by T M Heron
“You don’t look pleased, Jacky.” Mother’s soft voice penetrates my internal monologue. “We thought you’d love to. We’ll see even more of you. It’ll be fun.”
I blink. “I’m sorry?”
“For you to be on the board.”
“The board?”
“Of Ray Investments. As a director.”
“Well, yes, of course I’m pleased. Delighted. Couldn’t be happier.”
At first glance, being on the board is yet another dream come true. It’s prestigious. It’s recognition. It further cements me as a partner at Bakers worth reckoning with, regardless that I’m new. But more and more these days the fruition of my dreams seems to be accompanied by universal caveats.
Helena sniggers. No one but me hears it. It takes all my self-control not to react.
“Jacky?” It’s Mother again. Disappointed at my lack of excitement. She’s doing her best to make my wishes reality and it must be so unrewarding for her.
Helena laughs out loud this time. I can’t believe no one else can hear her. When I look at her, I see contempt and accusation in her eyes. She knows. She knows about Jo. I want to wheel her outside, push her over the cliff and watch the sea swallow her up. Only there can’t be any more of this sort of shit happening around me. Plus it would upset our mother.
25
“Have you heard?” Anthony Hartman’s voice sounds grainy. He’s calling from his house on Waiheke Island.
“Only just. Explains why she hasn’t been at work,” I say. I realize I’m speaking loudly because I can hardly hear him.
“You’ll be able to get your new EA.”
“I will.” I’ve been contemplating that thought with glee all of Monday.
“How did you hear?” I ask.
“Got a call from Phillip.”
Oh to have that hotline.
“I’m on my way back now. Finch will handle it in the meantime.”
No sooner do I hang up than Finch is at my door. “Jo Johnson was killed over the weekend,” he says. It sounds like an accusation.
“Guess the husband finally popped. Don’t expect me to lose any sleep over it,” I reply, pretending to be reading something off my laptop. “I’ll need a new EA.”
“Throat cut,” says Finch.
“Do you have to be so gruesome?”
Much to my satisfaction Finch makes an impatient gesture. I look up at him, standing there like a weasel, resplendent in his shapeless grey suit.
“You were both here Saturday.”
“Half the firm was here. What’s your point?”
“It doesn’t look good.”
“I’m sorry it inconveniences you,” I say snidely. “But at least your EA is intact.”
Then I tire completely of humoring him and actually do start reading the report on my laptop and when I look up ten minutes later he’s gone.
◆◆◆
In the wake of Jo’s murder the four hundred and fifty-people comprising Bakers have divided into four groups. The largest group are busy ambitious lawyers who don’t know or care about Jo. They are briefly intrigued, but too wrapped up in their hectic schedules and own self-importance to give a damn.
The second group is Administration. Mainly women. Mainly women who have spent their entire careers at Bakers backstabbing Jo and gossiping about her. Post-mortem their affection for Jo has reached fever pitch, and many are tearful and unable to concentrate on work. Some have the added excitement of being regarded as close colleagues of Jo’s and are anticipating they may be interviewed by the police in this context.
Being the benevolent firm that we are, no one can demand an end to this nonsense, so productivity in some areas is going to be low. Some EAs are expressing concerns for their own safety and whining about more security for staff who have to work late. “It didn’t happen here!” I want to scream at them.
The third group is the Corporate Division, of which I’m a part. Unlike the rest of Bakers these people knew Jo because they worked with her. It may just be projection on my part, but no one seems overly agitated.
The fourth group consists of those partners and management directly responsible for running the firm and managing the face Bakers presents to the public. It is in this capacity that I am called into a meeting towards the end of the day with Anthony Hartman and Bernadette Duncan.
“It was a rough flight back,” says Anthony. Anthony owns a small plane. I wonder if I should get my pilot’s license now I’m going to be loaded. I could buy a place on Waiheke as well.
Anthony looks neither upset nor flustered. My admiration for him continues to grow.
“Have we contacted the husband? How’s he coping?”
“He’s the one who found her,” says Bernadette. “He returned from a hunting trip yesterday.”
Anthony makes a note on the list in front of him. “Children?”
“They have a daughter,” says Bernadette. “She goes to the same school as your Gabriel.”
“So she does.”
“I just can’t believe it. I’m stunned,” says Bernadette.
I roll my eyes and resist the urge to slap her. She’s PR, she’s meant to be superficial.
“I only met her the other week when I was organizing Jackson’s photos. She was so helpful.”
“You’ll liaise with the cops as to who they want to interview?” says Anthony.
“There’s actually a cop waiting outside for you,” says Bernadette. She hesitates. “I hate to be crass at such a time but last day for submissions to the Dom Post and NBR is today, for Jackson’s partnership announcement. I’m thinking we ask both to hold off. We can tell them it’s in deference to Jo’s family. It will still be news in a couple of weeks when this has blown over.”
“You’ve got to be kidding,” I say. I’ve stood up before I’ve realized it. “I’m about to be a partner of this firm. I want it official. It’s an insult to Ray Investments not to acknowledge it immediately.”
Bernadette traces the pattern of the Turkish rug on Anthony’s desk with a metallic lacquered nail. “We’ve got no option. You need to be seen to be sympathetic to what happened to Jo. The police want to interview you specifically. Probably because of that other thing. But this isn’t your best moment to be thrust into the spotlight. No matter how unjustified it is.”
“This is outrageous,” I sputter.
“We want your name free of any suspicion before we put it out there in neon lights. I don’t want the publicity we’ve organized tainted. You don’t want to be seen coming into partnership under this cloud.”
“It’s not a cloud!”
“It’s a potential cloud. She was working with you all Saturday. You already have a history. And they looked at you for another murder.”
“Christ don’t hold back, Bernie. Just come right out and say it.”
“You’d do the same in my position—”
Anthony raises a hand to stop her. “This police debacle will be sorted as soon as I’ve spoken to this guy outside. We’ll give Jo’s death a fortnight to blow over and distance itself from the firm. Then it’ll all be back on track.”
He glances at Aubrey Pacitto, sitting in a chair outside. “Get hold of the husband, Bernie. We want to be seen as giving whatever support we can.”
Bernadette gives me an apologetic look and closes the door behind her.
“Cheer up,” says Anthony. “You get your new EA. This will be yesterdays’ news before you know it.”
I look at Pacitto waiting patiently outside and I’m not so sure.
◆◆◆
Carla Diaz is dauntingly brilliant, but probably should be behind bars. Four times married, she is one of our top litigators. Infamous for extracting improbable people from impossible situations for outlandish sums of money. Also infamous within the firm for being a bitch.
Carla’s secret weapon, aside from her incredible brain, is her face. It’s guileless and innocent. She looks like a primary-school teacher, or a nun.
Tod
ay her blonde hair is restrained in an intricate knot. She is dressed impeccably in an expensive looking but modest black suit, dark stockings, and high-heeled, black, patent-leather pumps. Outside her office two secretaries are madly answering phones while a third rifles through filing cabinets wearing a harried expression.
I shut the door and go to sit down. “I trust this isn’t social,” says Carla. “I’m due in court in twenty.”
What a shrew.
I haven’t dealt with Carla in person before. But my brain quickly digests the fact she’s going to be immune to implied compliments, subtle flirtation or any kind of masculine charm from my vast repertoire. I guess I should have been more prepared. Still, to watch her face maintain its child-like naiveté while being so direct and unwelcoming is perplexing.
“There was something I wanted to discuss,” I start.
Carla just stares, waiting for me to say something that interests her. I sit down to fill the silence. I wonder if she doesn’t realize I’m going to be a fellow partner but dismiss this notion as quickly as it occurs. Of course she would.
Carla picks up a small, silver desk clock. It’s covered in Swarovski crystals. “Is it chargeable?”
I make a mental note to find a male equivalent of her clock for my own desk. I also finally grasp the only thing that will interest Carla is money.
“I’m assuming what you want to discuss isn’t a conflict of interest to the firm?”
“No. But it’s about Jo Johnson, my EA. She was murdered over the weekend, and I spent most of Saturday with her at work. There’s a little bad history—”
I’m about to elaborate on the background, but Carla waves her arm impatiently to stop me. Then she says, “Did you?”
“Did I what?”
“Murder her.”
I stare at her in disbelief.
Carla shrugs. “It’s neither here nor there to me.”
“Of course I didn’t! I didn’t think you were even allowed to ask that.”
She says nothing. Just sits there looking as if she’s about to recite the Lord’s Prayer.
“Come on,” I say.
She shrugs. “Very well, then. Let’s assume you didn’t. What exactly do you need me for?”
“I’m worried it doesn’t look good for me. There was bad blood and the cops knew about it.”
“So I’ve heard. If the knife is found will your fingerprints be on it?”
“Of course not. Stop testing me.”
She raises an eyebrow. Glances quickly at her Swarovski clock. Our conversation to this point has probably earned Bakers about $400, assuming Carla bills up to the nearest fifteen minutes, as I do. She sighs, as if she’s doing this pro bono and I’m being high maintenance. “They’ve got nothing on you, Jackson. All they’ll do is talk to people here about Jo. And you. And your relationship with her, which wasn’t great but didn’t justify a homicide. They may dust you up a little.”
She stands up and places her brief case on the desk. Starts putting on her coat. “My advice is to ignore it. The only risk for you is reputational. So lie low. Wait for the cops to solve it, let the publicity die down.”
I tap my fingers on her desk. “I’m have my partnership announcements coming up.”
Carla frowns. “Not any more you don’t.”
26
Carla’s words are still with me the following day. I’m sitting in my office sifting through the impressive set of photographs taken of me by Bernadette’s people. I’ve managed to look both open, yet enigmatic. Affluent, but a man of the people.
I pick up the photo that was chosen to go in the Dominion Post and NBR along with my partnership announcement. Only it won’t. And I don’t share Anthony’s confidence that Aubrey Pacitto will be happy to wipe my slate clean after talking to him. I feel like ripping the photo up, only I’d never deface myself. I toss it back on the desk. This situation is seriously messed up. I was disconcerted but amused when Kaleb Perry was arrested for Belinda’s murder. It affirmed my low opinion of the police. Now everything has flipped around on its head. Suddenly it’s paramount that they be competent.
I realize that in the wake of this fiasco I’ve forgotten to tell Anthony about my new directorship. It’s a cold day in hell when I start letting priorities slip. Worse still, I need to be partner to stand on that board. There is no way an organization as prestigious as Ray Investments would have a senior associate on their board.
Mel Kilbride appears at the door looking stricken. Surely he’s not looking that way over Jo?
“So, Ray Investments Limited, eh? Lucky bastard.”
“That I am.” Although the luck element is debatable.
“How was Sydney?” I say cheerily, before he can remark as to how bloody awful the Jo thing is.
“Screw Sydney. I’ve just had the cops interview me about Jo.” Mel sits down.
“Yeah, look, ah, I’m overloaded with work right now.”
This is a small lie. I do have plenty of work coming in. But I’ve delegated most of it. There is no shortage of people climbing over one another to snatch up my delegated work. I’m a rising star with a glamorous client. And everyone wants a part of it.
I feel momentarily brighter. I need to remember the progress I’ve made, and not get bogged down in the mire. Not so long ago I was estranged from my family and thrashing my brains out as to how I would achieve early partnership. Now I am a partner. Well, all but.
“. . . I’m so deep in the crap it’s not funny.” Mel’s voice has an edge to it. I realize I’ve missed an entire wodge of conversation. “They want alibis for everyone who was on our floor Saturday. I made the mistake of coming in for ten minutes.”
“I thought you were in Sydney?”
“I cancelled. I told Tara I had to work instead. But I didn’t. I was with Mary-Anne.”
“Mary-Anne? What? As in—”
“Yeah, from Lily’s.”
“Okay. Well, that’s not so bad, really. Spin some yarn to Tara. As long as she doesn’t know what you were actually doing, she’ll back you up.”
“I know what you’re thinking. I’m an idiot. It’s just, she just got under my skin.” It all comes out in a rush. “I hate her,” he says. “I mean I know it’s just about the money for her. But I can’t stop thinking about her. Have you ever had a woman do that?”
I think about the redhead from the car park. Until that moment I’d never have understood what Mel is now talking about. How a woman can become an obsession while literally undermining everything that is superior in a man, reducing him to nothing.
“No,” I say, “I haven’t. But maybe you should see this for the close call it is.”
“It’s worse than a close call.” Mel gives me a wretched look. “Jo knew about Mary-Anne.”
I get up and close the door. “That’s really not a problem,” I say, “given she’s dead.”
“It’s a huge problem, actually. In its totality. Did you know she used to listen at doors?”
“She had to be doing something with her time. It certainly wasn’t work.”
Mel leans forward and whispers, “I’m totally fucked, Jackson. I’m going to have to tell the cops what happened. So Tara’s going to find out anyway. And worse, she’ll know she lied to the cops to alibi me, while I was screwing Mary-Anne.”
“Why in hell would you tell the cops?”
“If they find out any other way I’ll look suspicious for not having come forward. And they will find out. I know they will.”
I sigh. Mel’s problems are so minuscule compared to mine. “The police aren’t as omnipotent as you might imagine, Mel. Look, the only people that knew about it were you, me and Jo. And Jo’s dead. Problem gone.”
“It’s not that simple. She sent me these.”
Mel plonks a handful of pages in front of me. Each one of them is a typed-up note. Each one is signed by Jo. She’s used firm letterhead. Poor form, how dare she? I don’t touch any of them but lean down and read a couple.
M
el, I know what you did and id disgusts me. You don’t deserve what you have. Jo.
Mel, you should be ashamed of yourself. Why should you have it all? Jo.
“She made a typo in the first one,” I say.
Mel gives me an incredulous glare. “There’s an implied threat in each one.” Mel picks up a note between finger and thumb as if it’s dusted with anthrax.
“Oh, come one. You sound like you should be working in litigation.”
“I’m worried she told someone. I think I should go to the cops before they find out themselves.”
“Don’t be stupid. It was something she had over you. She was a greedy bitch. You really think she’d have shared that with anyone who could have benefited from it?”
I pick up an empty envelope and hold it out to him.
“The good news is she’s dead as a doormat. Hand them over.”
Mel hesitates. The crazy bastard is still considering coming clean. Then he folds up the notes and places them in the envelope. I screw up the envelope with more zeal than necessary and dismissively throw it in my rubbish bin.
“No one needs to know,” I say. “Not the cops, and certainly not your lovely wife.”
When Mel leaves, I retrieve his notes from my bin and stow them in the secret compartment.
◆◆◆
At lunch time Eliza shifts all her personal effects from IT to Corporate. She rearranges them on Jo’s desk, which was swept clean by a forensics team two days ago.
“Mr Finch was here to see you,” she tells me.
“Don’t call him Mr Finch, call him Henry,” I say generously, imagining Finch’s fury when my EA begins to call him by his first name.
Eliza looks at the floor. Uncomfortable.
“For God’s sake, what’s wrong, Eliza?”
“Some of the secretaries are saying Jo was scared of you. That she was going to leave because of you.”
“Scared of me? That’s hardly true.” I smile widely. “Don’t you worry about it. Just try and stay above all the silliness and enjoy being my new EA.”
I look at my watch. It’s 4.45 p.m. I’m exhausted. I resent being without energy. It’s as if someone has stolen it from me. Jo has, that’s who.