Brian Haig - PrivateSector

Anyway, my apartment is very compact, having a tiny living room, efficiency kitchen, and bedroom with a cramped bath. I am fairly neat and tidy, though it has been suggested that an interior decorator might make a few minor alterations. I’m no expert, but I believe the style of decor is labeled “This Pit Needs F-ing Work,” because some of my lady guests have mumbled words to the effect. It suits me and my needs, however.

I know, for example, that the guiding rule of interior decoration is the need for every living room to have a dominating piece.

Mine happens to be a sixty-inch big-screen TV, intravenously fed by a cable box. A few beaten-up bookshelves and a pair of reclining chairs strategically positioned six feet from the sixty-inch screen complete the decor. I have an obsession for bare white walls, and a thing against clutter, rugs, plants, side tables, lamps, and so forth. It took two men forty-five minutes to move me in, and will take probably less time to haul me out. Traveling light is practical when you’re in the Army, and obligatory when you have trouble finding bosses that like you.

Janet was shaking her head. “You actually live here?” She swiftly said, “Oh… I’m sorry-you probably just moved in.”

“Very funny.”

She laughed. She said, “This pit needs work.” Right.

Anyway, I wandered toward the tiny porch off my living room, where two steaks were grilling. She studied the mammoth TV a moment, then took the remote off the top, flipped it on, and asked, “Have you been watching?”

“Should I have been?”

“It’s a bad one, Sean.”

Well, the channel was preset on ESPN, so she had to surf around a bit for Fox News. A stunning female reporter stood with a mike pressed to her lips, a tall gray office building and banged-up green Dumpster as backdrops, saying, “… when the call came into our Washington studio, the building you see behind me, claiming that a body was inside the Dumpster outside. Leslie Jackson, our studio manager, and a security guard went to check, and then notified the police. Though local authorities aren’t offering any details, we know from Leslie’s description that the newest victim was horribly mutilated. Her corpse was naked, her limbs were shattered from repeated blows by a heavy blunt object. In a disturbingly gruesome step, her nose had been cut off her face.”

She took a question from the anchorperson, and replied, “No, Mark, the body has not yet been identified, though the FBI expect to know her identity later today. They also confirmed that her neck was broken, just like the other vic-”

Janet abruptly hit the off button, then informed me, “Earlier they confirmed that four slash ten was written on her palm.”

I flipped the steaks, and she joined me. She stood and stared off into the distance. The day was chilly and brisk. Dark clouds were sprinting and spiraling across the sky; a driving rainstorm appeared to be moving in, a typical mid-December day for Washington, and another woman would not live to see it.

I threw the steaks on a plate and Janet followed as I carried them into the kitchen. I withdrew the potatoes from the oven. A bottle of red wine was open, breathing, as they say, though exactly how dead grapes breathe is an enigma I’m sure I don’t want answered. I filled a glass of wine for her and popped a beer for me. My kitchen was equipped with an eating counter and we both got comfortable.

I asked, “By the way, what are the odds of William Murray getting convicted?”

“What?”

“William Murray?” The question was meant to throw her, but I was getting a blank look. “Mail fraud and conspiracy?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” And she did, indeed, appear perplexed.

“Paragon Ventures?”

“The company accused of the big Medicare scam?”

“You know about it?”

“Yes-everybody knows about it. It was all over the Boston Globe for weeks. The Boston DA’s office is handling it.”

“Are you involved in the prosecution?”

“What’s this about?”

“Are you involved?”

She shook her head. “Paragon Ventures is accused of committing a corporate crime. I work felonies, and I prosecute murders mostly. What’s this about?”

“This morning I was dragged in front of a couple of the firm’s senior partners. The server we logged onto the other day showed that we downloaded two legal files. It happens that Culper, Hutch, and Westin is handling the defense for both parties.”

“Oh… and you-”

“Yes. I’m in very deep shit, accused of abetting your theft of confidential firm information that’s very injurious to two of their highly valued clients.”

“That is deep shit.”

“Put on your hip boots. You’re my accomplice.”

She thought about this a moment, then asked, “And those files were supposed to be in Lisa’s e-mail?”

“So the server says.” I added, “And I was assured that the server does not lie. And did you know it’s hooked up to some wildass clock in Greenwich that keeps it accurate to within three… whatevers?”

“What?” she asked, somewhat distracted. “It’s ridiculous. You saw what I saw.”

“I thought I did.”

“You did. So… somebody doctored the files afterward. It’s the only explanation.”

“No, it’s the most likely explanation.” Then I asked her, “Barry Bosworth, did Lisa ever mention him?”

“Why? Do you think he’s involved with this?”

“I have no reason to.”

She stared at me for a few seconds, then said, “Over the course of the year, Lisa told me about a number of the people she worked with at your firm. I had the impression it’s a very… an unfriendly environment.” She added, “Bosworth was high on her list of people she didn’t trust or like.”

“His wife and children don’t trust or like him. Specifics, please.”

“Lisa complained about him several times. He gave her a hard time, took credit for some of her better work, generally tried to undermine her. He saw her as a threat, and tried his best to harm her.”

“The same Barry I know and love. What about Sally Westin?”

“She was higher on the list than Barry.”

“We’re talking about the same Sally?”

She nodded, and she said, “Lisa mentioned several times that she thought something was strange and… No, actually, she said something was phony about her. I had the sense that her dislike of Westin was more personal than her feelings toward Bosworth. I think she regarded Sally as more dangerous.” She added, “I don’t know why.”

I found this a bit confusing.

I mean, Sally struck me as a hopeless case-not overly bright, lousy client skills, one of those unfortunate people who kill themselves trying… literally. Every firm has them, that guy or gal who sweats too hard, stays too late, too often, and spends too much time on their knees sucking up to partners. They think effort and suction will be their own just rewards. Not so. Just not so. In the highly competitive field of law, talent and brains are the tickets to the brass ring. I had observed no inkling of either in Miss Sally Westin.

But regarding Sally, I also felt, as I mentioned, that something was odd, repressed, almost coiled. Knowing her tragic background, I supposed she was carrying around a bundle of confused emotions, bitter regrets, anger, guilt, and God knows what other poisonous attributes. The children of suicidal parents often have a heavy cross to bear, emptiness, unfulfillment, and confused destinies. But how that made Sally dangerous was a factor I had yet to figure out.

I asked Janet, “Anybody else I should be careful of, know about, whatever?”

She lifted her wineglass and stared down into the liquid. “Well, Cy Berger.”