Michael Crichton - State Of Fear

When he came out of the shower, she was gone. He pulled the covers up over the bed (as close as he ever came to making it) and went into the closet to dress for the day.

The law firm of Hassle and Black occupied five floors of an office building in Century City. They were a forward-looking, socially aware firm. They represented many Hollywood celebrities and wealthy activists who were committed to environmental concerns. The fact that they also represented three of the biggest land developers in Orange County was less often publicized. But as the partners said, it kept the firm balanced.

Evans had joined the firm because of its many environmentally active clients, particularly George Morton. He was one of four attorneys who worked almost full-time for Morton, and for Morton's pet charity, the National Environmental Resource Fund, NERF.

Nevertheless, he was still a junior associate, and his office was small, with a window that looked directly at the flat glass wall of the skyscraper across the street.

Evans looked over the papers on his desk. It was the usual stuff that came to junior attorneys. There was a residential sublet, an employment agreement, written interrogatories for a bankruptcy, a form for the Franchise Tax Board, and two drafted letters threatening lawsuits on behalf of his clientsone for an artist against a gallery refusing to return his unsold paintings, and one for George Morton's mistress, who claimed that the parking attendant at Sushi Roku had scratched her Mercedes convertible while parking it.

The mistress, Margaret Lane, was an ex-actress with a bad temper and a propensity for litigation. Whenever George neglected herwhich, in recent months, was increasingly oftenshe would find a reason to sue somebody. And the suit would inevitably land on Evans's desk. He made a note to call Margo; he didn't think she should proceed with this suit, but she would take convincing.

The next item was a spreadsheet from a Beverly Hills BMW dealer who claimed that the "What Would Jesus Drive?" campaign had hurt his business because it denigrated luxury cars. Apparently his dealership was a block from a church, and some parishioners had come around after services and harangued his sales staff. The dealer didn't like that, but it looked to Evans as if his sales figures were higher this year than last. Evans made a note to call him, too.

Then he checked his e-mails, sorting through twenty offers to enlarge his penis, ten offers for tranquilizers, and another ten to get a new mortgage now before rates started to rise. There were only a half-dozen e-mails of importance, the first from Herb Lowenstein, asking to see him. Lowenstein was the senior partner on Morton's account; he did mostly estate management, but handled other aspects of investments as well. For Morton, estate management was a full-time job.

Evans wandered down the hall to Herb's office.

Lisa, Herb Lowenstein's assistant, was listening on the phone. She hung up and looked guilty when Evans entered. "He's talking to Jack Nicholson."

"How is Jack?"

"He's good. Finishing a picture with Meryl. There were some problems."

Lisa Ray was a bright-eyed twenty-seven-year-old, and a dedicated gossip. Evans had long ago come to rely on her for office information of all sorts.

"What's Herb want me for?"

"Something about Nick Drake."

"What's this meeting about tomorrow at nine?"

"I don't know," she said, sounding amazed. "I can't find out a thing.

"Who called it?"

"Morton's accountants." She looked at the phone on her desk. "Oh, he's hung up. You can go right in."

Herb Lowenstein stood and shook Evans's hand perfunctorily. He was a pleasant-faced balding man, mild-mannered and slightly nerdy. His office was decorated with dozens of pictures of his family, stacked three and four deep on his desk. He got on well with Evans, if only because these days, whenever Morton's thirty-year-old daughter got arrested for cocaine possession, it was Evans who went downtown at midnight to post her bail. Lowenstein had done it for many years, and now was glad to sleep through the night.

"So," he said, "how was Iceland?"

"Good. Cold."

"Is everything okay?"

"Sure."

"I mean, between George and Nick. Everything okay there?"

"I think so. Why?"

"Nick is worried. He called me twice in the last hour."

"About what?"

"Where are we on George's NERF donation?"

"Nick's asking that?"

"Is there a problem about it?"

"George wants to hold off for a while."

"Why?"

"He didn't say."

"Is it this Kenner guy?"

"George didn't say. He just said, hold off." Evans wondered how Lowenstein knew about Kenner.

"What do I tell Nick?"

"Tell him it's in the works and we don't have a date for him yet."

"But there's not a problem with it, is there?"

"Not that I've been told," Evans said.

"Okay," Lowenstein said. "In this room. Tell me: Is there a problem?"

"There might be." Evans was thinking that George rarely held up charitable donations. And there had been a certain tension in the brief talk he had with him the night before.

"What's this meeting about tomorrow morning?" Lowenstein said. "The big conference room."

"Beats me."

"George didn't tell you?"

"No."

"Nick is very upset."

"Well, that's not unusual for Nick."

"Nick has heard of this Kenner guy. He thinks he's a troublemaker. Some kind of anti-environmental guy."

"I doubt that. He's a professor at MIT. In some environmental science."

"Nick thinks he's a troublemaker."

"I couldn't say."

"He overheard you and Morton talking about Kenner on the airplane."

"Nick should stop listening at keyholes."

"He's worried about his standing with George."

"Not surprising," Evans said. "Nick screwed up on a big check. Got deposited in the wrong account."

"I heard about that. It was an error by a volunteer. You can't blame Nick for that."

"It doesn't build confidence."

"It was deposited to the International Wilderness Preservation Society. A great organization. And the money is being transferred back, even as we speak."

"That's fine."

"Where are you in this?"

"Nowhere. I just do what the client says."

"But you advise him."

"If he asks me. He hasn't asked."

"It sounds like you've lost confidence yourself."

Evans shook his head. "Herb," he said. "I'm not aware of any problem. I'm aware of a delay. That's all."

"Okay," Lowenstein said, reaching for the phone. "I'll calm Nick down."

Evans went back to his office. His phone was ringing. He answered it. "What are you doing today?" Morton said.

"Not much. Paperwork."

"That can wait. I want you to go over and see how that Vanutu lawsuit is coming."

"Jeez, George, it's still pretty preliminary. I think the filing is several months away."

"Pay them a visit," Morton said.

"Okay, they're in Culver City, I'll call over there and"

"No. Don't call. Just go."

"But if they're not expecting"

"That's right. That's what I want. Let me know what you find out, Peter."

And he hung up.

The Vanutu litigation team had taken over an old warehouse south of Culver City. It was an industrial area, with potholes in the streets. There was nothing to see from the curb: just a plain brick wall, and a door with the street number in battered metal numerals. Evans pushed the buzzer and was admitted to a small walled-off reception area. He could hear the low murmur of voices from the other side of the wall, but he could see nothing at all.

Two armed guards stood on either side of the far door, leading into the warehouse itself. A receptionist sat at a small desk. She gave him an unfriendly look.