“This lighting fixture fell from the ceiling and clocked me on the noggin; things get a little fuzzy after that. Took the ER doc hours to get to me, then after she stitched up my scalp there were x-rays and—”
“How many stitches?”
“The doctor said seventeen.”
“Seventeen!” The number horrified him.
“It’s not as bad as it sounds. She said she placed them close together to keep the scar thin.”
Scar?“Jesus, Romy—”
She smiled. “Not like I’m going to look like the bride of Frankenstein, or anything. It cut my scalp, way up above the hairline. Once the hair grows back where they shaved it, no one will know, not even me.”
Relief seeped through Patrick. The lighting fixture had been his idea. If it had left Romy disfigured…
“Why, Romy?”
“Relax, will you. I got a tetanus shot out of it, and a free ride in a stoplight-running ambulance. It’s no biggie, Patrick. Really.”
“Is to me. Zero too.” Patrick had driven him to the garage, then rushed back here. “He wants me to call him as soon as—”
“I’ll call him.”
“How many days are they going to keep you?”
“Days? More like minutes. They’re finishing up my paperwork now.”
“You’re kidding!” Patrick realized his knowledge of medicine was just this side of nothing, but wasn’t it standard procedure to admit a head-trauma patient for observation, at least overnight? “They’re letting you go?”
“Be real, will you. It’s just a cut on my head. I can—”
“Excuse me,” said a male voice.
Patrick looked up and saw a dark-haired man in a gray suit standing between the parted curtains.
“Are you her doctor?” Patrick said. If so he was going to warn him about the malpractice risks of releasing Romy too early.
The man flashed a collector’s edition set of pearlies. “Not a chance. I’m an attorney and I’m looking for the woman who was injured in the Manassas Ventures offices this morning.”
Patrick stared at him. He’d met his share of ambulance chasers, but this guy really lived up to the name.
“That would be me.” Romy shook her head. “But I don’t need a lawyer. I’ve—”
“You’re absolutely right. And that’s precisely why I’m here.” He handed Romy a card. “Harold Rudner. I represent Manassas Ventures.” He set his briefcase on the gurney and popped its latches. “The company called me the instant its landlord informed it of this unfortunate incident. I was instructed to find you and compensate you immediately for the pain and inconvenience you have suffered.”
“Compensate me?”
He lifted the briefcase lid, removed a slip of paper, and extended it toward Romy.
“Exactly. Although your injury resulted from shoddy work by remodeling contractors, Manassas is taking full responsibility and offering you this to ease your distress.”
Romy took the slip and stared at it. “A check? For a hundred thousand dollars?”
“Yes.” He pulled a sheaf of papers from the briefcase. “And all you need do to have your name written on the pay-to-the-order-of line is sign this release absolving Manassas Ventures of all liability and refrain from any future—”
“Wow!” Patrick said, impressed. “Hit her while she’s still dazed from the terrible concussive impact of her life-threatening head injury, then shove a check under her nose and tell her all those zeroes can be hers if she’ll just sign away her legal rights to just compensation for an injury that might affect her quality of life for years, maybe decades, perhaps permanently. Youare a smoothy.”
Romy and Rudner were staring at him.
Finally Rudner spoke. “Are you her lawyer?”
“I am a very close personal friend who just happens to be an attorney.”
Rudner turned to Romy. “I am offering you far more than you could hope to receive from any jury.”
“We’ll see about that,” Patrick said. “One hundred thousand dollars barely scratches the surface of the amount this unfortunate woman deserves for her pain and suffering.”
Romy smiled and handed back the check. Rudner took it with a sad shake of his head.
“You’re making a big mistake,” he told her. “One you’ll regret when a jury offers you only a fraction of this—one third of which will go to your attorney. This could be all yours, every cent of it.”
Romy’s hands flew to her mouth as she gave Patrick a wide-eyed stare. “Oh, Patrick! Am I making a terrible mistake? You know how I depend on your wisdom. Tell me. I don’t know what to do!”
Patrick had to look away. It took all his will to keep a straight face. When he had control, he turned back, took both her hands in his, and lowered his voice an octave. “Trust me, my dear. I am well versed in these matters. You deserve much, much more.”
“All…all right,” she said, her voice faltering. “If you say so.”
Rudner shook his head again and closed his briefcase. As he lifted it off the gurney he turned to Patrick.
“And you calledme a smoothy?”
As soon as he was gone they both doubled over in silent laughter.
“Life-threatening head injury?” Romy gasped, red-faced.
Patrick countered with, “‘You know how I depend on your wisdom’? I thought I was going to get a hernia!”
She pressed her hands against her temples. “Oh, I shouldn’t laugh! It makes my headache worse!”
Patrick looked at her. “I know this is serious business, but I couldn’t resist. That was fun.”
She frowned. “Do you think he knew who we were?”
“Not a clue. He’s a hired gun.” Patrick shook his head, still amazed at how quickly the company had responded. “A hundred grand for a cut head offered to someone they might just as easily have charged with trespassing. If this is any indication of how badly Manassas wants to avoid the legal system, I think we’re onto something.”
9
SUSSEX COUNTY, NJ
DECEMBER 7
“So,” Mercer Sinclair said, “the missing globulin farmers have surfaced.” He’d chosen that word deliberately but his little pun went unappreciated by his audience. So he added, “Literally.”
That at least elicited a smile from Abel Voss.
Mercer had invited the usual crew—Voss, Portero, and Ellis—to his office to discuss the matter. He had his agenda for the meeting posted in a corner of the computer monitor embedded in the ebony expanse of his desk while his custom news service scrolled items tailored to his topics of interest.
“Postmortem ain’t back yet,” Voss said, “but the M-E’s on notice to copy us immediately with any and all results.”
“I’m told the bodies appear to have been in the river about a week.”
Voss nodded. “All three of them shackled together and weighted down. But the Hudson’s gotta way of returning some of the gifts it gets. Looks like these SLA boys took ’em for a ride that very night, shot them in the head, then dumped them before sunup.”
“But not before torturing them,” Ellis said.
Mercer glanced at his brother. Ellis hadn’t missed a meeting in months now. Maybe his latest anti-depressant cocktail was working. Mercer knew he should be glad about that but he wasn’t. The closer Ellis was to catatonia, the easier he was to deal with.
“Yep, I heard that too,” Voss said. “Cigarette burns, fingernails tore off.” He grimaced. “Ugly stuff.”
“They were globulin farmers, Abel,” Mercer said, unable to keep the scorn from his tone. “Somebody improved the gene pool by removing them.”
“Don’t get me wrong, son. I ain’t no fan of their sort. Riddin the world of their kind is all fine and good. But torture? Ain’t no call to torture no one, son. No one. I think we’re dealin with some real sick puppies here.”