Synn’s mouth twitched with amusement. “Nine million lire, of course. At the present rate of exchange, that amounts to”—He pulled a calculator from his pocket and punched in a series of numbers— “$4,882.83.”
“Per week?”
Synn nodded. “Plus living expenses.” The corner of his mouth drooped in an apologetic expression. “The amount may be less than you are currently receiving, but we are a not-for-profit organization, after all.”
Looking away, I did some quick calculations of my own. Nearly five thousand per week, for as long as twenty-six weeks—that figure alone would put my income at $130,000 for six months’ work. Plus expenses, he’d said, so I’d be living free in Rome and could send most of the money straight back to Rory, who would pay the bills, interview clients, and line up the most promising cases for the remainder of the year. It would be inconvenient to be so far away from the important people in my life, but if an emergency arose, I could always fly home. And Kurt could afford the international calls . . .
Kurt! A grinning goblin of guilt reared his head, and I grappled with the little monster. I couldn’t run out on Kurt, not with a wedding coming up, but he just might understand how this job could save my firm. Kurt might even like the idea of having an excuse to visit me in Rome.
I picked up the card and tapped it against the surface of my desk. “I’d like to think about it, Mr. Synn. When do you need an answer?”
Synn’s bland expression shifted to a confident upper smile— reserved, yet friendly. “Monday would be good. I will be in town until late Monday afternoon, but then I must return to Rome.”
“May I call you at your hotel with my decision?”
“By all means. I’m staying at the Ameritania, just off Broadway.”
We stood, shook hands, and Synn left the room. I stood motionless for a long moment, his card flat against my palm and his offer uppermost in my mind.
I turned the card over. Rev. Darien Synn, it said, Vice President, Unione Globale. 4 Via della Botteghe Oscure, Roma.
The word reverend caught me by surprise. Synn hadn’t mentioned any church affiliation, but perhaps, I supposed, it was only natural that a clergyman would be concerned about world peace and brotherly love.
I sank back into my chair and stared at the card. It might actually feel good to spend a few months working for peace. In Rome, at least, reporters like Tom Brown wouldn’t be able to accuse me of aiding murderers for money.
I tried to call Kurt, but he was with a patient. I left my name with the office receptionist and hung up, still mulling over Synn’s proposition.
Desperate to talk to someone, I stepped out into the reception area. Rory sat with the phone pressed to his ear, but he lifted a brow in acknowledgment when I sank into the chair by the side of his desk.
I shook my head, wordlessly telling him to take his time.
“I’d be happy to take your name and number, but Ms. Fischer doesn’t usually take personal injury cases,” he said, his voice as smooth as warm butter. “I’ll pass the information along, but I suggest you find the best lawyer you can. Thank you for calling.”
He hung up the phone, scribbled a note on a pink message pad, then tossed it into the desperation basket. Our office received about a dozen calls a week from ordinary citizens who thought a jury consultant would strike holy fear into insurance representatives, doctors’ attorneys, you name it. I could have easily filled my calendar with those kinds of low-paying jobs, but I wanted to spend my time where it counted—with high-stakes trials in criminal or civil court. It may sound heartless, but when I established the firm I decided not to waste my time on run-of-the-mill cases. I firmly believe that our society has become too litigious, and I refuse to help people sue McDonald’s for serving hot coffee.
“What did we charge Colby and company for our work on the Mitchell case?” I asked, sliding Synn’s business card over Rory’s desk.
“About eighty-five an hour, plus expenses, I think. I haven’t finished the billing yet.” He picked up the card and stared at the name on the front.
“He got the reduced rate, right?”
“The publicity was worth the trade-off.” Rory turned the business card and gasped at the figure on the back. “Is this a joke?”
“What if I told you”—I couldn’t stop a smile—“that Darien Synn promised me nearly $125 an hour for six months . . . while I work in glorious, sun-drenched Rome?”
Rory’s narrow face twisted into a dry, one-sided grin. “Rome . . . Georgia?”
“No, you goof. Rome, Italy. Roma.”
Rory gently laid the card on the desk, then pressed his hands together in a prayerful pose. “Does Reverend Synn work for the Vatican?”
“He’s a vice president of Global Union, and he works for Santos Justus. They want me to evaluate their staff for several months, that’s all. It’s a new organization, and apparently they want to make sure they’ve hired dependable people.”
Rory let out a long, low whistle. “Seems an expensive way to go about it. You don’t bring ‘the Seer’ in for routine observation unless there’s a lot at stake.”
I threw him a reproachful glance. “I’ll have none of that talk in here.”
“Sorry. So when do you leave for Rome?”
“I’m not sure I should take the job.” I rested my elbow on the edge of his desk and propped my chin in my hand. “There are a lot of things to consider. First of all, there’s Kurt. We’re getting married in May, so this may not be the best time for me to leave the country.”
Rory tipped his head back and grinned at me. “Haven’t you ever heard of the Concorde? New York to London, then Rome’s only a hop away. And Kurt could easily afford the airfare.”
I ticked off the next item on my list. “What about my sister? Kirsten is due in four months, and I promised I’d help her when the baby comes. Travis is a handful, and she’ll have to recuperate and take care of the newborn—”
“Your sister is married to a pediatrician who can certainly afford a nanny,” Rory argued, crossing his arms. “And so what if the little darling is two months old when you first see him? He won’t remember that you weren’t at the hospital to greet him.”
I held up a warning finger. “I’m not thinking of the baby. Most women want their mothers around when babies come, and since our mother can’t—well, I feel like I should be with Kirsten. She’d do the same for me.”
“I still think she’d understand.” Rory’s tone softened. “You are not your mother, Claudia, and your sister must know that you need to lead your own life. Besides, you’re going up there this weekend, aren’t you? Ask her about it. I’d bet a week’s pay that she’ll tell you to go to Rome.”
“I wouldn’t gamble your paycheck; you don’t know where the next one is coming from.” I chewed on my lower lip and looked away. Rory and I had been together for two years and sometimes he seemed to know me better than Kurt. Maybe he was right about Kirsten. My sister and I were close and had grown closer since the crash, but it wasn’t like I’d be deserting her forever. Sean would be there for the delivery, and maybe it was better for the two of them to share this special time alone . . .
“There’s one other consideration—and it’s important.” A stack of folders lay on the desk by my elbow, so I pushed it out of the way and leaned forward, as if being closer would help Rory understand. “This thing with Justus could be huge—it’s international politics, for heaven’s sake. I’ll be working with some powerful European movers and shakers. If I do a good job, there’s no telling what could open up next.”
Rory cast me a wicked grin. “Elaine Dawson, eat your heart out.”
“Wait.” I pressed a fingertip to his forearm. “If I fail, though, I fail big. From what I gather, Justus stands on the verge of gaining a lot of international attention, and I’ll be working in the spotlight. If this Justus fellow doesn’t like my work, Fischer Consulting could be history. The same press people who are praising us today could eat us alive six mont
hs from now. It’s a risk, Rory. I’m not sure I’m ready to gamble my career in an international arena.”
“You took a greater risk when you broke off from Elaine.” Rory’s brown eyes were blazing with confidence. “You knew less then than you do now, and you established this office on nothing but chutzpa.”
“Well”—I grinned—“I had a little more than that. I had the good sense to hire you.”
The tip of Rory’s nose went pink. “Yeah. Well, you’ve proved you can handle the personnel thing; you do more than that every time you evaluate a jury. I don’t see why reading Italians should be any different than analyzing New Yorkers. I think you should go for it.”
I leaned back and looked around the office. “You’d have to run things here. You’d have to take notes on interesting new clients, do some background work, check with attorneys and trial judges to work out the calendars if we get a big case. We wouldn’t be free to work a trial again until next spring.”
Rory swiveled his chair and crossed one leg over his knee. “I know the drill, Claudia, and I wouldn’t worry. With all the publicity from the Mitchell trial, we’ll have the calendar filled in no time.”
“But what if I have to pass on a really interesting case because I’m in Italy?”
Rory threw me a frown. “It takes months to prepare the really interesting cases. You’ll have plenty of time. By the time you get back, I’ll have your calendar filled and the background reports done.” His mouth curled in a one-sided smile. “The only thing you’ll have to worry about is replacing me if I get a better offer.”
“That reminds me”—I pushed myself out of the chair—“take your wife out to dinner on the company card, will you? Discuss business or something so it’ll be deductible. But keep your wife happy—I don’t want her to encourage you to look elsewhere.”
“As if she would.” Rory shot the words after me as I walked toward my office, then assumed his professional voice as the phone rang. “Fischer Consulting.” I stopped and looked over my shoulder when I heard him say, “How nice to hear from you.” He listened a moment, then cupped his hand over the mouthpiece and mouthed a name I understood immediately.
I hurried back to my desk, a little curious to discover why Elaine Dawson had decided to call twice in two days.
“Elaine?”
“Claudia, dearest, how are you? Congratulations, by the way, on the Mitchell trial. You’re getting great press even out here—almost as much airtime as I got for that Ambrose Zoya case.”
I swallowed my irritation. Ambrose Zoya, founder of a chain of discount clothing stores, had spent a considerable portion of his billion-dollar estate hiring a legal dream team to defend him against a series of sordid charges having to do with his ex-wife and stepdaughter. The media played up the coming legal battle and the tabloids followed every gossipy rabbit trail, but at the time I was so involved with preliminary work on the Mitchell case that I barely paid attention. Ambrose Zoya’s lawyer decided to settle before the plaintiff could call the first witness, so with one stroke of the pen Elaine’s work became a moot point. My case, on the other hand, had gone to trial.
“I’m just pleased my client was vindicated,” I answered, parroting the party line.
“Really?” Elaine laughed softly, and at that moment I would have given my last dollar for a good look at her face. If I could see her eyes, I’d know whether she was merely being pleasant or if she’d picked up the fact that I despised the client I had spent weeks protecting.
“Claudia, dear,” she began, her voice taking on a businesslike tone, “I called because I thought you might like a heads-up about a particular screwball approaching people in our business. He came by our office last week, and I promptly sent him packing. After your victory, however, it occurred to me that he might appear on your doorstep.”
“What sort of screwball?”
She laughed again, a delicate three-noted ha-ha-ha that set my nerves on edge. “Oh, he’s harmless, I daresay, but he wanted me to go to Europe for six months. Can you imagine! He seemed to think I would be honored to be the personnel director of some insignificant political cult, World Peace Now or something like that. Anyway, I turned him down and thought I’d let you know about him. He may be calling you next.”
All the doubts that had been lapping at my subconscious suddenly crested and crashed. What had I been thinking? Elaine was probably right. Darien Synn was nobody, Global Union was little more than a group of dreamers with a Web page, and I had nearly convinced myself to leave my firm at one of the most crucial points of its existence . . .
“Thanks for the information, Elaine.” I smiled into the phone, knowing she would hear the smile in my voice. “I appreciate your thinking of me.”
“You, ah . . .” She hesitated, and I knew the lack of visible contact frustrated her too. “You haven’t seen him, have you? He’s a stocky fellow, bald, about forty-five or fifty, with a rash of age freckles on his head—”
“Elaine.” I forced a laugh. “I’ve seen about a dozen men who fit that description in the last twenty-four hours alone. This place was an absolute zoo last night, and the phone has been ringing off the hook with reporters. But if this man calls, I’ll be sure to remember what you’ve told me.”
“That’s good.” She paused again. “You’re doing well? And your sister?”
“Kirsten is fine, thanks for asking. Another baby on the way, due in late December. She and Sean are thrilled, and Travis can’t wait to have a baby brother or sister.”
“Dear me, I have another call.”
I smiled, knowing that Elaine would rather discuss bunions than babies. “I’ll let you go, then. Thanks for the information.”
I dropped the phone back into its cradle, then swiveled my chair toward the single window in my office. The view was typical for Manhattan—a wall of windows belonging to the gray office building across the alley. Though it was only three o’clock, the sky outside had already begun to darken. I knew the skies would grow dark earlier and earlier, now that autumn and winter were approaching . . .
I folded my hands and stared at a single window across the way. In the uncurtained rectangle I saw a woman sitting at a desk much like mine, but she was bent over her work, her hand driving furiously across a sheet of paper.
Who wrote in longhand anymore?
I tossed the question aside and pondered the real issue troubling me. Why would Elaine Dawson call me about Darien Synn? She had taken pains to keep the conversation light and casual, and she hadn’t even mentioned the man’s name. Was her call motivated by sincere helpfulness . . . or rivalry?
Though Elaine and I now pretended to be the friends we once were, I had not forgotten the hurtful things she said when I confronted her about my desire to take a more active role in the work. In a flash of defensive anger, she had called me egocentric, power-hungry, and a few names not fit for printing in a family newspaper. She must have known I’d quit—after all, predicting people’s reactions was her area of expertise—but she hadn’t counted on my willingness to move east and establish my own firm. I sincerely believe she thought I’d stay in L.A., where she could squash my fledgling efforts by the sheer force of her personality.
Was this call an attempt to prevent me from moving into the international arena ahead of her?
I swiveled my chair again, turning to face my desk. It did tweak my pride to know that Darien Synn hadn’t called me first, but until last week I had been thoroughly tied up with the Chad Mitchell case. Furthermore, as far as I knew, Elaine Dawson had been available. Though she kept busy with work for various attorneys engaged in mock trials, Elaine hadn’t handled a celebrity case since Mr. Zoya decided to come clean and pay his ex-wife for her mental distress and suffering.
Could she have called just to discourage me from taking the one client who could finally bring me out from her shadow? Or had she read something in Reverend Synn’s personality or conversation that disturbed her?
I lowered my head to my hands, the
n peeped out through my fingers and stared at the phone. I would have loved to bounce some of these ideas off Kurt, but he would be tied up until late . . . and likely wouldn’t understand, anyway. Though he made an admirable show of understanding all of my problems, this one felt just a little too catty and female to make much headway in his psyche.
I glanced again at my empty calendar, then tossed a new file labeled “Global Union” into my briefcase. “I’m heading out,” I told Rory as I passed by his desk. “If anything comes up, I’ll have my cell phone, and this weekend I’ll be at my sister’s house. I’ll be back Monday morning.”
Rory looked up, his eyes sparkling wickedly. “So—are you taking this show on the road?”
“The jury’s still out on that one,” I answered, tucking my briefcase under my arm. “But I’ll have an answer for you Monday morning.”
FIVE
I ’VE CAUGHT THE TRAIN TO THE HAMPTONS SO MANY TIMES I HAVE the schedule memorized—catch the 4:19 at Penn Station, change trains at the Jamaica station, arrive at East Hampton at 7:20 P.M. As the train whizzed past Westhampton, I pulled out my cell phone and told Kirsten I had managed to catch the early train after all. She said she’d meet me at the station.
Truth to tell, Kirsten’s house was the closest thing I had to a real home, now that we’d sold my parents’ house. I used my studio apartment in the Upper West Side just for sleeping, an occasional meal, and providing a warm nest for Tux from the hours of 10:00 P.M. to 7:00 A.M. In the last six months, I had barely spent eight hours a night in the place, dividing the rest of my weekday time between the office, the courtroom, and the law offices of Wilt, Kremkau, Colby, and Stock.
But the weekends belonged to my family, Kirsten and Sean and three-year-old Travis . . . and Kurt, of course, when he could get away. He managed to go to the Hamptons with me about twice a month, and Kirsten kept a spare room ready in case he decided to show up.
She was waiting for me, as usual, outside the station, propped up against her black 4Runner. I gave her a quick hug, patted her belly hello, then ducked to peek in the back window. Travis, who usually squealed out an affectionate greeting, was asleep, his tousled head propped against the stiff curve of his safety seat.
The Immortal Page 5