“Okay, thanks Helen.”
“Since you have a few minutes, could we go over a problem Accounting discovered in last month’s expense report?” Helen asked, walking with Evie toward the receptionist’s desk.
“Sure. What’s the problem?”
“Natalie said there were some inconsistencies in the paperwork.”
“Which trip was it?” Evie said, stopping to face Helen.
Helen looked at the first page of a stapled report. She had inserted the words “see attached” in the blank for hotel on the face of the form. As she lifted the first page, she said, “I always keep your receipts in a file until I finish submitting the expense report. And I know you always leave your travel file in my inbox when you return. I found your L.A. receipts when I came in this morning.”
“I hope you can make some sense of them. Sorry I didn’t have time to organize them.”
“No problem. I’ll put them in order,” said Helen. She looked back at the flagged expense report. “Here’s the problem. It was that trip to Dallas last month,” she said. “The receipt that’s attached says you had a room at the Colonial Court Hotel. The reservation confirmation I included with the expense report isn’t here. But, I remember that trip. I booked you at the Windham, but I remember you sent me a message saying they’d had some sort of plumbing problem. Didn’t you end up staying at the Euphorion?”
“Mmmm. Let’s see … I’m trying to remember. Oh, yeah. I think you’re right, Helen. I took a taxi to the Windham, but when I got there they sent me over to the Euphorion. There has to be some mistake. Can you call both hotels and try to find out what happened?”
“Sure. I’ll do it right now,” said Helen, turning back toward her desk.
Wrong hotel. Somebody else’s receipt. Expense Report Hell. With notes in hand and her mind a controlled clutter, she started down the hallway toward Conference Room B. Jenna appeared from around the corner with the pace of someone chasing a thief. She was searching as she jogged and she wore an urgent expression, stopping short when she saw Evie.
Jenna’s eyes darted as she whispered loudly to Evie, “Alan’s new secretary, Mary, told me your name was in her records as having negotiated that Gooseneck agreement.”
“You’re kidding!”
“No, afraid not.”
“Great. Faulty records everywhere.”
2
When Evie entered the wood-paneled conference room, Senator Winston Arbeson was already there, standing in the corner, smoking cigars with Alan Levenger. No one was going to tell a United States Senator, the firm’s most important client, that it was illegal to smoke in the building; even Alan defied the city’s smoking laws. As she approached, both men turned in her direction, causing Alan’s last few words to spill out toward her: “Like I always say, if you’re going to shoot at me, you damn well better hit me.” Evie could not help hearing the phrase, but it meant nothing to her so just smiled. He was wearing his recent victorious closing for Finley Regent, just as she predicted he would.
“Evie!” The Senator greeted her as if they were long lost friends.
“Hello, Senator,” she answered. “I hope I’m not intruding.”
“No, not at all,” he said. “Alan and I were just finishing up.”
Alan, whose glare felt to Evie as if he were inspecting a potential purchase, walked toward the door without a word, wearing a jackolantern smile.
She watched him leave and then turned to Senator Arbeson. “Senator, I’m not sure when—”
“We don’t need Jack. I’ll tell you what I want.”
“Okay. Is this about the actuarial consulting firm we talked about?”
“No. I don’t care about that. Someone with my campaign will follow up with you on that.” Senator Arbeson walked to a sideboard where the aroma of fresh coffee danced on a spiral of steam. He poured a cup and took a hearty sip. “I need some tax advice. Jack said you’d be the one to ask.”
Evie clenched her teeth, but maintained a calm outward countenance. Tax law was an area largely foreign to her. She wondered why Jack would’ve suggested her for answers, unless the tax issue was within a small section of regulations relating to art, the only tax law with which she had any familiarity.
“I have an art collection.”
Evie relaxed.
“I’ll see to it that you get the help you need, Senator. What’s the situation?”
“I want to deduct appraisal, storage and other expenses associated with a collection that includes Picassos, Renoirs, a Gauguin, a Degas and a Warhol. My understanding is that I can do it if the collection passes muster as an investment.”
“Well, that’s true, but that’s just the first hurdle,” Evie said while a chill reminded her that she was running the meeting with one of the firm’s most important clients. “A taxpayer who holds art primarily for its appreciation income, can deduct certain expenses associated with the collection.”
“What proof’s required?”
“There are a number of qualifications.” Evie struggled to remember a list of criteria she’d read in a case summary. “The artwork must’ve been acquired principally for investment purposes as opposed to personal enjoyment. I’ll have to do some research to be sure, but the context of your consultations with appraisers may help us establish that you viewed your purchase primarily for investment value. Also, maintenance-type attention and any public display of your collection may support our contention that you considered it an investment because you were intent on enhancing its value.” Evie paused. “I assume you’ve kept formal records of the purchase, maintenance and expenses.”
The Senator nodded and gulped his coffee.
“How much expense money are we talking about?”
“Thirteen million and change.”
That’s a lot of expenses. Client perception was an important part of her job, but not a client in the process of committing tax fraud. Not even a senator. What could he have spent thirteen million dollars for in the maintenance of an art collection anyway?
“It’s typically an uphill battle to prove investor status, but it has been done in certain cases. Then, the expenses in question must be ‘ordinary and necessary.’”
“Well, you should have no problem establishing my case. An aide will send over the specifics. Take care of it, okay?”
“I’ll have to look over your paperwork, but we’ll try to make a good faith argument. Is this in response to an IRS inquiry?”
“No, part of a required public disclosure that nobody but the press even takes a look at, but no doubt the IRS will take notice once it’s out, so I want it to be airtight. You’ll fill in the blanks with the necessary bulk. Understood?”
“Let me review the matter and I’ll let you know where we stand.”
“Stalwart. I’ll talk to Jack. You should be a partner if you’re going to be working on my matters.”
“Mmmm. Well, thank you, Senator. I appreciate all votes of confidence, but I haven’t done any work for you yet.”
Senator Arbeson said nothing more, offered a conspiratorial smile and shook her hand before he left. Evie stood for a moment and let the conversation hang in the air. Was Senator Arbeson asking her to bolster the facts in his favor? She mulled over his words. Did she just receive a directive to manipulate his tax information? Or, was he just expressing confidence in his case and suggesting she do as aggressive a job as legally allowable? I want the partnership, but for the right reasons. Not for manufacturing a taxpayer status that can’t be reasonably argued from the situation. “Even if it means keeping a senator happy,” she said under her breath.
Ten minutes later, she was in her office preparing for her next meeting.
Oh … Alan. She dialed his extension.
“Evie?” His greeting served double duty, asking the question: “What do you need?”
“Alan, did you get my email about Neully? They were not too pleased about the news I had for them this morning.”
“Don’t worry abou
t it. They’re supremely disorganized. I agree with your analysis of the marks and I’ll tell them so.”
“I don’t understand why their email didn’t show up in my inbox until yesterday.”
“Computer glitch probably. I’ll call them and apologize for missing the call this morning.”
“Okay, Alan. Oh, there’s one other thing. I’m afraid there’s a mistake in some of your record-keeping. Your secretary has me listed as the associate who negotiated a recent agreement for Gooseneck-dot-com. I never worked on that matter.”
Evie glided around her office as she spoke. A Redweld file reclining on a chair opposite her desk fattened as she loaded files into its opening.
“Evie, that matter’s closed. Why are you concerned about old records?”
“Well, it’s important to me that the firm’s trail of my work is accurate. Reviews are coming up and I wouldn’t want there to be any confusion.”
“Ahh. Understood. You’re gunning for partnership. Okay, I’ll check into it.”
“Thank you, Alan.”
~~
The humidity bathed Evie’s face as she walked through the streets of midtown after an afternoon of client meetings. She could not avoid breathing in the dense odors that were transported on the moist summer air of the City. As she walked at a brisk pace, the welcome aroma of fresh fruit from a street vendor’s cart was replaced by the mildewy spittle of a window-bound air conditioner.
She wove her way through the crowds of people blanketing the sidewalks, pushed open the doors to her building and ran for the elevator to the fourteenth floor. After ducking into the restroom to freshen up, she heard Jack Hanover’s booming voice behind her in the hallway so she turned around and smiled at the firm’s managing partner.
“Evie. I was planning to stop by your office. Thanks for handling Arbeson this morning. I knew he’d get good advice from you.”
“No problem.” I wonder what he told Hanover.
“It’s just that kind of client service that makes a well-rounded lawyer. And it’s that type of lawyer that we look for in our partnership decisions.”
Before she could say anything more, the acclaim was followed by the inevitable demand.
“Before I forget, retrieve my Roma Sori Blueline file from Liza and put together a summary of the issues for me, cross-referencing your notes. Please have it for me by noon tomorrow.”
“Of course.” Evie suppressed a sigh as she shook hands with Hanover and walked past him toward her office.
Another night at the office. All things personal will have to wait. Again.
Evie finished drafting comments on a trademark license agreement at around 7:45 p.m. and turned to the matter Hanover had requested. Helen had not only organized the file but also created a chronology of her correspondence and telephone notes. The Roma Sori Blueline memo for Hanover would be easy. Helen, you’re a lifesaver.
At 9:20 p.m. she took a break to walk down the hall for a cup of coffee. The office was quiet, although she counted four glowing valleys of light under the office doors of other senior associates, one of them Jenna’s. Evie knocked, opened the door, and leaned in.
Jenna had already been staring in that direction, apparently deep in thought, and spoke before Evie could issue a greeting.
“What are two beautiful single women doing in a place like this with all that nightlife happening a few hundred feet south?” said Jenna.
“That is the question, isn’t it?” Evie stepped into the room and stifled a yawn.
“Are you leaving soon?”
“Yeah. I’m finishing up some revisions to a draft, but I should be ready to leave in about twenty minutes. Want to grab a late dinner?” asked Evie.
“If alcohol is involved, I’m there.”
“I’ll buy you one.”
“Meet you at the library door in twenty.”
~~
“Any partnership news?” asked Jenna over a frothy chocolate martini at Capers, a trendy bar near the office.
“Hanover dangled a carrot today, but I’m not going to bite. Awfully coincidental. It was right after I’d met with Senator Arbeson who asked me to handle something for him.”
“If he wants you to be made a partner, you will.”
“We’ll see how he feels after he receives my memo. I’m not comfortable pushing to the point he seemed to suggest.”
“That’s the problem with V.I.P. clients—they can make your career or break it.”
Evie and Jenna both pleaded exhaustion after two drinks and an assortment of appetizers so they hugged and departed for their respective apartments at 11:40 p.m., leaving a crowd just beginning to churn.
“Finally made an escape from d’office, Miss Sullivan?” greeted Fred, the doorman at Evie’s apartment building at the corner of 65th Street and Central Park West. She gave him a generous smile as he opened the door for her.
“Night, Miss Sullivan. Oh, almost forgot … d’ere’s a package for ya over t’the front desk.”
Evie nodded. The concierge handed her the usual collection of bills, catalogs and junk mail, then reached under the counter and retrieved a porcelain vase that held one dozen red roses.
“Somebody sure likes you,” he said.
“Thanks.” Evie smiled and lifted the vase to walk to the elevator. She decided to read the card once she was in her apartment where she could shed her shoes and lay down the heavy briefcase and collection of mail.
Could it be? How would he have been able to find out where I live? As she hurried to her apartment door and opened it, her eyes focused on a white piece of paper that had apparently been delivered under her door. She deposited her gatherings on the console in the foyer, bent down and grabbed the handwritten note.
Hello, love. Haven’t seen you in awhile. Miss your smile. Can we have a drink and catch up on gossip?
Or how about brunch on Sunday? Love, Ralph.
Ralph Crosby was her neighbor across the hall and a trusted friend. He had donated a washer to her one laundry day in the basement, and they had become acquainted during simultaneous spin cycles. Ralph was an import from Great Britain who had attended law school in the United States and had established himself in New York as a partner in a small litigation firm.
Evie smiled as she read Ralph’s note. She then searched for a card attached to the roses. There wasn’t one. She looked around on the floor and shuffled through the mail to see if the card had fallen or had mixed in with the envelopes and magazines. Nothing. She dialed the concierge.
“Ellis, was there a card? Did the roses come with a card that might have fallen off behind the desk?”
“Uh, well, I don’t … let’s see. I honestly don’t remember seeing any card. Hold on.” She heard him put down the receiver. In a moment, he returned. “Sorry, Miss Sullivan. No card anywhere here.”
Evie hung up. She was too tired to go back and search the elevator so she collapsed on her bed, intending to sort through the stack of mail, but falling asleep with an open telephone bill in her hand.
During her Wednesday morning commute, she thought about the roses that had greeted her the night before. It must’ve been Ralph. No card, but their delivery had coincided with the note he deposited under her door. She made a mental note to telephone him later from the office.
There were two scheduled client meetings for today in addition to the pile of work that she knew waited on her desk. She had to stop by her office to gather some files and check her messages before taking the subway to Wall Street where the first client would be waiting for her.
~~
Alan Levenger lit his fifth Camel of the morning, walked to his desk and sat down. He leaned back in the tufted-leather chair like a land baron contemplating newly annexed acreage. As he spun his reclined throne to starboard, the edge of the neck-rest brushed an asymmetrical stack of old newspapers that had balanced itself for months on an overburdened credenza. The movement disturbed multiple copies of an old issue of one of New York’s tabloids, Spellbound!; t
hey fell at Alan’s feet.
He retrieved one of the copies. His eyes focused on the front page containing a tease for a story about a sex scandal at a Manhattan investment firm. He flipped over to the society page and his face reflected his self-amusement, recalling the moment that the Spellbound! photographer snapped a particular photograph.
It showed a nameless female in a strapless dress on his inebriated lap in the company of one of the firm’s prominent clients. Fortunately, the photographer had not captured the moment when Alan had slipped his hand around the client’s surprised wife. What was her name? Carol, Cathy … I don’t remember. It doesn’t matter. Some just have something to trade for power and then actually believe they’re powerful. The sound of an email arrival drew his attention to the computer screen and he opened the new message:
Prepare the Docs. Arrange TC. Closing 9/20.
As he read, Alan blew out a lung’s worth of smoke through puckered lips and licked away the dry after-effects. He closed his eyes and leaned back against the leather upholstery. His blood surged. Everything he’d predicted was falling right into place.
3
One of the firm’s most senior partners, Paul Wayford, appeared in the firm’s kitchen on Wednesday morning, as Evie was supplementing the milk in her café latte.
“Morning, Evie,” he said. “Don’t forget that we’d like you to say a few words about that moral rights matter at the partner’s meeting this afternoon.”
“I remember. Is a brief summary okay or do you want something more formal?”
“That’s fine,” he said pouring coffee into his cup. “Nothing elaborate. We just want to hear about the highlights of the negotiation. The deal closed, did it not?”
“Yes, it did.”
“Terrific. Few partners in the firm have had exposure to … shall we say, such arcane issues.”
“I understand. No problem. I’ll be there.”
“Great. See you at four.”
After a late morning meeting on Wall Street, Evie took the subway back to midtown. She deposited her briefcase and jacket on a chair and opened plastic containers of miso soup and vegetarian spring rolls, positioning them on her desk between stacks of files. Flipping through the bundle of written messages Helen had left on her chair, she came to a note requesting her to see Alan in his office immediately upon returning.
Wearing the Spider (A Suspense Novel) (Legal Thriller) (Thriller) Page 3