Mesmerized

by Gayle Lynds

  Mesmerized

  Gayle Lynds

  The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarities to real persons living or dead is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  © 2001 The Gayle H. Lynds 2016 Revocable Trust

  Cover © The Gayle H. Lynds 2016 Revocable Trust

  Cover Design: Shannon Raab

  Cover Photographer: uschools/iStockphoto.com

  Cover Photographer: Maciej Noskowski/iStockphoto.com

  Cover Photographer: all silhouettes.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transported in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Mesmerized e-book edition: 978-1-941517-98-7

  Mesmerized POD edition: 978-1-941517-99-4

  For inquiries:

  Gayle Lynds

  P.O. Box 732

  125 Forest Avenue

  Portland, ME 04101

  www.GayleLynds.com

  For my son, Paul Stone, and his bride, Katrina Baum for love, for youth, for the future

  Happy Wedding—April 8, 2000

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I'm indebted to many people for sharing their expertise in the creation of Mesmerized.

  Carolyn Campbell, Ph.D., J.D., director and senior counsel for Emerging Markets Partnership in Washington, D.C., is also an associate professor in international negotiations at George Washington National Law Center. She advised on legal aspects, plus adding her considerable knowledge of the District itself. Cheryl Arvidson, senior writer for the Freedom Forum, has covered the White House for United Press International, Cox newspapers, and the Dallas Times Herald. Her help in setting scenes within the District and in the White House was invaluable. Philip Shelton, author and former intelligence agent, and Gene Riehl, author and former FBI special agent, were the souls of patience in making certain the government and action aspects of the novel were within the realm of possibility. Peter Caldwell, pharmacist and owner of Caldwell Pharmacy in Santa Barbara, California, generously detailed various heart medications.

  I'm very grateful to the new team at Pocket Books for their wonderful enthusiasm and high level of professionalism. From president Judith Curr to deputy publishers Karen Menders and Kara Welch, senior editor Kate Collins, publicity director Melinda Mullin and publicist Leigh Richter, and art director Paolo Pepe, I've received the best care any author could dream of. Both senior editor Lauren McKenna and assistant editor Christina Boys have stepped in to help on numerous occasions. Plus, my deepest appreciation to Ian Jackman, whose editorial magic has done so much to sharpen and strengthen this book.

  My husband, novelist Dennis Lynds, was key to each stage. He is my first and last editor.

  To my agent, Henry Morrison . . . my everlasting gratitude for all the myriad ways he touched Mesmerized, from the outline to the published book. His hours of care are duplicated by no other outside the walls of my house. And to my international agent, Danny Baror, whose influence goes around the world—thank you.

  My daughter, Julia Stone, gave me the initial idea for this book, and my son, Paul Stone, detailed legal arguments for the main character. Finally, I'm also very grateful for the advice and support of Joseph Allen; Vicki Allen; Patricia Barrett; Katrina Baum; Julia Cunningham; Julia Fasick; Roberta Foreman, M.F.C.C.; Gary Gulbransen; Susan Miles Gulbransen; Frances Halpern; Fred Klein; Lumina; Deirdre Lynds; Kate Lynds; Randi Kennedy; Wendell Klossner, M.D.; Connie Martinson; Monica McCoy, D.C.; Lucy Jo Palladino, Ph.D.; Elaine Russell; Theil Shelton; Jim Stevens; and MaryEllen Strange.

  Because of the tremendous need for organ donations and the lives that can be saved, please consider filling out a donor card for yourself—call (800) 355-SHARE. You can learn more about organ donations by phoning the United Network for Organ Sharing at (800) 933-0440. Part of the proceeds from this book will be donated to the cause.

  Mankind's chief hope of escaping the wrath of whatever divinities were then abroad lay in some magical rite, senseless but powerful, or in some offering made at the cost of pain and grief.

  —Edith Hamilton, Mythology

  Look for things that aren't there. If we make up our minds too early, we shut ourselves off to possible answers.

  —CIA intelligence trainer who wishes to remain anonymous

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  PART ONE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  PART TWO

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  PART THREE

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39

  CHAPTER 40

  CHAPTER 41

  CHAPTER 42

  CHAPTER 43

  CHAPTER 44

  CHAPTER 45

  CHAPTER 46

  CHAPTER 47

  CHAPTER 48

  CHAPTER 49

  CHAPTER 50

  CHAPTER 51

  EPILOGUE

  AUTHOR'S NOTE

  PROLOGUE

  She was a star.

  Queen of the Cosmos.

  She was Beth Convey, killing machine with compassion.

  She was in room 311 of Superior Court for the District of Columbia. The air was stale, stagnant in fact, but that was to be expected. Any courtroom where a high-profile trial was drawing to a close meant too many days with the doors closed, too many hours of body heat, too much anger, disgust, and sublimated violence for the air to be fresh. The overhead fluorescent lights gave off a relentless glare, and there were no windows that offered the relief of the outdoors; today was a blustery March afternoon. This third-floor room in the thirty-year-old courthouse was a claustrophobic, wood-lined sarcophagus.

  Still, the packed audience gave no indication they were unhappy with, or even noticed, the conditions. They sat silent, riveted, because hundreds of millions of dollars were riding on Beth Convey's cross-examination in this headline-making divorce trial, and no one—particularly the press—wanted to miss a word.

  Beth turned to the judge. "Permission to approach the witness, Your Honor." She was known for her ice-cold calm, which she felt she had probably inherited. After all, she was the daughter of Jack-the-Knife Convey, Los Angeles's top criminal defense attorney. Annoyed, she realized she was sweating.

  Judge Eric Schultz was a large man with a gravelly voice and thick eyebrows. He gave her a sharp look. Beth had kept the witness on the stand all day, and there was an edge to the judge's voice as he said, "Very well. But move your questioning along, Ms. Convey."

  "Yes, sir."

  She marched forward, her pumps soundless on the carpeting. Behind her she could feel the worried gaze of her client, Michelle Philmalee, while before her sat the object of her cross-examination: Michelle's husband, industrialist Joel Mabbit Philmalee. A red flush showed above his
starched white shirt collar, and anger flickered in his eyes.

  Pretrial, his lawyers had made what they called a "sensible" settlement offer of $50 million, a fraction of the value of his privately held corporation. It was insultingly low, and Michelle had refused it. Which had forced Beth into a tactic that could easily fail: She must make Joel Philmalee's violent temper betray him in open trial, which was why she had kept him on the stand so long.

  She thought she had left all this behind. Although she had begun her practice as a family-law attorney, she now specialized in international law. With her knowledge of Russian and Eastern European politics, her ability to speak a useful amount of Russian and Polish, and her hard-nosed business sense, she had done so well negotiating and cutting red tape in former Communist countries on behalf of Michelle Philmalee that Michelle insisted Beth represent her in the divorce, too.

  Inwardly, Beth sighed. She would have passed the divorce case on to one of the firm's other lawyers except that the managing partner had weighed in on the situation with an emphatic "absolutely not." The firm—Edwards & Bonnett—was determined to keep Michelle's business, which meant keeping her happy. If Michelle wanted Beth, she would have her, and if Beth were a really good girl and won a healthy settlement package for Michelle, her reward would be a leap onto the fast track to partnership. No fool, Beth had gone to trial.

  She stopped five feet from Joel Philmalee. A strong scent of expensive cologne wafted from him as he adjusted himself and glowered. His rage was building. She repressed a smile—and felt a rush of nausea.

  She inhaled, forcing the nausea away. She made her voice flat, harsh. "Isn't it true you gave the hotel chain to Mrs. Philmalee to manage in the beginning because you considered it a minor investment, and you thought she'd fail? Yes or no."

  He looked straight into her eyes. "I assumed—"

  She tapped her foot. "Yes or no?"

  He shot a look of hatred across the courtroom to Michelle. "No!"

  "Isn't it true you tried to fire her, but she convinced you to wait for the fourth-quarter report, which confirmed the success of her expansion strategy? Yes or no."

  "I suppose you could say—"

  "Yes or no?"

  "Never! Is that good enough? No! Never!"

  Beth knew he was lying, but she could not force him to change his testimony here. What was important was that the judge had heard her raise the questions and that she was making Joel Philmalee furious at her. To him she had become yet another pushy, insolent, aggravating female, just like his wife.

  Beth had presented testimony, minutes of meetings, and financial analyses that showed Michelle had often played the deciding role in the Group's growth. Now she hoped to add a convincer without ever saying it outright: Joel was a wife-beater. There were rumors about it, and Beth knew they were true. The problem was Michelle wanted no one to learn she had been the victim of domestic violence, not even for a half billion dollars in assets. The battlefields of commerce had taught her it was far better their war over a financial agreement look like a contest between two titans of industry. In business, Michelle believed, she must never look weak.

  Beth agreed, and although the strategy had made her job far harder, it was their only hope. Unlike community-property states, the District of Columbia made no assumption there would be a fifty-fifty split in divorce, which was what Michelle wanted. Instead, its laws allowed judges broad discretion.

  Beth fought back another wave of nausea and plunged ahead. "Mr. Philmalee, isn't it true that your wife bought and sold, sat on boards of directors, traveled extensively to evaluate properties, and created Philmalee International completely on her own? Yes or no."

  He leaned forward. "No! She did everything under my orders. I'm Philmalee Group!"

  "Please confine yourself to yes or no, Mr. Philmalee." She could not seem to catch her breath. Her heart was racing again. Last week, her internist had diagnosed stress as the cause of her periodic breathlessness. He said she must slow down. Only thirty-two years old and already she had to ease back on her work? Nonsense. This trial was too important.

  Joel Philmalee turned angrily to the judge. "Do I have to put up with this, Your Honor?"

  Judge Schultz shook his head. "You were given ample opportunity to settle."

  "But my ingrate wife wants half my goddamn company!" He shot Michelle a look of scorching rage.

  Michelle tightened her lips, her face grim. She was a tiny woman, compact and fashionable in a quilted Chanel suit and red-rimmed Armani eyeglasses. She gave no evidence of the turmoil and loneliness of which Beth had caught glimpses. Michelle's isolation was something Beth understood. She and Michelle had made their work the centers of their lives. Beth had never regretted it, and from what she had observed, neither had Michelle.

  Beth forged on: "The operative word for you is our, sir. Yours and Mrs. Philmalee's. 'Our company.' The Group. You both worked—" She stifled a gasp. A dull pain gripped her chest, and sweat slid hot and sticky beneath her suit. No. She could not be sick now. She was so close to winning—

  Joel's hands knotted. "My wife didn't do jack shit!"

  The judge spoke up: "Mr. Philmalee, I've warned you about your language. Control yourself. Next time I'll hold you in contempt."

  With an effort, Beth forced her voice to remain calm. "She did everything. Isn't it true that without her you'd have nothing? She gave you the money to start. You took credit for her ideas—"

  "Objection, Your Honor!" thundered Joel's attorney.

  "Overruled," the judge said firmly. "Continue, counselor."

  Beth pressed on. "She planned tactics and told you how to implement them. Take the Wheelwright transaction. Oak Tree Plaza. Philmalee Gardens—"

  "No! No! No!" Joel Philmalee jumped up. The flush that had been hovering just beneath his ears spread in a red tide across his leathery cheeks.

  The judge hammered his gavel.

  "Even Philmalee International—" Beth persisted, herself risking being held in contempt.

  At which point Joel Philmalee had had enough. "You bitch!" He leaped over the rail straight at Beth.

  Beth's heart seemed to explode in pain. It felt as if her rib cage would shatter. The pain was black and ragged and sent jolts of electricity to her brain. She tried to take a breath, to stay on her feet, to remain conscious. She had been an achiever all her life. Michelle deserved half of the Philmalee Group. Beth needed to go on fighting—

  Instead, she collapsed to the carpet.

  Joel Philmalee did not notice. He bolted past Beth toward his wife.

  Her little face twisted in terror, Michelle whirled so quickly to escape that her glasses flew off. Screams and shouts erupted from the audience. Cursing, Joel grabbed Michelle from behind.

  Just as his hands closed around her throat, a dozen journalists in the audience seemed to come alive. They cascaded down the aisle. Within seconds, two had pulled him off Michelle.

  Courthouse security rushed into the room, and as order began to reassert itself and Joel Philmalee was handcuffed and forced through a side door, someone noticed Beth Convey was still lying where she had fallen.

  "Did she get hurt?" the judge asked, alarmed. "Check her, Kaeli!"

  The bailiff sprinted to the unconscious woman, dropped to his haunches, and felt for her pulse. Frantically, he adjusted his fingers. "Nothing, sir."

  As the courtroom fell into a stunned hush, he leaned lower, his cheek an inch from her mouth, waiting for a breath. He stayed there a long time.

  At last, he looked up at the judge. His eyes were large with shock. "She's dead. I'm sorry, Judge. I don't see how, but Ms. Convey's dead."

  PART ONE

  1

  A month later, on a fine, moonlit night in April, a Washington, D.C., 911 operator took a call at 10:12: A motorcycle accident had just occurred in Rock Creek Park, apparently one man injured. The caller gave directions.

  Within four minutes, paramedics and the police arrived on the scene, just as a new Lexus w
as pulling away. The Lexus turned sharply back onto the shoulder and screeched to a stop, its rear wheels sending gravel pinging against a metal guardrail. A distinguished-looking gentleman in an expensive business suit jumped out of the driver's seat and hurried back through the nighttime shadows to where the paramedics were bending over the fallen motorcyclist.

  His face distraught, the Lexus driver's words poured out with a slight accent: "I am thankful someone called you. Can you help my friend? I did not know what to do, and I have no cellular phone, so I thought I should drive for help. I was late, yes? I was hurrying home to meet him. Then—terrible!—I saw him and the motorcycle lying beside the road." His voice rose. "He was always riding that motorcycle. I told him and told him to wear a helmet, but he never would. He was unconscious when I found him. Is he going to be all right?" He took a deep breath. His lips trembled as he watched the paramedics lift the victim onto a gurney. He looked like a diplomat or a wealthy businessman, a fact that was not lost upon the paramedics.

  The lead medic said politely, "Please move out of the way, sir. He's got a serious head trauma, and we've got to get him to the hospital. You can follow us, okay? What's his name?"

  "Ogust. Mikhail Ogust," the man said eagerly. "Which hospital will you take him to? He and I have known each other many years, across many continents. You would not believe—"

  The paramedic nodded. Obviously the fellow was having a hard time dealing with his friend's injuries. As he helped load the unconscious victim into the ambulance, he told the man the name and address of the hospital.

  At the same time, a policeman who had been measuring the skid mark on the street approached. "I'd like to ask you a few questions, sir."

  The gentleman turned. "Oh. Oh, yes. Of course. Certainly."

  As the ambulance sped off, beacons flashing, siren wailing, the policeman wrote down the man's name, asked him to relate what he had seen, and told him they would try to locate the Good Samaritan who had phoned in the accident. It looked as if no other vehicle had been involved.

  The moment the policeman released him, the man climbed into his Lexus and drove straight to the hospital. There he discovered Mikhail Ogust had been pronounced dead on arrival. Everyone was very polite and considerate, aware Mikhail Ogust had been his dear friend.