Phillip Margolin: The Associate

“I don’t have much in the fridge,” he apologized, “but I could make us some coffee.” “Not necessary.” Bernier led Fulano into the living room and offered him the most comfortable chair. Fulano sat down and carefully crossed his left leg over his right. “How can I help you?”

Bernier asked. “I am interested in buying a copy of a photograph that was originally purchased from the Pitzer-Kraft Gallery in late February by a lawyer named Gene Arnold.” “Are you with the police?”

“No, Mr. Bernier. Why do you ask?” “The police in Portland, Oregon, called me about that photograph. Do you know that Arnold was murdered?” Bernier’s visitor nodded. “Why did the Oregon authorities contact you?” “They want a copy of the photograph, too.” “Have you sent it to them?” “No. I just found the negative. It was misplaced.

I’m mailing a print to Portland tomorrow.” Fulano smiled. “I wonder if I could induce you to sell me a copy of the photograph as well.”

“Sure. I can make another copy.” “How much do you require?” Bernier did a quick calculation based on the quality of Fulano’s clothes.

“Fifteen hundred dollars,” he said. “A reasonable price, but the photograph would be worth five thousand to me if you would do me a small favor.” Bernier managed to conceal his surprise and excitement.

He had never sold a photograph for that much money. “What would you want me to do?” “Do the authorities in Oregon know that you’ve located the negative of the photograph?” “No. I just found it this morning.”

“The five thousand is yours if you wait to send the photograph until I tell you to do so.” “I don’t know,” Bernier answered, suddenly worried. “It’s a murder investigation. The detective I spoke with thought the people in the picture might be involved in Mr. Arnold’s death.” “I, too, am interested in discovering the identity of Mr.

Arnold’s killer. I have no desire to obstruct a police investigation.”

“Then why do you want me to wait to send the photograph to the police?” Bernier’s visitor leaned back and steepled his fingers. “Is five thousand dollars a fair price for your photograph?” “Yes.” “Is it more than fair?” Bernier hesitated, certain that the man knew he had inflated the price. “It’s very generous.” “Then I would hope that you would permit me to simply say that your assistance is important to me.” Bernier considered the proposition for a moment more before accepting. “Do you think you could have the photograph for me by this evening?” Fulano asked. “I have an early flight?” “That shouldn’t be a problem. Come by at eight.” Bernier’s visitor opened his briefcase and handed him a stack of currency. “A down payment,” he said. “I hope you don’t mind cash.”

The aroma of coffee lured Daniel out of a fitful sleep the next morning. When he limped into the kitchen Kate was finishing her breakfast. She looked up from the paper and smiled. “How are you feeling?” she asked. “I’m okay,” Daniel answered unconvincingly. He poured himself a cup of coffee. “I forgot to ask, last night. Did anything happen in Arizona?” She nodded as Daniel put two slices of bread in the toaster. “I’m pretty certain I know why Gene Arnold came to Portland.” Daniel carried his coffee to the table and Kate told him about the kidnappings in Desert Grove and her discovery that Aaron Flynn had been Paul McCann’s attorney. “So you think Gene Arnold recognized Flynn in the photograph?” “I can’t think of any other reason for him to come here.” “But why-” Daniel stopped in mid-sentence. “The guy!” “What?” “Saturday, Joe Molinari took me to my apartment to get my running gear. When we pulled up I saw a man leave my apartment house and get into a black pickup. I was certain I’d seen him someplace before. I just remembered where. The day I dropped off the discovery Flynn and this guy came into the reception area together. I got the impression he worked for Flynn.” “Describe him to me.” “He looked like a weight lifter, a big neck, thick shoulders. I’d guess he was in his forties.” “Burt Randall. He’s Flynn’s investigator.” “Why would he be at my place?” Kate was quiet for a moment. “Did you tell anyone other than me that you were going to meet Kaidanov at the cemetery?” “No.” “Then how did the killer know?”

“Maybe someone followed Kaidanov.” “That doesn’t work,” Kate said. “If the people who wanted him dead knew where he was, they would have killed Kaidanov before he could tell you that the study was a hoax.”

“Maybe I was the one who was tailed.” “But they’d have to know you were meeting Kaidanov. Kaidanov called you at your apartment, right?”

Daniel nodded. “Randall knows all about electronic surveillance. You may have a tap on your phone.” “Is there any way you can tell?” “I know someone who can sweep your apartment.” “Shit. The only person who could clear me is dead and my apartment might be bugged. This is getting worse and worse.”

Paul Durban, a chubby, bespectacled man in a white shirt, gray slacks, and a gray sweater vest, finished his sweep of Daniel’s apartment as Kate and Daniel watched from the couch. Durban concentrated his equipment on an area of molding for a few moments, then he turned to Kate. “One bug in the phone, one in the bedroom, and one in here.” “Thanks, Paul. You know where to send the bill.”

“Anytime,” he said as he gathered up his equipment and left. Durban had placed each listening device in its own evidence bag and left them on the coffee table. Daniel picked up one of the plastic bags and examined the bug. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking,” he said. “Until Kaidanov told me that his study was a hoax, I was sure that Geller was trying to cover up Kaidanov’s results. Now that I’ve learned about Aaron Flynn’s connection to Gene Arnold, I’ve been looking at everything that’s happened in a different light.” Daniel put the bug down. “When I dropped off the discovery I had a talk with Flynn. He told me that he’d hired more than twenty people to deal with the Insufort case and had leased another floor in his building to house them. That had to cost him. Now add in the expense of hiring experts at three hundred to six hundred dollars an hour and the other assorted expenses of litigation and you’re looking at hundreds of thousands of dollars in costs. “Flynn made a lot of money from his other cases, but I bet he’s plowed a lot of that dough back into the Insufort case.

That’s a good investment if he wins. In some of the Insufort cases, the plaintiffs are permanently injured babies. You’re talking about a lifetime of damages. There’s lost earning capacity, medical costs, lifetime care. The life expectancy of a male is around seventy-two years and a female’s life expectancy is a little under eighty years.

What kind of care does a severely handicapped child need? There’s nursing care, doctors’ visits, psychiatric counseling for the parents.

We’re talking a hundred thousand dollars a year, easy. Now multiply that by seventy or eighty years and multiply that by the number of plaintiffs. Potentially that’s millions in attorney fees. When the first few plaintiffs showed up, Flynn must have thought that his ship had come in. I bet he started spending money like crazy, figuring he’d make a fortune when the cases were over.” “But the studies failed to show a causal connection between Insufort and the birth defects,” Kate said. “Exactly. And Flynn figured out that it was only a coincidence that the plaintiffs were taking Insufort and their children had birth defects. That’s when he decided that he had to manufacture evidence.”