Isaac Geller crossed the conference room and grasped Reed's hand.
"Thank you for coming, John," Geller said. "How are you holding up?"
"It's been hard, Isaac," Reed answered, shaking his head sadly. "Art and I were more than law partners."
"I know."
"We go back to high school. We founded the firm."
"We're all still in shock," Geller said.
Reed's features hardened into a look of rocklike determination.
"I'm stepping in, Isaac. That's why I'm here, to let you know that I'm making these lawsuits my number-one priority."
"And none too soon, either," interjected Byron McFall, Geller's president, as the lawyers took their seats at the conference table. "Kaidanov's murder couldn't have happened at a worse time."
McFall's callousness made Geller flinch, but no one noticed. Their eyes were on Reed.
"How is this going to affect our position?" McFall asked.
"I've been briefed about the case by Brock and Susan," Reed replied, "but I don't have enough of a handle on the facts yet to give you an intelligent answer. Susan?"
All eyes turned toward Susan Webster, the elegant associate who had taken the seat next to Reed.
"Sergey Kaidanov's murder is a public relations nightmare, Mr. McFall. I pulled up several stories on the Kaidanov killing on the Internet. It's front-page news all over the country. The press is hinting that Geller Pharmaceuticals is behind the destruction of the lab and Kaidanov's death because the company wants to cover up his study. There's pressure on the district attorney to start an investigation. Not surprisingly, Aaron Flynn is talking to every reporter he can find. If he brings this case to trial we'll never find twelve jurors who haven't heard the rumors."
Isaac Geller closed his eyes and shook his head. He looked exhausted.
"What do you suggest we do?"
Susan looked at Reed. "Maybe I should wait for Mr. Reed to get up to speed on the case before offering any advice."
"That's okay," Reed prompted. "I want to hear where you think we are in the case."
"I'd start discussing a settlement, Mr. Geller," Susan said reluctantly. "It could be a bloodbath if we go to trial."
"Goddamn it!" Byron McFall said bitterly. "We had nothing to do with that lab or the study or Kaidanov's murder."
"That may be irrelevant if everyone believes that we did," Susan said evenly. "We should approach Mr. Flynn with a reasonable offer. There are good arguments for admissibility and exclusion of the evidence of the murders, the study, and the destruction of the lab. Right now neither side knows what Judge Norris will let in at trial. This is the best time to feel out Flynn. If Norris rules in his favor he'll want to try every case, and once he wins one of them we won't be able to hold back the flood."
Geller's in-house counsel made a comment just as Susan's cell phone rang. Newbauer, who was seated to Susan's left, watched her answer it and noted her surprise. She walked to the far end of the conference room, away from the others, and continued her conversation in a voice too low to hear. She seemed concerned when she returned to the conference table.
"Anything wrong?" Newbauer asked.
"No," Webster answered unconvincingly.
Kate Ross split her attention between The New York Times crossword puzzle and the exit to Aaron Flynn's garage. An hour after she'd seen Billie Brewster leave Flynn's building, Flynn's car appeared. Kate put down the paper and followed him across town to the Sunset Highway entrance. It was almost 6:30 and the traffic had thinned out. Kate stayed several car lengths back as Flynn headed toward the coast. After half an hour, the lawyer left the highway and took a route that wound through farm country. Ten minutes later he pulled into the dirt parking lot of the Midway Cafe, a run-down roadhouse with a neon sign that advertised beer and fried chicken. It was the type of place where truckers and farmers stopped for coffee and pie, and high-priced lawyers rarely entered.
Kate drove by the restaurant then made a U-turn and parked at the far end of the lot just as Flynn was walking inside. Moments later another car pulled into a parking space near the door and Susan Webster got out.
"Bingo," Kate said to herself. She thought about following Susan inside, but the restaurant was too small. Kate leaned over her seat. When she surfaced, she was holding an expensive camera with a telephoto lens.
Thirty minutes later the door to the restaurant opened and Susan Webster and Aaron Flynn walked out. Kate snapped off several shots.
Juan Fulano had been surprised to see another car following Aaron Flynn from his office building to the roadside cafe. He had been careful to stay far enough back of both cars so he would not be seen. When Kate parked in the lot Fulano drove down the road, made a U-turn, and pulled to the side of the road, where he waited until Aaron Flynn and Susan Webster came out of the restaurant. His only worry was that Flynn's tail would follow him after he left the diner, but she did not.
As soon as Flynn drove away Fulano turned on his headlights and followed. Flynn stayed on the highway until he was back within the Portland city limits. When he turned off the highway, Fulano followed at a discreet distance. Once he was certain that Flynn was going home, Fulano fell farther back to give Flynn time to park. Then he found a spot on Flynn's block where he stayed, watching Flynn's house. When the lights went out near midnight, Fulano drove back to his hotel and phoned in his report to Martin Alvarez.
Chapter Forty-Three.
Billie ran a check on Burt Randall after visiting Aaron Flynn's law office. Besides getting his address, she had discovered that Randall was an ex-marine with combat experience and former LAPD. Deciding that discretion was the better part of valor, the detective had a patrol car follow her to Randall's house. Brewster drove along Northwest Twenty-third until she reached Thurman, then turned left into the hills. Randall's modern A-frame was set back from an unpaved street on the outskirts of Forest Park. A black pickup truck stood in the driveway.
"Let's you and me go to the front door," Billie told Ronnie Blanchard, a uniformed officer who had played linebacker at Portland State. "Radison can cover the rear of the house."
"Sounds like a plan," Tom Radison, Blanchard's partner, said. He headed toward the back of the house.
"You know this guy's background," Billie said. "Let's not take chances."
The house was dark. Billie rang the bell. There was no answer. She tried again while Blanchard tried the door. It was unlocked. The officer looked at Billie and she nodded. He edged the door inward.
"Mr. Randall," Billie called out. Silence. "I'm Billie Brewster, a police detective. Are you home, sir?"
The living room had a vaulted ceiling. The dying rays of the sun cast a pale light through ceiling-high picture windows. Billie pointed to a dark hallway. Blanchard edged down it while Billie cautiously climbed the stairs to a sleeping loft that overlooked the entryway and the living room. The moment Billie's head cleared the landing she knew something was wrong. She gripped her weapon a little tighter before climbing the rest of the stairs in a crouch. The blinds were closed and all Billie could tell was that there was someone sprawled across the bed.
"Mr. Randall?" she said loudly.
There was no answer.
"I do not fucking like this," Billie mumbled to herself as she stepped onto the landing. As soon as her vision adjusted Billie made out Burt Randall in a T-shirt and boxer shorts. There were two bloodstained holes in the T-shirt and a third in the center of Randall's forehead.