Irreparable Harm (A Legal Thriller)

by Melissa F. Miller

  Chapter 35

  They hurried Gregor inside the loft. Connelly directed him to the seat by the window in Sasha’s living room area, pointing to it with the gun. Gregor backed into the chair and sat, glaring up at them.

  Sasha’s skin crawled at the sight of one of the men who had killed Warner and attacked her sitting in the dark brown club chair where she liked to do her reading. She’d always thought that was just a saying, but her nerve endings were jumping. It felt like ants were racing up and down her arms.

  “Do you have any electrical tape or wire? Something to restrain him?” Connelly asked, keeping his eyes on Gregor.

  “No.”

  Then Sasha remembered the rock-climbing equipment. “Wait.”

  She opened the closet in the foyer. On the floor behind a never-used picnic basket was a box labeled “Patrick’s gear.” She dragged it out to the foyer and dug through it. She tossed the harness, pulleys, and carabiners out onto the floor. From the yellow rope bag, she removed two lengths of rope, then she rifled through the box until she found the paracord, coiled up on the bottom.

  Connelly and Gregor both watched her. Connelly, with open fascination; Gregor, with dread.

  “Who’s Patrick?”

  “He’s ... was my brother.” Sasha didn’t look up from the box. She put the ropes and paracord to the side and replaced the rest of the items she’d strewn on the floor. Closed the box and returned it to the closet.

  “Was?”

  She met Connelly’s eyes. “Later,” she said.

  Or never, she thought. She was in no mood to pick open that wound.

  She stood and walked over to Gregor. Laid the ropes and cords on the kitchen island and looked hard at Gregor.

  “Empty your pockets. Do it slowly.”

  He dug into the breast pocket of his jacket and took out a cell phone and wallet. Looked up at Connelly. “These are his.” His mouth was dry and it came out as a croak.

  “Put them on the table to your left.”

  He did.

  “Are you really an air marshal?” he asked Connelly, worried.

  “I really am. You should be relieved, Gregor. We’re not going to kill you. Well, I’m not. I guess I can’t speak for her. But, me, I’m happy to let the prosecutors decide if you get the needle.”

  Gregor did not respond. He just kept removing things from his pockets. Another cell phone and wallet, car keys, and a hotel room card went in a pile on the table.

  “No gun?” Connelly said.

  Gregor was silent for a minute. Then he said, “It’s in the car. Didn’t think I’d need it with her.” He tilted his chin toward Sasha.

  “Do you have any weapons on you?”

  Gregor nodded. “There’s a knife strapped to my left ankle.”

  Sasha moved in to take the knife, and Connelly ordered Gregor to put his hands straight up while she did so. It was a curved, wicked-looking thing. A hunting knife.

  Holding it by two fingers, she put the knife on the island and retrieved the ropes.

  She hoped she’d remember how to tie the knots. She hadn’t climbed since college, before Patrick died. They’d started rock climbing together when she was home for the summer after her freshman year.

  Climbing was the only common ground they shared. Patrick had been conservative and rigid. Sasha’s college-aged liberalism and dabbling in veganism, environmentalism, and every other ism hadn’t sat well with her older brother.

  But, when they were out on a rock face, counting on one another in a very real sense, those differences had fallen away. They’d come back to their parents’ home from a day spent in the wind and sunshine, laughing and joking.

  Patrick had dubbed her the Spider Monkey, for the way she scrambled up the side of a mountain. The Christmas before he died, he had found a silver pendant in the shape of a monkey and put it in her stocking.

  Sasha blinked away the memory and focused on the ropes.

  “Put your arms behind the chair.”

  Gregor did as he was told, wrapping his arms around the back of the chair. His hands dangled in the approximate middle of the back of the chair.

  Sasha moved behind the chair and used the paracord to fashion a Prusik knot around her finger. A Prusik was useful for climbing, because it was a friction knot: it could slide up and down a climbing rope, but when tension, like the weight of a climber, was applied to the knot it would tighten, grab the rope, and lock off. She figured it would be equally good for improvising a hand restraint if she pulled it tight. That was the plan at least.

  She wrapped the loop of the paracord around her finger and then wound it again, taking it inside the previous first loop. She repeated the process. Once she had six loops in a loose knot, she slid her finger out.

  She eyed the free ends of the cord and Gregor’s hands. She had plenty of cord. She passed both ends of the cord through the Prusik knot from opposite ends and pulled them to form a restraint knot. Then she formed two loops and passed the ends through again to tie off the loops. She tightened the loops around Gregor’s wrists. The Prusik was pulled taut, clamping down on the restraint knot. She tested it. It was tight.

  Working quickly, she moved around to the front and used the nylon climbing ropes to each of his ankles to the feet of the chair with a tight half-bow knot.

  “My shoulders are already hurting from this position. You know, with the broken ribs.” He looked at her dolefully.

  “You’ve got to be kidding. You don’t really think I care, do you?”

  “Ignore him,” Connelly suggested from the kitchen area. “Let’s heat this food up and eat.” He had rested his gun by the sink and was banging around, taking out plates and opening containers. He put a plate in the microwave.

  “Can we decide what to do with him first?”

  “Why? He’s not going anywhere. Aren’t you hungry?”

  She was. But, she’d planned on opening a Chilean red and having some wine with her mango curry. Maybe having a conversation with Connelly that didn’t involve death. Unwinding after three truly hellish days. Now, instead, she was going to scarf down reheated food while keeping one eye on a man who wanted to kill her.

  “Sure, fine.”

  They ate standing at the island.

  She gulped down the mango curry, and Connelly shoveled the chicken prik king into his mouth as fast as he could. He paused between bites once to say how good it was. That was the extent of their dinner conversation.

  Sasha poured them each a glass of water. She rinsed the empty plates and loaded them in the dishwasher. Start to finish, the meal took seven minutes.

  “Sorry I ruined your date,” Gregor said.

  They both ignored the crack. Sasha slipped out of her high heels and stretched her feet.

  Connelly bent his head toward hers, “I’m going to make some calls. Take the gun. Watch him. Shoot him if you need to.”

  He snagged his cell phone and wallet from the table beside Gregor. “You be good,” he told their captive.

  Then he went up the three stairs to her bedroom area. As long as he kept his voice low, Sasha knew they wouldn’t be able to hear his conversation.

  She picked up the gun and pulled a barstool over from the island, placed it directly in front of Gregor and aimed the gun around where his heart would be. Considered him. He looked tired. And old.

  “Are you going to cooperate with the authorities?”

  He tried to shrug, but the movement just increased the pressure on the knot at his wrists. He grimaced. “Why not? Irwin is nothing to me. Just a job. If I can cut a deal for me and Anton, sure.”

  He craned his neck as far forward as he could and said, “Warner was an accident. We didn’t mean to kill him, and Irwin didn’t care that we killed him. Now, you, he wants you dead.”

  Sasha didn’t react.

  “Let me ask you a question. What’s in those files?” Gregor asked.

  “I don’t know. I never got them. Either you missed them when you tossed Warner’s
apartment or they’re lost in the mail.”

  They looked at each other. It was Sasha’s turn to shrug.

  “Do you know who Irwin is working with?”

  Gregor shook his head. “No. I know he has a partner here, but that’s it. The partner had that other lawyer killed, far as I know.”

  Connelly came down the stairs, his cell phone jammed in his ear. He picked up the hotel key card from the table near Gregor and turned it over.

  “It’s The Doubletree,” he said into the phone.

  He looked at Gregor. “What’s the room number?”

  The Russian hesitated.

  Connelly muted the phone. “Listen, you know you’re going to play ball. I know you’re going to play ball, so let’s throw out the opening pitch, ok? What room is your partner in?”

  “220.” He looked down at his trussed legs then up at Connelly. “Can I at least call him? Let him know? He can’t go anywhere. He’s speed dial two on my phone.”

  Connelly ignored the question and wrapped up his call. “Listen, you have what you need? Yeah. Outside the building in ten. Roger that.”

  He disconnected from the call and stared at Gregor.

  “No, you can’t call him.”

  “He’s my sister’s kid.”

  “I don’t give a shit. Do you seriously think I am going to let you warn him that the marshals are on their way? You think I’m taking responsibility for an ambush?”

  Gregor looked at Sasha as he answered Connelly. “You don’t understand. He couldn’t ambush anybody. He’s in bad shape. Real bad.”

  “The answer is no.”

  Connelly turned to Sasha.

  “I assume you want to keep your name out of this?”

  “If at all possible.”

  “The TOD—Tactical Operations Division of the Marshals’ Office—is going to handle this. Officially, they are working off a tip from a confidential informant about two men who killed a young man in Washington, D.C. Gregor and his friend will be charged with Warner’s murder. There will be no mention of the assault on you, and they won’t be charged for it. Is that okay?”

  Sasha shrugged. “Sure, that’s fine. Aren’t the marshals going to have some questions about Anton’s injuries?”

  Connelly turned to Gregor and said, “Anton sustained a broken jaw and shattered cheekbone during his struggle with Warner. Isn’t that correct?”

  Gregor would agree to anything at this point.

  “Yeah, that’s right. That kid had a lot of fight in him. But, I’m gonna need to pass a message to Anton so he goes along. Can I call him?”

  Connelly shook his head. “Listen carefully. No. I’m sure a businessman like you has a criminal defense attorney on retainer.”

  Gregor cracked a smile. “Speed dial three.”

  “Tell the marshals you want your call and talk to your shyster. If he’s representing your nephew, too, he can tell him.”

  Sasha looked out the window, scanning the parking lot below for headlights. It was dark.

  Gregor’s cell phone, still in Connelly’s hand, gave a shrill ring. Connelly checked the name that flashed across the display.

  “Client No. 1,” he read from the screen. He looked at Gregor.

  “I save speed dial one for my current most important client, always,” Gregor said, proud of his client relations savvy. “That’s Irwin.”

  “Talk to him,” Connelly told Gregor, pressing the speakerphone button and picking up the call.

  “Yes,” Gregor said. It seemed to serve both as a greeting to Irwin and an agreement with Connelly that he would play along. To be sure, Sasha waved the gun at him as a reminder.

  “What’s our status?”

  Irwin’s voice was hard and nasal.

  “I’m in the lawyer’s home now.”

  “Do you have my files, you ape?”

  “I haven’t had a chance to search the place yet.”

  Despite herself, Sasha was impressed. Gregor was doing what most witnesses couldn’t seem to manage. He was answering the questions asked honestly but without helping the questioner. If only the clients she prepared for depositions could do it half as well.

  “I want those files in my hands tomorrow morning. Do you hear me?”

  “I hear you.”

  “Good. One change. I’ve left Potomac. I’m on my way to Pittsburgh now.”

  Connelly and Sasha exchanged a glance. Connelly motioned with his hand that Gregor should elicit more information from Irwin.

  “Uh, where should I bring the file?”

  “I’ll call you in the morning with an address. In the meantime, don’t call me for any reason. I have something important to attend to.”

  “I understand.”

  Connelly hung up the phone and dropped it in his pocket. “You don’t mind if I keep this for a few days, right?”

  Gregor understood this wasn’t really a question. “I don’t mind,” he said, eyes downcast.

  Connelly eyed the restraints.

  “You think we can get him out of the chair with his arms still tied up?”

  Sasha tilted her head and looked around to the back of the chair. His arms weren’t bound to the chair, just stretched across its back and trussed together.

  “Sure. It’s not going to feel good.”

  “Gregor doesn’t mind,” Connelly replied.

  Gregor’s face darkened, as if he’d reached his limit of cooperation, but he said nothing.

  “Okay.” Sasha handed the gun back to Connelly, glad to be rid of it, and picked up Gregor’s hunting knife. She removed it from its sheath, knelt by Gregor’s legs, and sliced through the lines tying his feet to the chair’s legs.

  The climbing ropes were thick and she expected to have to saw at them, but it was easy work. Sasha turned the knife in her hand. The blade was at least four inches long and sharp. She thought for a minute about what Gregor might have had planned for her. When she looked up, he smiled at her.

  “Stand up,” she said, ignoring the growing urge to crack a few more of his ribs.

  Gregor tried to hoist himself to standing. He lifted his bottom off the chair about six inches and then collapsed back into it.

  “I can’t do it. I need my arms free.”

  “No chance,” Sasha told him.

  She moved around to the back of the chair. Shook her head.

  “He’s going to have to stand or we’ll never get his arms over the back of the chair,” she said to Connelly.

  Connelly appraised Gregor and the chair for a long minute. Then he picked the club chair up and heaved it on to its side on the floor.

  Gregor’s legs were splayed out to either side of him. The weight from the chair put pressure on his injured ribs, and his face turned purple from the pain.

  Connelly grabbed the bottom of the chair and pulled it toward him. The motion jolted Gregor, and he yelped. Once the chair had cleared Gregor, Connelly righted the chair and placed it back in the precise spot it had occupied by the window. He dusted it off, paying no attention to the man writhing on the floor at his feet.

  “Well, that’ll work, too.” Sasha said.

  She put the knife back into its leather sheath and handed it to Connelly, along with Gregor’s wallet and car keys.

  “Thanks. I’ll be back as soon as I can. You’re going to have to stay put for the night. They’ll send a unit for the Camry, but it’ll be several hours before they complete all of their testing and move it.”

  “You’re coming back here?”

  “I think I should. We don’t know if this partner of Irwin’s is also after you or if you’re the business Irwin has to attend to here.”

  It made sense. Sasha nodded.

  “See you later.”

  Connelly picked Gregor up from the floor by the paracord, hauled him to his feet, and marched him to the door.

  Sasha engaged the lock behind them and went in search of that bottle of wine.