Imminent Peril (Sasha McCandless Legal Thriller Book 10)

by Melissa F. Miller

  But she was shaking with embarrassment and anger. She reminded herself she needed information from him. “Right, sure. Tex-Mex sounds great. What time works for you?”

  “Let’s do it early, before the lunch rush. I’ll meet you at eleven thirty.”

  “See you then.”

  “Mickey Collins,” a cheerful male voice answered.

  The consultant screwed up his face. What kind of lawyer answered his own telephone? He hadn’t planned to speak directly to the attorney, but he switched gears seamlessly.

  “Yes, good morning, Mr. Collins. This is Agent Pataki from the Department of Homeland Security.”

  Collins also shifted gears. His voice became cautious, distrustful. “What can I do for you, Agent Pataki?”

  “I’m calling regarding a client of yours, a Dr. Agarwal.”

  Silence on the other end of the line. The consultant gave a grudging nod of approval. Most people rushed to fill the silence and ended up saying more than they’d planned. Not Collins; he let it hang there, untouched.

  So, he continued, “It’s about her visa.”

  “There must be some mistake. I’m not representing Dr. Agarwal on any visa or immigration issues.”

  Ah, but he hadn’t said she wasn’t a client.

  The consultant probed. “She gave your name. Perhaps you’re representing her on another matter and she was hoping you could handle this, as well. It’ll only take a few minutes to clear up. I’ll stop by your office.”

  “I’m afraid that’s not possible. I have an appointment outside the office this morning. And, with all due respect, agent, I’m not authorized to discuss anything with you.”

  “Mr. Collins, you should reconsider. You don’t want me to have to go to the court and get a warrant, do you?” He affected the authoritative, no-nonsense voice of every customs agent he’d ever encountered.

  “Actually, Agent Pataki, that’s exactly what I want you to do.” Mickey Collins slammed down his phone, ending the call abruptly.

  The consultant stared down at the phone in his hand in amazement.

  20

  Sasha watched as Mickey followed the hostess through the restaurant and slid into the seat across from her.

  “Thanks for coming,” she said.

  “Sure thing.” He gave her a bright smile as he shook out his napkin and smoothed it over his lap.

  The waiter approached to take their drink order. Mickey ordered a draft beer. Sasha decided she was in a margarita mood.

  “What’s good here?” Mickey asked her, flipping through the menu, as the waiter left to get their drinks.

  “Everything.”

  “You sure?” He looked around skeptically.

  “Don’t be fooled by all the dancing skeletons and the corny menu names. The food’s solid.”

  She should know. She’d been eating at Mad Mex since high school, graduating from the dark and scary one near the University of Pittsburgh’s campus to the well-lit, kid-friendly one in Monroeville as she aged. The fact that there was now a location within walking distance of both her home and office meant that approximately one-fourth of her body weight was margaritas and guacamole.

  He nodded and closed the menu with a snap. “So, listen. You know I like you—always have. And I'm glad you sent your friend my way, but I'm not sure I can help you with whatever it is you want to know.”

  “I just need her telephone number. Even better, her address.”

  “Ah, I don’t know. If she wanted you to have it, why don’t you?”

  “Mickey, she’s missing.”

  That got his attention. “You said she stood you up. That’s not exactly the same thing as going missing.”

  “She didn’t just stand me up. She missed our anger management class.”

  He snorted. “I’m sorry, but the image of you taking a court-ordered anger management class tickles my funny bone.”

  “Yeah, it’s a laugh riot,” she said drily.

  “Well, I heard you did a number on that guy in the bar. So you’re pretty lucky Will was able to swing ARD for you. It’s a sweet deal.”

  “I guess.” She didn’t really want to talk about her probation situation. “Can we bring this back to Prachi?”

  He nodded. The waiter dropped off their drinks and a bowl of chips with house-made salsa. He took their lunch orders and disappeared into the back. Sasha watched the foot traffic outside the big wall of windows for a moment while she sipped her drink, savoring the salt that rimmed the glass.

  “So, Prachi,” Mickey prompted, hoisting his mug.

  “Right. Did she tell you Playtime Toys threatened her with deportation?”

  He nodded, piling chunky salsa onto a still-warm, blue tortilla chip. “Yeah, so?”

  “So, she wouldn’t miss class. It would be inviting human resources to revoke her visa—because now she’s tossed from the program.”

  His eyes clouded. “And she knew that was the consequence?”

  “Our drill sergeant—er, social worker facilitator—made it crystal clear.”

  “Huh. I wouldn’t think she’d screw up like that. She’s sharp. Real smart, great recall of the relevant facts. I mean, she’s as impressive as hell. And her retaliation claim is rock solid.”

  “Right. And she seemed committed to fighting her company on the underlying safety issue. Which is why there’s no way she skipped class of her own volition.”

  “Uh-oh.” Mickey pushed the chips away and picked up his beer.

  “Uh-oh what?”

  “I got a really strange call this morning—right after you and I hung up. It was some Homeland Security agent calling about Prachi. He said she’d given him my name regarding her immigration status.”

  “That’s not good,” she breathed.

  “No, it’s not,” he agreed. “The guy was a piece of work; he was really pumping me. Bad vibe.” Mickey shook his head.

  “You didn’t tell him anything about her case, did you?”

  “Cripes, Sasha, I’ve been at this since you were hanging upside down from monkey bars and getting the hang of riding a two-wheeler. Of course not. I told him to go pound salt.” He looked wounded.

  “Sorry. Of course you didn’t. I’m just worried about her.”

  “You should be. If she’s on ICE’s radar …” He didn’t finish the thought.

  “What was the guy’s name?”

  He gave her a strange look but answered. “He said he was Agent Pataki.”

  “I need a telephone number. An address. Something. Please, Mickey.”

  “Okay, sure, anything for you. But don’t bring my name into it, okay? If she’s mixed up with ICE, I want no part of it. She’s at 12 Amelia. Apartment 3B.”

  She grinned at him. “Thanks. Can you tell me anything else? Anything you think might help me find her?”

  He shook his head slowly. “What I think is you’re ankle deep in doo-doo. And I don’t want to put on my waders.”

  “What’s happened to you? Where’s your sense of adventure?”

  He stared at her for a long time. She couldn’t read his expression, but she imagined he was remembering the time they’d worked together to bend the rules of ethics almost to their breaking point in order to expose a murderer.

  He drained his glass before he answered. “I’m getting too old for adventure, kid. So are you.”

  21

  Naya was sitting on the porch swing, swaying gently back and forth, when Sasha walked up the stairs to her porch.

  “Oh, hey,” Sasha said in surprise. “Did Connelly toss you out?”

  She laughed. “I think Flyboy and the twins must be out and about. Nobody answered the doorbell.”

  “How long have you been sitting here?”

  “Not long.” Naya took in her sheath dress and cardigan—her usual office garb. “Where were you?”

  “I met Mickey Collins for lunch.”

  “Mickey? You’re not interviewing for a job are you?”

  “Bite your tongue. Do you w
ant to come in and tell me what’s going on?” Sasha asked over her shoulder as she inserted her key into the lock.

  “Actually, I have to get back to the office, but I need to tell you something first.” Naya patted the seat beside her.

  Sasha removed the key and joined her on the porch swing. “Aren’t you supposed to be out in Stowe Township getting a witness statement?”

  Naya cocked her head as if to say, ‘how did you know that?’

  “I talked to Will this morning.”

  Naya looked as though she wanted to ask for details, but she returned to her own story. “Right. I’m chasing down statements for your case.”

  “My case?” It took her a moment to realize that Naya wasn’t talking about one of the matters on Sasha’s caseload but, rather, the emotional distress cause of action Steve Harold was threatening to file against her. “Was it one of the women from the bar?”

  “No. The three women he was hassling are on my list for tomorrow. And then the bunch of guys who stood around and did nothing. Today, I met with Mr. Harold’s ex-wife Gina.”

  “He’s divorced? Color me shocked.”

  Naya laughed knowingly. “The former Mrs. Harold has an interesting story to tell.”

  “Let me guess. Her husband had a temper?”

  “I’m sure he did, but that’s not what we talked about. And I should preface this by saying I haven’t had a chance to tell Will any of this yet, but I think it’s a game changer as far as your defense is concerned.”

  A game changer? Sasha found herself leaning in, eager with anticipation. “Tell me already.”

  “Get this. Steve Harold is—or was, I guess—a professional stuntman.”

  “A stuntman? Like in the movies?”

  “Exactly. He had parts in all the big movies that were filmed in the ‘Burgh, right up until The Dark Knight Rises. That was his last role.”

  “What happened?”

  “He figured out fraud paid better.”

  “What sort of fraud?”

  “According to the missus, he was approached by some unsavory characters, who wanted to hire him for a series of insurance scams. He was in a bunch of car accidents that were set-ups, did some slip and falls in big-chain grocery stores. The next thing Gina knew, he’d paid off their mortgage with cash and bought a Camaro.”

  “Crime pays, huh?”

  “It came at a cost—a few broken ribs, some sprains and fractures. But she said he was raking it in at lightning speed and spending it just as fast.”

  “Are you suggesting someone paid him to get into a fight with me? That the entire thing—harassing the girls, coming at me with the bottle—it was all a set up to get me arrested?”

  Naya shrugged. “Gina didn’t know anything about it. She said it didn’t sound like the sort of game the mob guys he worked for would run. But she also said that, based on the way it went down, she was pretty sure he could have controlled the scene to make it happen.”

  Sasha fell silent. She was trying to remember if he’d made a genuine effort to evade the blow that broke his nose. It was impossible to say; she couldn’t accurately judge the combat skills of someone she’d faced off against only once. “Maybe,” she mused. “If you're telling me he was trained to take falls, he’d have to be limber and flexible enough that he should’ve been able to dodge me.”

  “Right. So why didn’t he?”

  “You think he let me break his nose?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Why? So he could sue me? If so, the joke’s on him. Even Prescott & Talbott has to know that claim is weaker than weak.”

  “Unless prevailing in court isn’t his true goal,” Naya countered.

  “Listen, can you stop with all the Sphinx-like riddles and hints? Why else would he sue me?”

  Naya gave her a look. “What else has he gotten out of it?”

  “Well I’m off the arbitration. And I’m on leave.”

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  Sasha stared at her for a moment. “Sonofa …”

  “You can say that again.”

  She thought some more. “How? He’d have to have known I was going to be at that bar. I didn’t even know I was going to be there until I called Maisy. It was a spur-of-the-moment plan we cooked up after I sent out the position statement early.”

  “Who picked the place—you or her?”

  “Um ... I did. Caroline had been talking about it; she’d gone there over the weekend with her husband. I suggested it to Maisy, and she said sure, it was one of her favorite spots.”

  “Were you in your office when you called her?”

  Sasha answered slowly, remembering. “No. I was at Jake's waiting for my coffee. They were backed up, so after I put in my order, I called Maisy to see if she was free.”

  “So there were people around?”

  She closed her eyes and pictured the scene. “Well, sure. Mostly regulars. A couple randoms in suits.” Her eyes snapped open. “Nobody who looked like Steve Harold.”

  “But anybody in there could have been working with Harold, just hanging out waiting for you. I mean, you do stop in for an afternoon coffee every day.”

  “Still … it’s farfetched.”

  “It is. But that doesn’t make it impossible. We both ought to know that one by now,” Naya said.

  True enough.

  “Speaking of farfetched stories, try this on for size. The reason I stopped by this morning was to tell you and Will that one of the women in my anger management class just happens to work at Playtime Toys.”

  Naya’s right eyebrow shot up to her hairline. “You think that's a coincidence?”

  “Sort of? Maybe? It’s not as though she pumped me for information or anything. In fact, she didn’t even mention that she worked there. She told me she was there on a trumped-up disciplinary charge from work. She said she uncovered some safety issue. She took it to management and they shrugged it off. Suddenly, she was on probation and taking a mandatory anger management class.”

  “Harsh.”

  “Right? She wasn’t willing to let it go. She didn’t tell me any details, but whatever was wrong, it showed up on some test. Doesn’t that sound like it’s a product issue?”

  Naya shrugged. “Maybe. They have to test for all kinds of things—lead, phthalates, that little parts won’t come off and block kids’ windpipes. It could be one of a dozen things.”

  “Anyway, this woman told me she would redo the test if they didn’t. Then she doesn’t show up again. It’s weird.”

  “You know, even though you’re on leave, you probably shouldn’t be talking to her about this stuff. I mean, we do have an active case against her employer. Conflicted, much?”

  Sasha shook her head. “She never told me where she worked or any details about the safety problem. She was mostly just venting about being railroaded. I hooked her up with Mickey Collins, because it sounded like she might have a retaliation claim.”

  “Sounds like it,” Naya agreed. “How’d you find out she works at Playtime Toys?”

  “I started poking around when she didn’t show up for class.”

  She didn’t have to say more. She and Naya shared a well-developed love for snooping.

  “Holy moly. What did Will say?”

  She sighed. “Will said you guys can't tell Recreation Group about any of this because it’s all speculation. He thinks Prachi Agarwal has to be the one to come forward with it.”

  Naya gave her a knowing look. “So you’re trying to track her down. You need some help?”

  Sasha wrinkled her nose. “I think I can work on that angle. What I really need help with is finding out which product it is. Little kids could be in danger, Naya.”

  “Or not. You don’t know that.”

  “Help prove me wrong then.”

  “Uh-uh. No way.”

  “Just give me a list of products that are subject to consumer product safety testing. I’m sure it’s one of the schedules to one of the documents they produced during due diligenc
e.”

  “Mac, no. You know, this could all be part of the set up. This woman feeds you misinformation; you take it to our client; they bring it up in the arbitration; Playtime Toys proves it’s false; and the firm gets smacked with some sort of malpractice or misconduct suit.”

  The thought had crossed her mind. But Prachi had never even mentioned Playtime Toys.

  “Naya, please. I know this deal is important to you, but—”

  She shook her head. “That’s not it, and you know it. I’m sorry, but no. You need to keep your nose clean. Leave it alone.”

  “Or what? I’m on criminal probation and I’ve been ousted from the law firm I created. I don’t have much left to lose.”

  Naya pursed her lips. “But I do.” She stood up and walked away, down the stairs to the sidewalk, without looking back.

  Sasha swayed back and forth on the swing and watched her go.

  22

  The consultant walked through the entrance to the bar and sized up the crowd. It was a hard-drinking local joint on the South Side. Not one of those shiny tourist spots on Carson Street aimed at sports fans and college students. This was a neighborhood dive, hidden back on a narrow, crooked side street, sitting diagonally from an all-night Laundromat and next to a sad-looking corner store. The place stank of stale beer and cigarettes, and the rows of drinkers—almost all men, almost all white—didn't look up when the door opened and light spilled into the dim interior. He was glad he’d had the foresight to wear jeans and a T-shirt because one of his bespoke suits would’ve stood out in a bad way.

  He shouldered his way through the crowd until he found Steve Harold nursing a beer at a scarred wooden table. He dropped into the seat across from the man. “What's so urgent?”

  Harold took a pull of his beer and wiped the foam from his mouth before answering. “I need an escape plan. You gotta get me out of this court case. Pronto.”

  The consultant frowned. “I don’t ‘gotta’ do anything. I suggest you remember to whom you’re speaking.”