by Diane Capri
Partly because these were pro bono clients, Jennifer guessed at first he was a workingman who had never been inside a blue-chip, silk-stocking Tampa law firm like hers before and was probably nervous.
No.
He shook not because of nerves. Alcohol withdrawal. Jennifer recognized the signs. Her father, too, had been a drinker once.
Lila Walden remained still, primly restrained, ankles crossed as she’d no doubt been taught in the church where she’d been baptized and married. The way she styled her hair and dressed reminded Jennifer of aged photographs in her mother’s albums.
An old-fashioned, imitation leather purse rested on Lila’s lap under hands holding a delicate lace handkerchief. Narrow gold wedding band her only jewelry. Quiet. Controlled.
“We’ll be helping Mr. and Mrs. Walden with a guardianship proceeding,” Melanie said, as if Jennifer were a part of the team. But she wasn’t. She couldn’t be. Jennifer’s time was already promised to other clients.
“Our baby just up and disappeared, ma’am,” Ronald Walden told Jennifer. “We been lookin’ for her for weeks.” Ronald waited, figuratively hat-in-hand, pleading for Melanie or Jennifer to work a miracle. If only she could.
“They’re concerned about their daughter being evicted from her apartment while she’s gone because the rent hasn’t been paid,” Melanie explained. “And they want to use her funds to hire a private investigator to find her.”
Melanie headed up the Community Services team and Jennifer was grateful not to be assigned to the often desperate clients who lived too near society’s edges. She envied Melanie’s objectivity; something Jennifer could never master. She quickly recalled what Melanie said about this heartbreaking, hopeless new case yesterday at lunch.
Almost as if she’d been abducted by aliens, Roxanne Walden had vanished three weeks ago. She’d left her tony apartment full of expensive furnishings and everything else she owned behind. She’d even left her purse, complete with wallet, credit cards, and cash.
Tampa PD had done what it should have, Melanie said. Missing women had become a high priority to American law enforcement agencies. For too long, too many victims had been presumed missing but later discovered dead, usually at the hands of husbands or boyfriends. The police had tried to find Roxanne by using all their normal means.
When the Waldens first reported Roxanne missing, local police had checked her credit card charges, ATM withdrawals, and bank account activity. There had been none. Roxanne’s car was still in the parking lot of her apartment complex. All airline, train, bus, and cruise ship lists of passengers departing Tampa had been examined. Friends and colleagues were interviewed. Even unidentified bodies that had found their way to the morgue in the intervening weeks were, one by one, considered. But none were Roxanne.
Now, standing in the small conference room in the presence of Roxanne Walden’s parents, Jennifer felt herself being pulled into the vortex of a family tragedy, one she had no power to change. Except that it would have been incredibly rude to do so, Jennifer would have tried again to excuse herself from this nightmare.
She knew she was the antithesis of the warrior goddess, Cyrene, for whom she’d been named: Cyrene Jennifer Lane. Maybe the ancient Cyrene had fought a tiger with her bare hands, but the modern Jennifer Lane had no illusions about her own bravery. She was a hardworking lawyer, honest, sincere. Maybe even intelligent. But she was certainly not brave. Jennifer had never been brave.
When Melanie insisted that Jennifer take a seat at the conference table, she didn’t have the strength of will, or the right, really, to refuse. She tucked her blouse back into the waistband of her skirt and ran her fingers through her hair. Rubbed under her eyes, to minimize the black mascara rings. Jennifer knew she still looked foolish, but it was the best she could do.
Jennifer listened through half an hour of Ronald Walden’s lament, feeling more disheartened with each passing second. There was no way Roxanne’s story would ever have a happy ending. She felt that as strongly as she’d ever felt anything.
Ronald tossed a small cell phone from one hand to the other, then pushed a stack of pictures toward her.
Jennifer flipped through the color photographs. The scene suggested Roxanne had only run outside briefly. To the mailbox, maybe.
Nothing about the pictures of Roxanne’s two-bedroom apartment, only a few miles from where Jennifer now sat, screamed murder. Designer clothes still hung in the walk-in closets, while boutique toiletries implying pleasant floral scents rested on the dressing table in the master bathroom. A high-end computer perched on an ebony ergonomic desk in the home office.
Big screen television gleamed like a black hole from the wall where it was mounted opposite a glistening oil on canvas. Speakers remained poised to serenade from the corners of the main room.
Ronald handed a grubby manila file folder to Melanie, who opened it to review the contents.
“Here’s the notice of eviction,” Melanie said, handing the document that had been tacked to the door of Roxanne’s apartment over to Jennifer.
Skimmed the notice. Management would be removing Roxanne’s things from the building after five more days.
“I knowed the gal felt real sorry for us,” Ronald continued in his heavy Southern drawl. “That’s why she called. She said if we just paid the rent, everything would be okay.”
“Was Roxanne married?” Jennifer asked. Chagrinned to realize she’d used the past tense.
Lila made a small snorting sound that might have been mirth, but Ronald said simply, “No.”
“Children?”
Ronald shook his head back and forth. No children, either.
Jennifer struggled to maintain a safe emotional distance. She couldn’t get swallowed now. Not tonight. Melanie would be handling the Waldens’ case and she’d be great for them. Jennifer still had mountains of other work to do.
She left as soon as she could reasonably excuse herself. It was the migraine that scared her, Jennifer told herself, not intuition that Roxanne Walden would never be reunited with her parents above ground. Jennifer couldn’t change the outcome. Just like the last time.
CHAPTER FOUR
RUSSELL DENTON SETTLED HIMSELF deeper into his leather wing chair and ignored his fatigue. Outside, Tampa’s daily summer thunderstorm raged. Oblivious to the relentless pounding of the monsoon-like rain, the savvy, self-made billionaire focused yet again on Jennifer Lane’s short dossier, and noted little with which he was able to find fault. At least, nothing that he was capable of changing. He checked the information he’d already memorized, comforting himself with its familiarity.
She was young but smart. University of Florida law graduate five years ago. Summa cum laude—if not from an Ivy League school. And she craved approval. Excellent. He liked insecure overachievers. He understood them well.
The next notation concerned him the most. Jennifer Lane suffered from debilitating migraines for which she took prescription medication. Her condition was well controlled, he’d been assured. Not that he believed.
Russell examined the candid photos. Jennifer wasn’t beautiful, although the resemblance to the other woman was clear if you knew what to look for. A certain tilt to the nose; crinkles around her eyes; brown, curly hair. Those physical traits were the same. The dimple in her chin seemed identical. Jennifer was well groomed, but plain. Nothing particularly out of the ordinary. The other one had been something special. Flashy. Irresistible. Maybe Jennifer’s ordinariness would mask the similarities. He hoped.
A small frown formed between his eyes as Russell reread the next line on the page. Single. Too bad. He’d made that mistake once before. Married would be better.
Make the best of it. Single. No husband or children to distract her. And this one was nothing like the other. Not a party girl.
He stared again at the pictures. Definitely not glamorous. Not his nephew’s type at all. Single could be all right this time.
It had to be.
Russell forced his br
ow to relax and the frown faded slightly. He nodded to himself. Yes, Jennifer Lane looked good to him on paper. Besides, he’d already rejected all of the other options and he didn’t have the luxury of starting over, even if Jennifer wasn’t perfect.
Russell closed the slim yellow folder and placed it carefully on the coffee table in front of his chair. Then he picked up the blue folder and sat back to review once more the memorized dossier on Stuart Barnett.
Russell’s memory was his great ally. He memorized everything. Lately, though, he’d noticed his own increased mental confusion. He memorized material but couldn’t recall it quickly when he needed to.
Forced himself to concentrate. Rain pelted the windows of the high-rise as strong wind gusts rattled the panes, but Russell didn’t notice the weather outside.
Stuart Barnett was older than Jennifer, of course. Fifty. Experienced. The black sheep at a good enough law firm. Despite strong talent, Barnett was underappreciated by his partners and had been passed over for promotion several times. He was bitter and had something to prove. Excellent.
The frown returned to Russell’s face as he reread the facts. He picked up the four-color driver’s license photo and another picture the investigator had collected.
Barnett was too good-looking a man, his wife was too wealthy. The combination meant the lawyer wouldn’t be easy to control. A definite problem. One that couldn’t be helped.
Russell tapped the blue folder against his knee. He reexamined his plan.
The package could work perfectly. Jennifer the face; Barnett the experience. Would it, though?
Russell could find better legal talent, but as a team the two of them might do the job.
Still, Russell’s intuition was almost as essential to him as his memory. And something about this decision nagged him, just didn’t feel quite right.
If his other efforts were unsuccessful, everything would depend on Lane and Barnett’s success. Denton Bio-Medical was the only thing Russell truly cared about—besides his nephew. He’d worked too hard, for too long, to lose everything now.
Lane and Barnett. Could they do it? If he was wrong—no, he wouldn’t even consider that. He pushed the thought away. He needed to be certain.
Russell tested his own decisions in the way a highly successful man surrounded by sycophants must: proceed objectively. He’d made his own way in the world since he was sixteen. He’d learned the hard way to rely only on himself.
Now was not the time for a crisis of confidence.
Russell felt hot in the heavily air-conditioned room. Ignored his rising fever. Replaced the blue folder on the table next to the yellow one. Looked straight ahead, facing the hidden camera behind the large mirror, as if he could see through to the camera’s lens and its operator in the other room. At least he would have an accurate tape. He could examine it later. He would be able to reassure himself objectively. Or develop alternatives.
An exceptionally loud crack of thunder snapped Russell back to full attention. Raised his glass of iced tea in a toast to Tyler, the unseen camera man, and then sipped. Checked the time.
“Exactly four o’clock. We’re ready,” he said, testing the microphone again.
“Are you tired?” Tyler asked via the small, invisible microphone inside Russell’s ear.
“A luxury I can’t afford,” Russell insisted.
“Have you eaten today?”
“No appetite.” Russell heard the disapproving silence. Lane and Barnett would be prompt, regardless of the weather. Everything about them in the recorded dossiers told him so. He glanced again at his watch. No one had dared to keep Russell Denton waiting in decades.
Russell sensed his life coming down around him with the same violence the storm outside. But fifty years in business had taught him never, ever, to show his emotions. Poker face. Essential.
“You could still change your mind,” Tyler’s disembodied voice suggested.
Russell gave a quick negative head shake. Tyler was wrong. Russell Denton couldn’t change his mind. Because if he did, he would die.
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Diane Capri and
Lee Child Dialogue
Don’t Know Jack: Behind the Book
Readers ask me where I get my ideas. I usually tease, “I order them from ideas dot com.” The truth is I don’t always know. Ideas spark, kindle my interest and sometimes explode into a novel or a series of novels. But in the case of Don’t Know Jack, I do remember the moment.
A couple of years ago, I was chatting with Lee Child at a book event in New York about his iconic character.
“Where is Reacher hiding?” I asked.
“Reacher doesn’t hide,” Lee said. Maybe a little huffily?
Lee’s a lot bigger than me. And he writes violence like a man with experience. I’ve always thought him a gentle giant, but . . . . I backpeddaled a bit.
“Right. But where does Reacher live?”
“Wherever he wants,” the tall guy said. I thought I detected a slight challenge in his tone.
I backed out of arms’ reach before I pressed on. “He waits until trouble finds him and then he wipes the floor with the bad guys. Perfect. But what’s he doing between books?”
Lee shrugged, said nothing.
Tenaciously, I tried again.
“Reacher’s killed a lot of people by now. Sixteen books. A lot of bodies. Surely someone wants payback, don’t you think?”
Lee leveled the patented Reacher stare. “Who in his right mind would go looking for Reacher? You?”
Right. Only an idiot with a death wish—or an FBI agent who knows nothing about Reacher’s, er, talents—would undertake such a foolhardy quest. Even then, she wouldn’t do it if she had a choice.
But matching wits with Jack Reacher, now that would be interesting, I thought, even though it could very well be deadly. Then again, the bigger they are the harder they fall. Whoever takes Reacher down will become a legend in some circles.
What if a determined, ambitious woman . . . .
That’s the backdrop behind Don’t Know Jack.
Lee Child
THE REACHER REPORT:
March 2nd, 2012
....The other big news is Diane Capri—a friend of mine—wrote a book revisiting the events of KILLING FLOOR in Margrave, Georgia. She imagines an FBI team tasked to trace Reacher’s current-day whereabouts. They begin by interviewing people who knew him—starting out with Roscoe and Finlay. Check out this review from Amazon: “Oh heck yes! I am in love with this book. I’m a huge Jack Reacher fan. If you don’t know Jack (pun intended!) then get thee to the bookstore/wherever you buy your fix and pick up one of the many Jack Reacher books by Lee Child. Heck, pick up all of them. In particular, read Killing Floor. Then come back and read Don’t Know Jack. This story picks up the other from the point of view of Kim and Gaspar, FBI agents assigned to build a file on Jack Reacher. The problem is, as anyone who knows Reacher can attest, he lives completely off the grid. No cell phone, no house, no car...he’s not tied down. A pretty daunting task, then, wouldn’t you say?
“First lines: “Just the facts. And not many of them, either. Jack Reacher’s file was too stale and too thin to be credible. No human could be as invisible as Reacher appeared to be, whether he was currently above the ground or under it. Either the file had been sanitized, or Reacher was the most off-the-grid paranoid Kim Otto had ever heard of.” Right away, I’m sensing who Kim Otto is and I’m delighted that I know something she doesn’t. You see, I DO know Jack. And I know he’s not paranoid. Not really. I know why he lives as he does, and I know what kind of man he is. I loved having that over Kim and Gaspar. If you haven’t read any Reacher novels, then this will feel like a good, solid story in its own right. If you have...oh if you have, then you, too, will feel like you have a one-up on the FBI. It’s a fun feeling!
“Kim and Gaspar are sent to Margrave by a mysterious boss who reminds me of Charlie, in Charlie’s Angels. You never see him...you hear
him. He never gives them all the facts. So they are left with a big pile of nothing. They end up embroiled in a murder case that seems connected to Reacher somehow, but they can’t see how. Suffice to say the efforts to find the murderer, and Reacher, and not lose their own heads in the process, makes for an entertaining read.
“I love the way the author handled the entire story. The pacing is dead on (ok another pun intended), the story is full of twists and turns like a Reacher novel would be, but it’s another viewpoint of a Reacher story. It’s an outside-in approach to Reacher.
“You might be asking, do they find him? Do they finally meet the infamous Jack Reacher?
“Go...read...now...find out!”
Sounds great, right? It’s available and you can get it HERE. Check it out, and let me know what you think.
So that’s it for now ... again, thanks for reading THE AFFAIR, and I hope you’ll like A WANTED MAN just as much in September.
Lee Child
Diane Capri Reveals Lee Child
(not Jack Reacher?)
September 16, 2012
There’s no nicer guy on the planet than my friend Lee Child. He’s kind, amusing, normal. What’s not to like? You probably feel the same. He’s smiling and blue-eyed friendly in all those author photos, right? What we see is what we get with Lee.
So I asked him if he wanted to be Revealed to Licensed to Thrill readers when his latest book was released. I figured we’d have a little fun, be a bit irreverent, maybe share some things about one of the world’s most beloved authors you didn’t already know.
I wasn’t nervous at all at first. That was dumb. Because I forgot one of Kim Otto’s first rules: You never see the bullet that gets you. The first unheeded warning was when Lee sent me his self-portrait before our chat. It was a sort of Andy Warhol thing....As a person who’s vertically challenged, I peered up through my binoculars and covered the most important point first.
Diane Capri: Someone recently described you as a lanky praying mantis. How tall are you, anyway? Ever wish you were shorter? I mean, don’t you get light-headed at that altitude?