Джозеф Файндер - Judgment

“He can be a gloomy Gus.” She reached down and picked up Lucy, put her in her lap. Lucy’s pert ears twitched as she wriggled against Martie. “But he has his reasons. So what’s the idea?”

Juliana told her.

Martie listened, her face composed and neutral. Then she spoke, gently at first. “My dear, please don’t be brave. My mother used to say that ‘bravery’ is how clever people get simple people to do their bidding. Right now you’re on a trolley car bound for parts unknown.” Looking directly into Juliana’s eyes, she said heatedly, “Get off that trolley. Get off as soon as you can.”

Juliana arrived home after nine and put down her suitcase. Home, at last. Right away she heard a door on the second floor open and Jake come thundering down the stairs. He was wearing a black T-shirt with the cartoon head of a crazy-looking angry guy and the words IF THERE’S A GOD, IT’S ME! The T-shirt was from an animated show Jake liked.

“Hey, Mom,” he said, and he gave her a hug. Tears came to her eyes. It was so out of character for him. Normally he’d be barricaded upstairs in his room with his headphones on.

“Sweetie.”

“That was really cool, what you did with Dr. Cole.”

“What do you know about what I did with Dr. Cole?”

“Dad told me.”

“Listen. We need to talk.”

“I know.”

They sat down at the kitchen table, round and old, oak and solid. He wasn’t fighting it. She folded her arms, even though she knew the body language was bad, defensive. “What I did with Dr. Cole today, I’m never going to do again. I got you out of something I’m not going to get you out of again. I just want us to be clear about that.”

“I get it.”

“Were you in fact dealing drugs?”

“No! My friend Arthur was paying me back for— I mean, I gave him one of those pen tops—”

“Oh, God.”

“No, I’m not a dealer . That is so ridiculous.”

“Jakie, you claim you want to be an adult. Well, you’re growing up, you’re being treated like an adult, and that includes taking responsibility for your actions. I saved your bacon this time, but it won’t happen again.”

He hung his head, his face gone stony.

They made eye contact. She reached out and mussed up his hair, a gesture of affection he’d become uncomfortable with. “I understand,” he said.

“It is legal in our state to possess and use marijuana,” she said, “if you’re over the age of twenty-one. You’re sixteen, last I checked. Now, personally, I think it’s a bad idea for you to use the stuff at your age — later, I’m agnostic — but I don’t want you using it at home or at school. That’s all.”

“Okay.”

“Agreed? This is the deal.”

“Agreed.”

“And if they catch you with drugs again, you can be certain they’ll throw you out, and then you’re going to have real problems. And I won’t be there to help.”

“I understand,” he said.

She looked up as Duncan entered the room. He came over to her, gave her a hug and a kiss. “Hey,” he said softly.

“Hey.”

He was wearing a white button-down shirt with a button missing on the right collar. She flicked at the unbuttoned collar point and considered saying something, then decided against it.

Duncan looked at Jake. “I overheard. I agree with your mom.”

She looked at Duncan, surprised. She couldn’t help it.

Jake’s reaction was swift. He was annoyed. His parents were agreeing; his dad was no longer his co-conspirator. He shook his head, rolled his eyes, and got up. “I hear you,” he grunted, and he left the kitchen, clomped up the stairs.

“Thanks,” she said.

“Don’t thank me. I’m glad you’re back.”

“Me too.”

She went over to the kitchen door, which was almost always left open, and closed it so they could have some privacy.

Sitting down at the oak table, she said, “There’s stuff you need to know.” She started talking.

When she finished, they sat in silence for almost half a minute. Duncan’s fingers were tracing the swirls of the grain on the tabletop. Finally he said, “All right, that’s it. I want a gun.”

“A gun ? You?” Duncan was a gun-control zealot. She couldn’t believe he was talking this way. “You’re the most anti-gun person I know.”

“We need protection,” he said. “I’m not going to let anything happen to us.”

“Where are you going to get a gun?”

“What about that private detective? Maybe he can loan us one.”

She shook her head. “He won’t.”

“You asked?”

“I was exploring options.” For some reason she didn’t want to admit that he’d given her a knife.

“Well, I know people.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.” She didn’t want to argue. It was extremely hard to get a gun license around here, and it took forever. She doubted he’d actually be able to buy a gun on the black market. He didn’t know the right kind of people, she was sure. He knew law professors.

Her phone bleated a text message, and she glanced at it. Philip Hersh: Call me ASAP.

Duncan went upstairs, to his study, while she sat at the kitchen table. She reached Hersh on his cell phone, using WhatsApp.

“I know it’s late,” he said. “I’m sorry. But I think I figured out Mayfair Paragon.”

“What did you find out?”

“I had this little brainstorm. I Googled the Earl of Wenfield.”

“Who is—?”

“The vice chairman of Harrogate Capital Partners.”

She remembered: the British firm that invested heavily in Wheelz. “Right.”

“So Lord Wenfield gives parties for Harrogate Capital Partners. That’s basically his job. He gives a party at Henley every year for the firm, for instance.”

“Okay.”

“I found an article in a British magazine, Tatler . About a shooting party at Derwent House, the earl’s grand estate. It’s an annual event for Harrogate Capital Partners.”

“Okay.”

“Remember, his given name is Charles Arthur Bertram Hogg? Who can forget, right? So I caught a lucky break. He has a daughter, twenty-one years old. Olivia Hogg.”

“Lucky break because...?”

“Because I knew the daughter, like everyone else in her goddamned generation, would overshare on social media,” Hersh said. “And sure enough, she does. At this shooting party, Olivia’s Lamborghini goes into a pond on the earl’s estate. A couple of months later, I found another article, this time in The Sun , about how Olivia Hogg was arrested in London for cavorting nude in one of the fountains in Trafalgar Square, at four A.M.”

“Not sure I see—”

“Along with her boyfriend, Arkady Protasov. You recognize the boyfriend’s name?”

“Protasov, sure. You mean, he’s Yuri Protasov’s son?”

“That’s the guy,” Hersh said.

Yuri Protasov was a well-known Russian businessman and investor as well as a major philanthropist. There was the Protasov Pavilion at New York Presbyterian Hospital. A wing of the Tate Modern in London, the Protasov Building. The Protasov Fellowship at the Harvard Business School. He was a generous, revered man.

“So Olivia Hogg posts on Instagram a lot,” Hersh said. “She put up a picture of herself with her boyfriend, Arkady, and wrote something about how she met Arkady on his dad’s yacht because, quote, ‘our parents are doing a deal.’”

“Huh.”

“Protasov, the dad, is, like, the hundredth richest person in the world, supposedly worth fifteen billion dollars. Owns a couple of football teams in the UK, owns one of the world’s largest yachts. Bought a house in the Silicon Valley area, Los Altos Hills, for a hundred million bucks. Big investor in Facebook and Twitter. Once, he flew in Prince and Beyoncé to perform at his New Year’s party on St. Barts.”