her.

  “Look, it’s obvious you know I don’t have anything to do with the theft of the virus. Please tell me you realize Leo doesn’t either,” she said.

  Washington stamped his dress shoes on the ground like he was trying to warm up his feet. Then he blew into his hands to warm them.

  Finally, he said, “Everyone who knows Mr. Connelly from his time at Homeland Security speaks well of him. But, as you know, he left under a cloud and with a bit of a reputation for being a cowboy. We have to run this down. There was a vial of germs in his desk that could wipe out the entire Eastern seaboard from Florida to Maine.”

  Sasha stared at him for a moment, formulating an argument and then realized it would be a waste of breathe to try to convince the assortment of law enforcement officers to release Connelly.

  She turned to Hubert. “I want to talk to him.”

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  Hubert wanted to give her two minutes. Washington pushed for five. In the end, Hank Richardson broke away from the group he was directing. He took her by the arm and walked her over to the car where they were holding Connelly, who sat with his head hung down and his eyes fixed on a point on the floor of the car.

  “You’ve got three minutes, okay?” Richardson told her.

  “Thank you.”

  He tapped on Connelly’s window, and the agent sitting behind the wheel buzzed it down. Connelly turned his head toward the window. Relief washed over his face when he saw Sasha.

  “Are you okay? You aren’t hurt, are you?”

  “I’m fine, Connelly. But you’re not,” she said, noting a purple bruise that was spreading across his high cheekbone under his left eye.

  Hank sucked in his breath. “Sorry, son. Want some ice?”

  Connelly tried to wave his hand, but his wrists were cuffed to a ring that had been mounted into the back of the front passenger seat. He grimaced, embarrassed.

  “I don’t need any ice, Hank. I need you to let me out of this car,” he said in a measured tone.

  “Leo, I got you three minutes to talk to your girlfriend. That’s all the time you’ve got. Don’t waste it yapping at me. I’m working on getting you out of this mess. Trust me,” Hank said.

  He turned and walked off.

  Sasha reached through the window and stroked Connelly’s cheek. “Does it hurt?”

  The agent in the driver’s seat looked back and said, “Ma’am, please don’t touch the subject.”

  The subject. Sasha could see that the words were like a knife to Connelly.

  “I’m fine. I didn’t do this,” he said.

  “Connelly, please, I know that.”

  He attempted a smile that faded into a tight twist of his lips.

  “These friendly civil servants inform me that, according to Grace, Tate placed me on immediate unpaid leave pending the outcome of the investigation.”

  “Forget about Tate. Listen to me, I’m going to call Will Volmer. He used to work for the U.S. Attorney, he’ll know someone who knows the best criminal defense attorneys down here. I’m going to find you an attorney you can trust. Just, promise me you won’t talk to these idiots without counsel present.”

  Sasha stared at him, willing him to understand how critical it was that he follow her advice.

  “Sasha, I didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “Connelly, do not talk to them. Don’t talk to anyone. Not even Hank. Promise me,” she enunciated each word, slow and firm.

  “Okay,” he said in apparent defeat.

  “Promise me,” she repeated.

  She felt the agent’s eyes drifting back to watch them and ignored the intrusion.

  After a pause, Connelly said, “I promise. Now you promise me something.”

  “What?”

  “Promise me you won’t get mixed up in this. Go back to Pittsburgh and catch up on your work. Take my car. After I get this cleared up, I’ll catch a flight out and meet up with you. I apparently have some unanticipated time off.”

  He finished with a hurt laugh that made Sasha want to find Tate and kneecap him.

  “I’m not leaving until we clear your name,” she protested.

  “Sasha, please. Someone is obviously out to get me. I do not want you to stick around and make yourself a target. I don’t need to worry about you. I’ll lawyer up, if you’ll go home.”

  They stared at each other for a moment.

  “Fine,” she relented.

  He smiled, a small smile, but it reached his eyes.

  She leaned through the open window and kissed him. She took her time and pretended not to hear the sputtering agent. Connelly’s mouth yielded to hers.

  “I love you,” she said in a low voice.

  The agent hit the button to raise the window and Sasha pulled her head back.

  She stood there, unwilling to break eye contact with Connelly—the only connection they had now—until Richardson came over and led her away from the car, back to the knot of government attorneys.

  While she’d been talking to Connelly, Bardman had joined the group. She scanned their faces—Bardman, Hubert, and Washington—but she wasn’t sure which of the attorneys she could trust. So she turned back to Richardson.

  “Leo maintains his innocence, which makes sense because he is innocent. That said, I’ve advised him to invoke his Fifth Amendment privilege against self-incrimination and to obtain an attorney. I’m going to make some calls to find counsel for him. I’d like to do it in relative warmth, if that’s okay with everyone.”

  “I’m sorry, Sasha, the building’s barricaded until we get a CDC team up here to take away the virus,” Richardson explained.

  Bardman interjected, “You’re free to go, though.”

  “Did you clear the car?” Sasha asked, addressing the question to Hubert.

  “Yes, the car was searched and found to be clean.”

  “Imagine that,” Sasha said.

  Washington shot her a look, which she ignored.

  “I’m taking the SUV,” she announced to no one in particular then waited for the push back. None came.

  “The keys are in the ignition,” Richardson told her.

  Before Sasha left, she scanned the scene for Grace but saw no sign of her.

  She adjusted the driver’s seat forward as far as it would go, checked her mirrors, and started the engine. Under the watchful eyes of a couple dozen federal agents, she executed a flawless three-point turn and drove away from the campus even though her brain was yelling at her not to leave Connelly and every muscle in her body tensed, yearning to go back to him.

  She would keep her promise and could only hope that he kept his.

  As soon as she turned onto the main business artery, she looked for a spot to pull over. But the snowplows had been through. The parking lanes were buried under piles of snow.

  She zipped across the Beltway and merged onto Interstate 270, grateful for the light traffic, no doubt thanks to all the weather-related cancellations.

  Once she had the SUV up to highway speed, she hooked her phone into the vehicle’s Bluetooth system and told it to call Will Volmer.

  Will had moved from the prosecutor’s office to run the white collar criminal practice at Prescott & Talbott, Sasha’s former emp
loyer and one of Pittsburgh’s most prominent law firms. In the aftermath of the Lady Lawyer Killers case, he’d been asked to take over the management of the firm.

  He was a skilled advocate, an ethical and upstanding lawyer, and a genuinely kind person. It was a trifecta of qualities possessed by only a handful of Prescott’s eight hundred attorneys.

  “Good morning. Mr. Volmer’s office,” Caroline Masters, Will’s capable assistant said in a polished voice.

  Sasha hesitated. Despite her warm feelings for Will and Caroline, Sasha’d spent the past two months studiously avoiding everyone and anyone who had even a tenuous connection to the Lady Lawyer Killers case. And Will and Caroline had been deeply enmeshed in the case and the ensuing scandal.

  “Hello? You’ve reached Will Volmer’s office, may I help you?” Caroline said.

  Sasha took a centering breath and said, “Sorry. Hi, Caroline, it’s Sasha.”

  The older woman’s pleasure was immediate and real. “Sasha, it’s so good to hear from you. Things are well, I hope?”

  Sasha plowed ahead. “Actually, Caroline, I’m in a bit of jam. I need to talk to Will, urgently. I’m not trying to be rude, and I would love to catch up. I know I owe you several phone calls.”

  “Yes, you do,” Caroline chided her. Then, she said, “But, I forgive you. Will’s in a meeting, but I know he’ll interrupt it for you. Hold the line, and I’ll put you through. It may take a few moments for him to clear everyone out of his office, okay?”

  “Yes, that’s fine. And, thank you so much,” Sasha said, suddenly feeling ashamed of herself for having brushed off Caroline’s social overtures.

  She resolved to invite Caroline to lunch—just as soon as she got her boyfriend sprung from federal custody and tracked down her wayward private investigator, and provided they weren’t all casualties of a pandemic.

  “Sasha, Caroline tells me you have a problem,” Will’s deep, thoughtful voice came across the line. “How can I help?”

  Sasha glanced at the speedometer. She’d accelerated without realizing it. She was now pushing eighty miles an hour and riding the bumper of a minivan. She signaled to move into the left lane then swung past the minivan, while she tried to gather her thoughts to explain enough to Will to make sure he understood the gravity of Connelly’s situation without divulging the information that Connelly had learned confidentially.