Joseph Finder - Guilty Minds

“One more thing. If I find out the story’s true, I’m off the job. I’m not interested in helping cover something up. If that’s what you want, I’m not the right guy for this.”

He smiled. “Oh, I know that well. I believe the phrase Jay Stoddard used to describe you was ‘loose cannon.’ He made it eminently clear that you’re not controllable.”

“I have a feeling he put it more colorfully than that.”

He gave a low, rumbling chuckle, glancing at his watch. “I have a meeting with the Boston partners, and I want to reach the chief justice before that. I’ll let you know what he says. Let me have your cell phone number.”

I gave it to him. “The sooner the better,” I said.

In the cab on the way back to my office, I read over my copy of the letter Slander Sheet had sent to the Supreme Court’s public affairs office. I started to formulate a plan, in case I did take the case.

It looked really bad for the chief justice. They were highly specific questions and implied a pretty solid article. The questions weren’t part of a fishing expedition. If Gideon Parnell was right that the story about the chief justice and a hooker was a total lie, then it was a fiendishly clever hoax. And not the work of amateurs. From what I could put together from the list of questions, the chief justice had — allegedly had, to be fair — three trysts with an escort hired from a website called LilySchuyler.com, “the world’s leading online service for discreet encounters.”

I thought about Gideon Parnell. The fact that he was inserting himself in the middle of this battle was significant. His reputation was towering. He had much to lose, being associated with something as tawdry as this, true or not. He must have been a good friend of Justice Claflin’s.

And I mulled over the question of why they’d contacted me. Was Parnell on the level when he said he wanted someone outside DC? In a situation like this, in which speed and discretion are of paramount importance, it would make a lot more sense for him to hire someone in town he knew. The question kept coming back: Why me?

If the chief justice did agree to meet with me, I’d have to fly to DC immediately, which would mean rescheduling a few meetings and appointments I’d lined up for tomorrow and possibly the day after.

I had the taxi drop me off on High Street, at the old brick, converted lead-pipe factory in Boston’s Financial District where I have an office. It was still early, but by then my office manager/receptionist, Jillian Alperin, was in. She stood, back to me, struggling with a printer, trying to feed it paper.

Jillian was in her early twenties and had all sorts of piercings and tattoos. If I saw a lot of clients at the office, she wouldn’t have been a good hire. She was a little young, a little rough around the edges, not exactly business-appropriate. But she was competent and tried hard and I’d grown to like her.

“Nick,” she said, “Dorothy was looking for you. Also a couple of queries came in — I forwarded them to your e-mail.” Dorothy Duval was my forensic tech and researcher.

She sounded uncomfortable saying my first name. It had taken her a long time to stop calling me “Mr. Heller.”

“Thanks.”

She turned around. “Also, a client called — Shearing? — and wanted to talk to you right away.”

Her face was red, and she looked like she’d been crying.

“Hey,” I said gently. “Everything okay?”

I didn’t know her very well and tried to stay out of my employees’ personal affairs. But not to ask seemed coldhearted.

She sniffled. “Yeah, I guess.”

“Okay.”

“It’s just... that guy, Shearing, you know?”

“What about him?” Shearing was a lawyer at a midsize firm in New York who’d hired me to do due diligence on a German businessman. The German was the CEO of a company in Düsseldorf and was being considered for a US company’s board of directors. I’d asked a colleague in Munich to work the case. Most of my clients come to me through lawyers, which has its plusses and its minuses. Dealing with a lawyer was often easier than dealing directly with clients, who could be emotional. Lawyers tended to be more professional. But some lawyers were just plain assholes, and Bob Shearing was exhibit A.

“He just called up looking for you, and I told him you were tied up with a client? And he demanded your cell number.” She sniffed a couple of times. “And when I told him I couldn’t give that out he got... really abusive. He said, ‘Goddamn it, I’m a client and I want his cell phone number now!’ And ‘Listen to me, bitch, you better give me that number now, or I’ll have your job.’” She looked miserable, her eyes and nostrils red.

“He said that?”

She nodded, reached for a tissue on her desk, and blew her nose. Then she said, “I don’t know if I made a mistake. If I was, like, angering a client. But you told me you’re the only one who can give out your cell number. And now I don’t know if I lost you a client!”

“He called you a bitch?”

She nodded. “I’m sorry, Nick, if I screwed up.”

“Can you put me through to Shearing in two minutes?”

She nodded again.

I went to the coffee station. Dorothy was already at the Keurig, filling a mug that said JESUS SAVES, I SPEND. She was wearing a turquoise raw-silk blouse and black pants and very high heels. She always dressed well, though she didn’t have to — as my tech, she rarely met with clients. She could wear jeans if she wanted to. But she usually didn’t want to.

She gave me a questioning look. She knew I’d just come from a supersecret meeting with a potential client and wanted to know what happened. The answer wasn’t as simple as thumbs up or thumbs down. I wasn’t sure I was going to take this new client on. “Meet me in my office in five, okay?”

She nodded. “Uh-oh.”

In my office — I have the corner office with a view of the street and a glimpse of the waterfront — the phone was buzzing. Jillian’s voice came over the intercom: “I have Mr. Shearing on hold on line one.”

I picked up the phone. “Bob, it’s Nick Heller.”

“There you are, Heller. Your damned secretary wouldn’t give me your goddamned mobile phone number.”

“She told me.”

“I need the word on Kleinschmidt today,” he said.

“Did you call my receptionist a ‘bitch’?”

“I told her it was urgent but she kept saying she wasn’t allowed to give out your number. I said, ‘Hey, I’m the client here.’ You gotta train your girls better.”

“Well, Bob, I’m afraid I can’t help you either.”

“What are you talking...?”

“With Herr Kleinschmidt, I mean. I’m too busy to take on your case.”

“Too busy? You already took the goddamned case.”

“My schedule has gotten crowded all of a sudden. I don’t really have time to work for assholes.” And I hung up.

I noticed Dorothy lingering at the threshold of my office. She entered, eyes wide. “Am I hearing correctly? Did you just fire a client?”

I nodded. “I never liked the guy anyway,” I said.

“Nick, our clients are a little thin on the ground. Can we really afford to lose one?”

“Dorothy,” I began, but then my mobile phone rang.

It was Gideon Parnell. “The chief justice has agreed to meet,” he said. “Can you be in DC this afternoon?”

“Absolutely,” I said.

“He’ll see you at four o’clock. Your name will be on a visitor’s list at the court.”

I ended the call and looked at Dorothy. “Looks like we just may have a new client,” I said.

The Supreme Court is, I think, the most beautiful building in Washington. It’s a gleaming Greek temple, its exterior bright white Vermont marble, chosen because it was so much whiter than the marble of the buildings that surround it, including the US Capitol. It was modeled after the Temple of Artemis, one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World, with its frieze and the Corinthian columns and such.