by Debbi Mack
The door opened and Leonard Hirschbeck came in. He was only a couple of inches taller than my own five foot eight. He’d put on weight since I’d dated him in law school, and his curly brown hair was receding. From the look on his face, I knew he was as happy to see me as I was to see him.
Jones and I got up. “This is Leonard Hirschbeck, general counsel for Kozmik Games. Len, this is—”
“Sam McRae,” he said.
Jones’s cat eyes registered surprise. “You’ve met?”
“It’s been a while,” I said. But not nearly long enough. “I’m here to talk about Bradley Higgins.”
“I thought Walt Shapiro was his attorney.”
“I’m assisting Walt.”
“How nice for you. Did you make an appointment?”
“No, I was in the neighborhood—” Again, it was the truth.
“Sure you were. You have nerve, you know, coming in here and questioning a company employee without going through me.”
“I wasn’t aware I needed your permission.”
“Maybe you should reread the Code of Ethics. You can get in trouble for contacting clients who have legal counsel. Surely you know that.”
Bullshit. And who are you to be preaching about ethics?
“Now, Len, you know that rule applies only to cases in litigation,” I said, with syrupy politeness. “And, with all due respect, I had no idea Ms. Jones was authorized to speak for the company. That’s part of the rule, too, you know.”
Hirschbeck’s eyes narrowed.
“You didn’t know?” I gaped in mock surprise. “Maybe you should reread the Code of Ethics.”
“What the hell do you want?”
“I was just asking Ms. Jones about the security system in your offices. I’m wondering if you have security cameras set up. If so, they might reveal the person who placed the money in Brad’s file cabinet.”
“If we did, you can be sure we would have thought to check them by now.”
“So, yes or no. Do you have them?”
“No, we do not. No hidden cameras. No secret microphones.” He rolled his eyes.
“Then why did you decide to search his cubicle?”
“Our employees don’t have a complete expectation of privacy in their work areas. We can search them whenever we want, for whatever reason. You should know that.” Hirschbeck snarled. “This is a private business. When it comes to employee matters, we have a lot of latitude—including searching offices, desks, and what-have-you. And firing people.”
“Brad claims he actually raised concerns with his former boss about the phony vendor account. Do you have anything to prove otherwise?”
Jones started to open her mouth, but Hirschbeck cut in, like a trial lawyer registering an objection before the witness could answer. “We’ll have an independent auditor conduct a full investigation of this matter, but our decision to search Mr. Higgins’s cubicle was based on reasonable conclusions drawn from the evidence we had at the time.”
“What about his boss, Darrell Cooper? Why did you fire him?”
“Who says we did?”
“Well, he left rather quickly. Did you fire him?
“I’m not going to comment on that.”
“Did he leave on his own?”
“No comment. That has nothing to do with your client’s situation.”
“How do you know that? In fact, if Cooper was responsible for overseeing these accounts, why aren’t you investigating him, too?”
Hirschbeck glowered at me. “As I said, we are in the process of hiring an independent auditor. When the audit is complete, we will be happy to share the results, to the extent they are not otherwise privileged.”
I felt sure that Hirschbeck would be very busy coming up with privileges to assert. “I’m assuming that you’ll also have a computer forensics expert make sure no one hacked into the accounts payable system.”
Hirschbeck looked at me as if I was speaking in tongues. “You must be joking.”
“Not at all,” I said. “It’s possible someone did just that.”
“And we have to cough up the money for an expert, based on a mere possibility? I think not. It’s not up to us to prove our system hasn’t been tampered with.”
“Cooper worked in accounting. Perhaps he found a way to do it.”
“I told you, I have nothing further to say about him.”
“Is there some reason why you’re so reluctant to discuss Cooper—and why he left? Or the reasons you decided to search Brad’s workspace?” I leaned in for emphasis. “Is it because you have so very little?”
His face reddened. “We have more than you know,” he blustered. “A certain individual has shared information—on a confidential basis. The person prefers to remain anonymous, due to fear of retaliation by your client.”
So someone spoke out against Brad. I had to wonder if it was Attitudinal Ana. “Brad Higgins wouldn’t hurt a fly. And he has the right to confront his accusers. I’d like to talk to this person. You can be there, if you wish. Just an informal discussion. Off the record.” Not that there was any record to be on, at this point.
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible.” Hirschbeck bared his teeth in a fake smile. “Suffice it to say, we are confident that our actions, so far, are legally justifiable.”
“It won’t suffice at all. For all I know, you have nothing. Your source may be biased. Maybe has an ax to grind. Or something to hide. My client says he’s innocent. You’ve placed him under a microscope and put his livelihood and career at risk. It had better be based on more than accusations by an anonymous witness and evidence planted in his office.”
“Planted?” Hirschbeck turned beet red. “I’ll sue you for slander.”
“I didn’t say you did it. Is there a reason for you to take that remark so personally?”
We faced each other down, like gunfighters. I averted my eyes and glanced at Jones, to keep from laughing out loud at Hirschbeck’s mask of righteous indignation. Jones stood there, blinking, her gaze flitting back and forth between us.
The phone rang. Jones picked it up. “Yes,” she said, in a dull voice. “Okay.” When she hung up, she said, “My three-thirty is here.”
“That’s all right,” Hirschbeck said. His vocal chords sounded tight as bridge cables. “Ms. McRae was just leaving.”
I turned to Jones. “It was nice meeting you,” I said. “Maybe sometime we’ll be allowed to have an actual conversation.” I walked out with as much dignity as I could muster. Hirschbeck trailed behind. The two women sat hunched over their desks in the anteroom, making a show of not watching us leave. Jones’s “three-thirty,” some guy dressed like an insurance salesman, was too engrossed in reading outdated celebrity news to spare us a glance.
Hirschbeck followed me to the elevator. I wanted to tell him to fuck off. “It would make everything a lot easier if we cooperated with each other,” I said.
“You’ll get what you’re due in time,” he growled.
“Len-ny,” I said, in a mock pleading tone. He hated being called that. “Why are you doing this? Is it really to protect a confidential source? Or are you still angry, after all these years, that I broke it off with you?”
The elevator arrived. I got on, half expecting Hirschbeck to follow. Instead he snorted, “Don’t flatter yourself. You’re not that hot.”
“In that case, I can’t wait to learn what you’re hiding,” I shot back as the doors closed.
CHAPTER FIVE
I rushed back to my office for a late meeting with a little old lady who wanted a will done. Before she arrived, I phoned Reed Duvall, a private eye I’d befriended while working opposite sides of a recent case.
“Got some work for you,” I said.
“And I’ve got a problem with you.”
“Don’t worry,” I said. “I’m not looking for a handout. This is paying business I’m offering.” Duvall knew I usually did my own case research and investigation, since most of my clients couldn’t afford him.
“That’s my problem,” Duvall chided me. “All you ever call me about is business.”
I blushed and felt slightly heady. Thoughts of Ray brought me down to earth with a thud. The last thing you need is to get involved with someone else you work with. Duvall wasn’t married, but still . . . what if it didn’t work out? I didn’t want to ruin a perfectly good friendship. So I ignored his comment.
Affecting a breezy voice, I said, “You’ll be happy to know, this is for a case I’m handling with Walt Shapiro. I’ve got his blessing and budget to back me.”
I gave him a thumbnail sketch of the situation with Brad Higgins and asked for a background check on him, Darrell Cooper and Vince Marzetti. I wanted to know if any of them had made huge bank deposits or bought high-ticket items recently. I also asked him to track down the missing Darrell Cooper and see what he could find on ITN Consultants.
“When did Cooper quit?” Duvall asked.
“Week and a half ago.”
“If he’s moved, his new address won’t show up in any databases for at least a couple of months. You need this information sooner than that, I guess.”
“The sooner, the better. This guy may have ripped off the company and left our client twisting in the wind.”
“I’ll come up with something. I’m sure there’s a creative way to get at this.”
We both knew I didn’t want to hear what that was. “Thanks, Duvall. I’d have a go at finding him myself, but no one wants to talk to a lawyer. Plus, I’d be violating ethical rules if I pretended to be anything else.”
“If you can’t figure out a way around those rules, you must not be doing your job.” I heard suppressed laughter.
“Ha ha. Anyhow, you’re my way around the rules.”
“Thank God for dirty work. Keeps me in business.”
“Keeps us all in business. Makes the world go ’round.”
“Do I detect a note of cynicism?”
I sighed. “Cynicism? Or resignation that we’re all swimming in the same cesspool?”
“Listen to you. You need a vacation.”
A vacation. The concept seemed as bizarre as a pole dancer at a ballroom competition. When was the last time I’d had a real vacation? There was the two weeks I’d taken off before leaving the PD’s office. I did the math. Four years? Had it really been four years? With the workload building and the new case with Walt—it didn’t look like I’d be vacationing again any time soon.
His voice interrupted my mental pity party. “I’ll have something for you by tomorrow. After that, I’m out of town for a week.”
“Business or pleasure?”
“Family business down in North Carolina. Talk to you soon. And cheer up, okay?”
We hung up. I pondered my gloomy mood. The day’s irritations left me feeling sour and out of sorts.
When I got to the office the following morning, I had a voice mail message from Jon Fielding at Kozmik Games. I returned the call, only to have him insist on calling me back in ten minutes. I used the time to bang out a demand letter I’d been meaning to write for days. The slip-and-fall case involved a dancer named Daria Lewellin who thought she could claim her bruised knee as a career-ending disability and settle for millions. Not gonna happen, I thought as I requested a dollar amount with as many zeros as I could muster without laughing out loud.
The phone rang as I printed the letter.
“Sorry,” Fielding said. “I had to find a private place to talk. I don’t want Ana or anyone else listening in.”
“What’s the big secret?”
“I don’t know. I just know this Brad situation has made everyone paranoid.” Fielding spoke in a low, clipped voice. I could visualize his eyes darting around. “We’ve been ordered not to discuss Brad or the embezzlement with anyone. People here are even afraid to talk about it with each other.”
“Why?”
“I can’t talk much longer.” His words came out in a rush. “Just ask Vince Marzetti. I think he knew about that account before he left the company.”
“So you’re saying the account existed before Brad began working there?”
“I think so. Ask Vince. He’ll know.” The line went dead.
I went through my mail, searching for answers to interrogatories I’d sent weeks ago in a messy, slow-moving divorce—one of those cases you regret taking the moment you find out who the other attorney is. Steve Woodrow, aka “Slippery Steve,” was living down to his reputation. I’d called Steve several times about the answers he owed, only to end up in voice mail. He had never returned my calls. I dialed, got his voice mail again, and left another message. It took all my self-control not to pepper the message with expletives.
I didn’t see a cashier’s check or money order from Shanae Jackson for her child support case. No tickee, no laundry. It was Thursday—only two days since we’d met. I’d give her until Monday. After that, we’d have to talk. Maybe her brother wasn’t as obliging about paying my retainer as she’d expected.
I was wrapping up for the day when the phone rang. Could it be Slippery Steve returning a message? Dream on, I thought, picking up the phone.
“Ms. McRae?” The voice was deep and unfamiliar. “My name is William Jackson. I’m Shanae Jackson’s brother.”
“What can I do for you, Mr. Jackson?” I steeled myself to give a polite, but firm, “no” to any hard-luck story.
“My sister . . . ” His voice broke. “My sister is dead.”
I was too stunned to speak. “D-d-dead? What happened?”
“She was murdered. Someone beat her to death with a softball bat las’ night.” His words slurred. I wondered if he’d been drinking. “A neighbor found her this mornin’. Her back door was open and she jus’ walked in and found her on the kitchen floor.” He took a deep breath and sighed. “I drove down here from New York right after I heard.”
“Oh, my God. I’m so sorry. Was it a break-in?”
“I don’t know. Cops didn’t tell me nuthin’. They did say they couldn’t find a purse or identification. The neighbor knew her from her clothes and a cross she wore on a chain. Her face . . . ” Again, his voice cut off. I could hear the pain in it—and in his silence. “Her face was smashed in. I could barely recognize her myself,” he sobbed.
I took a moment to absorb the horror of the situation. How would Tina deal with her mother’s murder? If Shanae had been found that morning, she must have been killed sometime after Tina left for school. I hoped the police had contacted Tina’s school or her father before the girl came home.
“I’m so sorry for your loss, Mr. Jackson. Is Tina all right? Where will she stay?” Concern aside, I needed to note the change of address in her file.
“She supposed to stay with her father. So, she’s all right—kinda.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means the man may say she’s stayin’ there, but half the time, she ain’t gonna be there.”
“Where else would she be?”
“Who knows? She might stay with friends, but that don’t mean much. I don’t know these friends. I don’t know how far to trust ’em.” He paused. I could hear his labored breathing. “I think Tina’s fallen in with a bad crowd, Ms. McRae. I told Shanae it was just a matter of time before she got into trouble. And Rodney ain’t gonna lif’ a finger to stop her.”
“Hold it, hold it.” I tried to stem the flow of his words with a question. “Why do you think he’s the one to blame for Tina’s behavior?”
“Tina's problems started after Shanae went into the drug program, you know. When she was livin’ with Rodney.”
I thought about that. “According to someone familiar with Shanae’s history, she was abusing Tina. That in itself could have contributed—”
“I’m telling you it started with Rodney!” He wasn’t going to hear otherwise, regardless of the facts. “I told Shanae, what with her working two jobs, taking care of Tina was too much for her. I even offered to take the child in with me, cause she knows her Un
cle Bill won’t take any of her grief. But Shanae wouldn’t hear it. Maybe she weren’t much of a mother, but she loved that girl.”
I took notes for my file, the cynic in me wondering if Shanae held onto Tina for love or money. Fisher had paid some child support, even if it wasn’t all that he owed. Shanae had been getting some financial benefit from having custody of Tina. She might not have wanted to give it up.
“So what’s her dad’s number? In case I need to reach Tina.”
He gave me Fisher’s home and work phone. “But you’d be better off calling her cell phone,” he added.
I hadn’t thought to get her cell phone number when we met. I forgot that every kid has one. Uncle Bill gave me the number.
“If Tina listens to you,” I said, “you should encourage her to stay home and out of trouble.” At least, until we get her current situation resolved, my inner cynic interjected.
“I’ll do what I can. And now I need you to do something for me.”
“What’s that?”
“I want to be Tina’s guardian. I want you to handle it.”
“How does her father feel about this?” I had a funny feeling that the father was clueless.
“Father?” Jackson bellowed. “Since when has that man been a father? Was he there for her when she was sick? When she needed advice? Did he give her gifts at Christmas? Or even a birthday card?” Jackson continued to recite a laundry list of Rodney Fisher’s various malfeasances. His speech was rushed, his words garbled. He paused to catch his breath. “What has the man done, ’cept not be there for her?”
“He took her in when her mother was in rehab. And he is her father. Unless he’s willing to give up his parental rights, to become Tina’s guardian, you’ll have to show that he’s unfit.”
He grumbled. “He’s unfit, all right. I tole’ that court not to let him have her. And what happened? She grew up wild, that’s what. He never gave her no ground rules, no guidance. How fit a parent can a man like that be?”
It seemed to me Shanae had fallen short in that regard, too. Now was not the time to bring it up. William Jackson had already made up his mind.