"He wants her to shut up, to get her divorce and go away, and to release all future claims against him. He wants it done now."
"If not?" J. Murray loosened his tie and sunk an inch lower. The day was suddenly late; he needed to go home. He thought for a long minute, then said, "She'll lose everything, does he know that? The life insurance company will wipe her out."
"There are no winners here, Mr. Riddleton."
"Let me speak to her."
Sandy gathered his things and made a slow retreat to the door. J. Murray managed another sad smile, and just as they were shaking hands to depart, Sandy, as if he had almost forgotten it, mentioned the anonymous tip his office had received in New Orleans about Lance searching for a hit man. He didn't know if he believed it, but he felt compelled to discuss it with the Sheriff and the FBI anyway.
They discussed it briefly. Riddleton promised to mention it to his client.
Chapter 21
DR. HAYANI'S LAST STOP was Patrick's room. It was almost dark, long past time to leave for the day, and he found his famous patient sitting in his gym shorts in a chair at a makeshift desk in the only empty corner of his room. The desk was a small table, with a lamp Patrick had conned out of an orderly. A plastic water cup held pens and pencils. Another held the beginning of a collection of paper clips, rubber bands, push pins, all donated by the nursing staff. He even had three legal pads.
Patrick was in business. An impressive collection of legal documents occupied one corner, and he was reviewing one of the numerous lawsuits filed against him when his doc popped in, for the third time of the day.
"Welcome to my office," Patrick said. A bulky TV hung not far above his head. The back of his chair was a foot from the end of his bed.
"Nice," Hayani said. Rumors in hospitals flew faster than in law offices, and throughout the last two days there had been amused whispers about the new firm being established in Room 312. "I hope you don't sue doctors."
"Never. In thirteen years of practicing law, I never sued a doctor. Nor a hospital." He stood as he said this and turned to face Hayani.
"I knew I liked you," the doctor said as he gently examined the burns on Patrick's chest. "How are you doing?" he asked, for the third time that day.
"I'm fine," Patrick repeated, for the umpteenth time that day. The nurses, starstruck and curious, barged in at least twice an hour with any one of a hundred errands, and always with a chirping, "How ya feeling?"
"I'm fine," he always answered.
"Did you nap today?" Hayani asked, squatting and poking along the left thigh.
"No. It's hard to sleep without pills, and I really hate to take anything during the day," Patrick answered. In truth, napping was impossible with the parade of nurses and orderlies.
He sat on the edge of the bed and looked sincerely at his doctor. "Can I tell you something?" he asked.
Hayani stopped scribbling on a chart. "Certainly."
Patrick cast his eyes to the left and to the right as if there could be ears everywhere. "When I was a lawyer," he began softly, "I had this client, a banker, who got caught embezzling. He was forty-four years old, married, three teenaged kids, a great guy who did a dumb thing. He was arrested at home, late at night, and taken to the county jail. It was crowded, and he got thrown into a cell with a couple of young street punks, black guys, mean as hell. They gagged him first so he couldn't scream. They beat him, then they did things you don't want to know about. Two hours after he was sitting in his den watching a movie, he was half-dead in a jail cell three miles from his home." Patrick's chin hit his chest and he pinched the bridge of his nose.
Dr. Hayani touched his shoulder.
"You can't let that happen to me, Doc," Patrick said, his eyes watery, his voice strained.
"Don't worry, Patrick."
"The thought of it horrifies me, Doc. I have nightmares about it."
"You have my word, Patrick."
"God knows I've been through enough."
"I promise, Patrick."
THE NEXT INTERROGATOR was a squirrely little man named Warren, who chain-smoked and viewed the world through thick, dark glasses. His eyes were invisible. His left hand worked the cigarette, his right one handled the pen, and nothing else moved, except his lips. He crouched behind his neat little piles of paper and shot questions to the other end, where Stephano fiddled with a paper clip and his lawyer fought with a laptop.
"When did you form your consortium?" Warren asked.
"After we lost his trail in New York, we pulled back and waited. We listened where we could listen. We covered old tracks. Nothing happened. The trail quickly ran cold, and we settled in for the long run. I'd met with Benny Aricia, and he was willing to finance the search. Then I also met with people from Monarch-Sierra and Northern Case Mutual, and they gave their tentative approval. Northern Case Mutual had just forked over two point five million to the widow. They couldn't sue to get it back because there was no conclusive evidence he was still alive. They agreed to put up a half a million. Monarch-Sierra was more complicated because they had not paid, at that time. Their exposure was four million."
"Monarch carried the law firm's malpractice insurance?"
"Close. It was a separate crime rider, in addition to the customary Errors and Omissions policy. It protected the law firm from fraud and theft by its employees and partners. Since Lanigan stole from the firm, Monarch-Sierra was forced to pay up, to the tune of four million dollars."
"But your client, Mr. Aricia, received this money, correct?"
"Yes. He first sued the law firm for the entire sixty million he lost, but the firm had few assets. The firm agreed to hand over the proceeds from the policy. We all sat down at the table and struck a deal. Monarch-Sierra agreed to pay the money without a fight if Mr. Aricia would use up to a million of it to find Lanigan. Mr. Aricia agreed, but only if Monarch-Sierra would kick in another one million to finance the search."
"So Aricia was in for a million, Monarch-Sierra for a million, and Northern Case Mutual for half a million. Total of two point five."
"Yes, that was the initial agreement."
"Where was the law firm?"
"They chose not to participate. Frankly, they didn't have the money, and they were too shocked to respond. Initially, they helped in other ways."
"And the players paid up?"
"Yes. The money was wired to my firm's account."
"Now that the search is over, how much of the money is left?"
"Almost none."
"How much was spent?"
"Three and a half million, give or take a little. About a year ago, the funds ran out. The insurance companies said no. Mr. Aricia kicked in another half a million, then another three hundred thousand. His total to date is one point nine."
Actually, it was an even two million, now that Benny had reluctantly decided to go after the girl. The FBI, of course, would not know this.
"And how was the money spent?"
Stephano referred to his notes, but only for a glimpse.
"Almost a million in payroll, travel, and other expenses related to the search. One point five million in rewards. And an even million to my firm as fees."
"You've been paid a million dollars?" Warren asked, still with no movement of muscle but with a slightly raised voice.
"Yes. Over a four-year period."
"Tell me about the rewards."