Bolivia.”
“How much do you know about her?”
“Not much. But we need to find her.”
“For what purpose?”
“It’s a legal matter,” Montgomery said, with just enough hesitation to sound suspicious.
Trill frowned and pulled his elbows close to his chest. His small smile disappeared. “Is there trouble?” he asked.
“No. But the matter is quite urgent. We need to see her.”
“Can’t you send a letter or a package?”
“Afraid not. Her cooperation is needed, along with her signature.”
“I assume it’s confidential.”
“Extremely.”
Something clicked and Trill’s frown softened. “Excuse me for a minute.” He disappeared from the office, and left Montgomery to inspect the spartan furnishings. The only decoration was a collection of enlarged photos of Indian children on the walls.
Trill was a different person when he returned, stiff and unsmiling and uncooperative. “I’m sorry, Mr. Montgomery,” he said without sitting. “We will not be able to help you.”
“Is she in Brazil?”
“I’m sorry.”
“Bolivia?”
“I’m sorry.”
“Does she even exist?”
“I can’t answer your questions.”
“Nothing?”
“Nothing.”
“Could I speak to your boss or supervisor?”
“Sure.”
“Where is he?”
“In heaven.”
________
A FTER A dinner of thick steaks in mushroom sauce, Josh Stafford and Tip Durban retired to the den, where a fire roared. A different butler, a Mexican in a white jacket and starched jeans, served them very old single-malt Scotch from Mr. Phelan’s cabinet. Cuban cigars were ordered. Pavarotti sang Christmas songs on a distant stereo.
“I have an idea,” Josh said as he watched the fire. “We have to send someone to find Rachel Lane, right?”
Tip was in the midst of a lengthy draw from his cigar, so he only nodded.
“And we can’t just send anyone. It has to be a lawyer; someone who can explain the legal issues. And it has to be someone from our firm because of confidentiality.”
His jaws filled with smoke, Tip kept nodding.
“So who do we send?”
Tip exhaled slowly, through both his mouth and his nose, and smoke boiled across his face and drifted upward. “How long will it take?” he finally asked.
“I don’t know, but it’s not a quick trip. Brazil’s a big country, almost as big as the lower forty-eight. And we’re talking jungles and mountains. These people are so remote they’ve never seen a car.”
“I’m not going.”
“We can hire local guides and such, but it still might take a week or so.”
“Don’t they have cannibals down there?”
“No.”
“Anacondas?”
“Relax, Tip. You’re not going.”
“Thanks.”
“But you see the problem, don’t you? We have sixty lawyers, all busy as hell and swamped with more work than we can possibly do. None of us can suddenly drop everything and go find this woman.”
“Send a paralegal.”
Josh didn’t like that idea. He sipped his Scotch and puffed his cigar and listened to the flames pop in the fireplace. “It has to be a lawyer,” he said, almost to himself.
The butler returned with fresh drinks. He inquired about dessert and coffee, but the guests already had what they wanted.
“What about Nate?” Josh asked when they were alone again.
It was obvious Josh had been thinking about Nate all along, and this slightly irritated Tip. “You kidding?” he said.
“No.”
They pondered the idea of sending Nate for a while, each working past their initial objections and fears. Nate O’Riley was a partner, a twenty-three-year man who was, at the moment, locked away in a rehab unit in the Blue Ridge Mountains west of D.C. In the past ten years, he had been a frequent visitor to rehab facilities, each time drying out, breaking habits, growing closer to a higher power, working on his tan and tennis game, and vowing to kick his addictions once and for all. And while he swore that each crash was the last one, the final descent to rock bottom, each was
“How much do you know about her?”
“Not much. But we need to find her.”
“For what purpose?”
“It’s a legal matter,” Montgomery said, with just enough hesitation to sound suspicious.
Trill frowned and pulled his elbows close to his chest. His small smile disappeared. “Is there trouble?” he asked.
“No. But the matter is quite urgent. We need to see her.”
“Can’t you send a letter or a package?”
“Afraid not. Her cooperation is needed, along with her signature.”
“I assume it’s confidential.”
“Extremely.”
Something clicked and Trill’s frown softened. “Excuse me for a minute.” He disappeared from the office, and left Montgomery to inspect the spartan furnishings. The only decoration was a collection of enlarged photos of Indian children on the walls.
Trill was a different person when he returned, stiff and unsmiling and uncooperative. “I’m sorry, Mr. Montgomery,” he said without sitting. “We will not be able to help you.”
“Is she in Brazil?”
“I’m sorry.”
“Bolivia?”
“I’m sorry.”
“Does she even exist?”
“I can’t answer your questions.”
“Nothing?”
“Nothing.”
“Could I speak to your boss or supervisor?”
“Sure.”
“Where is he?”
“In heaven.”
________
A FTER A dinner of thick steaks in mushroom sauce, Josh Stafford and Tip Durban retired to the den, where a fire roared. A different butler, a Mexican in a white jacket and starched jeans, served them very old single-malt Scotch from Mr. Phelan’s cabinet. Cuban cigars were ordered. Pavarotti sang Christmas songs on a distant stereo.
“I have an idea,” Josh said as he watched the fire. “We have to send someone to find Rachel Lane, right?”
Tip was in the midst of a lengthy draw from his cigar, so he only nodded.
“And we can’t just send anyone. It has to be a lawyer; someone who can explain the legal issues. And it has to be someone from our firm because of confidentiality.”
His jaws filled with smoke, Tip kept nodding.
“So who do we send?”
Tip exhaled slowly, through both his mouth and his nose, and smoke boiled across his face and drifted upward. “How long will it take?” he finally asked.
“I don’t know, but it’s not a quick trip. Brazil’s a big country, almost as big as the lower forty-eight. And we’re talking jungles and mountains. These people are so remote they’ve never seen a car.”
“I’m not going.”
“We can hire local guides and such, but it still might take a week or so.”
“Don’t they have cannibals down there?”
“No.”
“Anacondas?”
“Relax, Tip. You’re not going.”
“Thanks.”
“But you see the problem, don’t you? We have sixty lawyers, all busy as hell and swamped with more work than we can possibly do. None of us can suddenly drop everything and go find this woman.”
“Send a paralegal.”
Josh didn’t like that idea. He sipped his Scotch and puffed his cigar and listened to the flames pop in the fireplace. “It has to be a lawyer,” he said, almost to himself.
The butler returned with fresh drinks. He inquired about dessert and coffee, but the guests already had what they wanted.
“What about Nate?” Josh asked when they were alone again.
It was obvious Josh had been thinking about Nate all along, and this slightly irritated Tip. “You kidding?” he said.
“No.”
They pondered the idea of sending Nate for a while, each working past their initial objections and fears. Nate O’Riley was a partner, a twenty-three-year man who was, at the moment, locked away in a rehab unit in the Blue Ridge Mountains west of D.C. In the past ten years, he had been a frequent visitor to rehab facilities, each time drying out, breaking habits, growing closer to a higher power, working on his tan and tennis game, and vowing to kick his addictions once and for all. And while he swore that each crash was the last one, the final descent to rock bottom, each was
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