A Conflict of Interest by Adam Mitzner Page A

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8
    I ’ve been in more than my share of clients’ twenty-million-dollar Hamptons’ estates and duplex apartments on Park Avenue, so I’m somewhat jaded when it comes to ostentatious real estate. New York money, at least in my experience, tends either to be old money or to try to look that way. Even the guy who struck it rich yesterday more often than not ends up buying a pre-war apartment and a country home that was built by robber barons in the 1920s, or that’s brand new construction designed to look like it was built by robber barons in the 1920s.
    Ohlig’s house doesn’t fit at all within this paradigm. The exterior is starkly modern, glass and steel coming together at harsh angles. It reminds me more of an airport terminal than a residence, and Abby makes the somewhat obvious joke about whether he throws stones.
    “Welcome,” says the tall, thin man who opens the large front door. He’s dressed in what must be the tropics version of a butler’s uniform—a tan suit, white shirt, and black tie. “My name is Carlos,” he tells us. “Mr. Ohlig asked me to bring you to the study. He will join you there momentarily. Coffee is already out, but please tell me if there is anything else I can get for either of you. Some breakfast, perhaps?”
    “Thank you,” I tell him. “I’m fine.”
    “Me too,” Abby says.
    Carlos leads us past the entry hall and through the living room until we arrive at what he announces is the study. The room overlooks the Atlantic through large picture windows on two sides, while the far wall is lined with a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf. The room’s center is dominated by a long white marble table surrounded by eight black leather chairs. Like all the other rooms I’ve seen so far, this space reminds me of the lair of a Bond villain.
    I’m about to make a joke about whether the chairs are equipped todeliver electric jolts when Abby says, “Do you have a bat pole behind the bookshelves in your apartment?”
    I laugh. “I do, but when I slide down it, instead of a mask and cape, it puts me in an Armani suit.”
    She laughs too. Unlike most beautiful women I’ve encountered, including my wife, Abby has a way of making you feel as if she is happiest when in your company. Somehow she conveys that every gesture is for you, and you alone. Her laugh is no exception.
    “What’s so funny?” Ohlig says from behind me. Despite this morning’s turn of events, he looks like a man without a care in the world.
    “Nothing,” I say. “An inside joke.” I turn to Abby. “Michael, this is—”
    “The one and only Abigail Sloane,” he interrupts. He’s wearing a particularly wolfish grin. “I’m so glad to be able to put such a beautiful face to the voice.”
    For a moment I’m startled, forgetting that Abby’s been talking to Ohlig more than I have as of late. She’s been the point person haranguing him about documents or asking him what something means. Ohlig most likely looked Abby up on the Cromwell Altman website, so he knew to expect that she is attractive, but the picture is a headshot only, and it doesn’t do her justice.
    “Thank you,” Abby says, smiling broadly. She doesn’t seem offended; rather, it seems clear to me that Abby is well aware of the effect she has on men and considers Ohlig’s remark to be par for the course.
    “You seem to be holding up well,” I say. “All things considered.”
    “It’s not like you didn’t warn me this might happen.”
    “I called the guys right after your phone call.” The “guys” is the shorthand we use for the lawyers in the joint defense group. “So far, not a peep out of the U.S. Attorney’s Office. Jane McMahan said she might reach out to the Assistant U.S. Attorney handling this case, but I asked her to wait a few days to see how everything shakes out.”
    “Who do I pay her to represent?”
    “Your secretary. Allison Shaw.”
    Ohlig doesn’t show much emotion at my disclosure that Shaw maysoon be