“You want something?” Lord’s eyes had finally come to rest on Kirksen’s lean, hairless face. The man consistently controlled a shade under six hundred thousand in business, which guaranteed him a long, secure home at PS&L, but those numbers were chickenshit to Lord and he did nothing to hide his dislike of the firm’s managing partner.
“We were wondering how the lunch went.”
“You can handle the softballs. I don’t have time to play fucking softball.”
“We had heard unsettling rumors, and then with Alvis having to be terminated when Ms. Baldwin called.”
Lord waved a hand through the air. “That’s taken care of. He loves us, he’s staying. And I wasted two hours.”
“The amount of money at stake, Sandy, we, we all felt it would be better, it would convey the strongest possible impression if you—”
“Yeah. I understand the numbers, Kirksen, better than you, I understand the numbers. Okay? Now, Jacky boy is staying put. With luck he might double his fishing line in ten years, and we can all retire early.” Lord looked over at Kirksen, who seemed to grow smaller and smaller under the big man’s gaze. “He’s got balls, you know. More balls than any of my other partners.”
Kirksen winced.
“In fact, I kind of like the kid.” Lord stood up and moved over to the window, where he watched a procession of preschoolers attached together with rope cross the street ten stories below.
“Then I can report a positive to the committee?”
“You can report any goddamn thing you like. Just remember one thing: don’t you boys ever bother me with one of these things again, unless it’s really, really important, you understand me?”
Lord glanced once more at Kirksen and then his eyes returned to the window. Sullivan still had not called. That was not good. He could see his country slipping away, like the little bodies disappearing around the corner. Gone.
“Thank you, Sandy.”
“Yeah.”
Chapter Nine
Walter Sullivan stared at the face, or what was left of it. The exposed foot showed the official morgue toe tag. While his entourage waited outside, he quietly sat alone with her. The identification had already been formally made. The police had gone off to update their records, the reporters to file their stories. But Walter Sullivan, one of the most powerful men of his era, who had made money from nearly everything he had touched since he was fourteen, now suddenly found himself bereft of energy, of any will whatsoever.
The press had had a field day with him and Christy after his marriage of forty-seven years had ended in the death of his first wife. But at almost eighty years old, he had just wanted something young and alive. After so much death, he had wanted something that would most certainly outlive him. With close friends and loved ones dying around him, he had passed his tolerance level as a mourner. Growing old was not easy, even for the very rich.
But Christy Sullivan had not survived him. And he was going to do something about that. It was fortunate that he was largely ignorant of what lay ahead for the remains of his late wife. It was a necessary process that was not in the least designed to comfort the victim’s family.
As soon as Walter Sullivan left the room, a technician would enter and wheel the late Mrs. Sullivan into the autopsy room. There she would be weighed and have her height confirmed. She would be photographed, first fully clothed, and then in the nude. Then X-rayed and fingerprinted. A complete external exam would be conducted, with the intent of noting and obtaining as much usable evidence and as many clues as possible from the body. Fluids would be taken and sent to toxicology for drug and alcohol screens and other testing. A Y incision would split her body shoulder to shoulder, chest to genitals. A horrific chasm for even the veteran observer. Every organ would be analyzed and weighed, her genitalia checked for signs of sexual intercourse or damage. Every trace of semen, blood or foreign hair would be sent for DNA typing.
Her head would be examined, wound patterns traced. Then a saw would make an intermastoid incision over the top of the skull, cutting through the scalp and down to the bone. Next, the front quadrant of the skull would be cut away and the brain removed through the frontal craniotomy and examined. The one slug would be extracted, marked for chain-of-custody purposes and held for ballistics.
Once that process was completed, Walter Sullivan would be given back his wife.
Toxicology would verify the contents of her stomach and traces of foreign substances in her blood and urine.
The autopsy protocol would be prepared, listing the cause and mechanism of death and all relevant findings, and the official opinion of the Medical Examiner.
The autopsy protocol, together with all photographs, X-rays, fingerprints, toxicology reports and any other information constituting the entire case file would be deposited with the detective in charge.
Walter Sullivan finally rose, covered the remains of his deceased wife and left.
From behind yet another one-way mirror, the detective’s eyes followed the bereaved husband as he left the room. Then Seth Frank put on his hat and quietly exited.
Conference room number one, the largest in the firm, held a prominent center position right behind the reception area. Now, behind the thick sliding doors, a meeting of the entire partnership had just convened.
Between Sandy Lord and another senior partner sat Jack Graham; his partnership not yet official, but protocol was not important today and Lord had insisted.
Coffee was poured by the housekeeping staff, danishes and muffins were distributed around, and then the help retreated, closing the doors behind them.
All heads turned to Dan Kirksen. He sipped his juice, tapped his mouth affectedly with his napkin and rose.
“As I’m sure you’ve heard by now, a terrible tragedy has befallen one of our most” — Kirksen glanced quickly at Lord — “or I should say, our most significant client.” Jack looked around the sixty-foot marble-top table. Most heads remained trained on Kirksen, a few others were filled in on the events by whispers from their neighbor. Jack had seen the headlines. He had never worked on any of Sullivan’s matters but he knew they were extensive enough to occupy forty attorneys at the firm on almost a full-time basis. He was, by far, Patton, Shaw’s biggest client.
Kirksen continued. “The police are investigating the matter thoroughly. As yet there have been no developments in the case.” Kirksen paused, glanced again at Lord, and then continued. “As one can imagine, this is a very distressing time for Walter. To make matters as easy as possible for him during this time, we are asking all attorneys to pay particular attention to any Sullivan-related matters, and, hopefully, to nip any potential problem in the bud before it escalates. Further, while we do not believe that this is anything other than a routine burglary with a very unfortunate result, and is in no way connected to any of Walter’s business affairs, we are asking each of you to be alert for any unusual signs in any of the dealings in which you are engaged on Walter’s behalf. Any suspicious activity is to be reported immediately to either myself or Sandy.”
A number of heads turned toward Lord, who was looking at the ceiling in his customary fashion. Three cigarette butts lay in the ashtray in front of him, the remains of a Bloody Mary beside it.
Ron Day, from the international law section, spoke up. His neatly trimmed hair framed an owlish face partially obscured by slender oval spectacles. “This isn’t a terrorist thing is it? I’ve been putting together a string of Middle Eastern joint ventures for Sullivan’s Kuwaiti subsidiary, and those people operate under their own rules, I can tell you that. Should I be worried for my personal safety? I’m on a flight this evening for Riyadh.”