Bodily Harm (20 page)

“No, we got it.” Michael had trimmed his goatee since Sloane last saw him. It was a shade darker than his brown hair with strands of gray at the chin. “That’s what we wanted to talk to you about.”

Sloane gestured for them to take seats at the conference room table. Eva opened her purse and pulled out a white envelope
Sloane recognized to be his firm’s stationery. Then she slid it across the polished surface.

Sloane considered it before looking back up at them. “I don’t understand. Is there something wrong? Is it the wrong amount?”

Eva’s voice cracked. She paused to clear her throat and let her emotions pass. Tears pooled again. “I’m so sorry, David. I’m so sorry for those things that I said to you about not having lost someone you love.”

He put up a hand. “No. You have nothing to apologize for. I never should have put you in that position. It was wrong of me. You asked me if I could do it, and now . . . well, I know my answer.”

“But that’s really the point, isn’t it,” Michael said. He gestured to his wife. “I mean, that’s what we talked about when I got home. Eva told me you came to the house and what you told her, about that other family. No one should
have
to make that decision. No one should
have
to go through what we’ve gone through. Austin never had a chance. I mean, no one knew there could be a danger. You don’t go to the store and buy your child a toy and think that it could kill him. You think that if it’s there, if it’s on the shelf, then it has to be safe, right? I mean there are agencies that are supposed to check those things, aren’t there? So no one could have prevented what happened to Austin because no one knew.” McFarland paused, as if to catch his breath. “But now it’s different. Now we know that toy is dangerous. And, well, we couldn’t live with ourselves if something happened to another child and we knew that we could have, maybe, prevented it.”

Eva’s chest shuddered. “I thought about what you said, about the other families; I don’t want another mother to go through what I’ve gone through. I also thought of Dr. Douvalidis. Oh my God, David.”

Sloane had no answer for her. He had no answer for himself. Douvalidis might still have been found negligent, but the doctor was not responsible for Austin’s death. Kendall Toys was.

“We were thinking,” Eva said. “Maybe, you know, in some way this could at least give some meaning to Austin’s death.”

Michael agreed. “That maybe Austin died so that other kids won’t.” He shrugged. “Maybe he wouldn’t have died for no reason, you know.”

“Do you know what we mean?” Eva asked.

Sloane nodded. “My wife was pregnant,” he said, fighting back his own emotions. “I know what you mean.”

Eva reached out and covered Sloane’s hand with her own.

“When I found out, I was so happy,” he said. “But then I felt something I never expected.”

“Fear,” Eva said, knowing.

He nodded. “I realized that this was going to be a very big responsibility for a lot of years, and I had no way of really knowing if I would be up to it. It killed me to think of anything happening to my child like what had happened to Austin.”

For a moment no one spoke. Then Michael broke the silence. “So we’ll sign whatever papers you need, you know, to find out for sure. But we don’t want to be there. We can’t be there.”

“I understand,” Sloane said, knowing Michael referred to the exhumation and autopsy. “I’ll be there for you, and I’ll make sure Austin is taken care of.”

The McFarlands looked at each other with expressions of resigned relief, Eva exhaling, as if she had been holding her breath. They walked around the edge of the table to where Sloane stood, balanced on his cane. Their movements seemed lighter. Michael McFarland shook Sloane’s hand but said nothing further, perhaps concerned that one further word would unleash the tears pooled in his eyes. He stepped to the side to compose himself as Eva hugged Sloane.

“Maybe she’s up there with Austin,” she said. “Maybe she’s taking care of my baby for me. I’ll bet she would have been a good mother.”

“She was,” Sloane said. “She was a very good mother.”

LAURELHURST
WASHINGTON

FITZGERALD LEANED CLOSER, peering at the splotches on the peasant woman’s face, admiring the individual strokes of the paint brush. Kneeling in what appeared to be a field of wheat, the woman wore a blue dress with red spots and a beige apron about her waist. A yellow sun hat covered her head, the underside of the brim nearly orange, to indicate shade. The painting was worth twice as much as everything Fitzgerald owned, and that included his stock in Kendall.

“Van Gogh.” Sebastian Kendall spoke as his nurse wheeled him into the room. He looked to be sitting more upright than he had during Fitzgerald’s prior visit.

“I remember when you bought it,” Fitzgerald said.

“You mean when I overpaid for it,” Kendall said, admiring the piece, “and yet it is worth twice as much today as the day I bought it.”

“You were always a good judge of a wise investment.”

“Hah!” Kendall barked. “I wanted it, and I let my personal desire cloud my business judgment. I was lucky.”

“We should all be so lucky.”

“Perhaps.” Kendall wheeled closer. “He has always fascinated me, Van Gogh, so brilliant and yet so fragile. Did you know that his paintings are a public exhibition of his descent into madness?”

Fitzgerald nodded. “Erin and I attended a lecture at the UW that chronicled his illness through his paintings. It was quite
fascinating. They say the line between genius and madness is razor thin.”

Kendall’s nurse wheeled him closer to a fire in the river rock fireplace, then left them.

“You look well today,” Fitzgerald said, “stronger.”

Kendall responded with a small shrug. “Today has been a good day, but to infer anything from it would be no less mad than Van Gogh. I have acknowledged the inevitable, Malcolm, and I do not fear it. Tell me, what brings you here late at night when you should be home with your family? No toys on this occasion?”

Fitzgerald sat in a leather chair, elbows on his knees, hands pressed together at an apex just beneath his nose, like an altar boy praying. He had debated bringing up the subject with Kendall. God knew the man had enough on his plate, and if Fitzgerald truly was to assume the mantle of control, he would have to make these decisions on his own soon enough. But Kendall had been Fitzgerald’s safety net for many years and remained his mentor during the transition of power. With so much riding on the success of Metamorphis, Fitzgerald was not yet ready to fly without the net secure below him.

“I’m sorry to trouble you with this, Sebastian. I had intended on handling it myself . . .”

“Please, if it allows me to remain of some use . . .”

“We have a mole in the company. I’ve known of it for sometime, but I thought I could keep it under control by keeping the production of Metamorphis confidential, as we discussed. I’m afraid that is no longer the case.”

“Who do you suspect?”

“Santoro.”

Kendall tilted his head backward, and it looked as if it might roll completely off before it listed forward again. “He remains upset.”

Fitzgerald rubbed his hands, as if to warm them. “He’s been meeting with Brandon Craft.”

“Then you can assume it is with Maxine Bolelli’s blessing. Craft isn’t savvy enough to do something like this on his own.”

“It began shortly after Maxine and I met in Scottsdale to discuss Galaxy’s proposal. I never should have included Santoro in the discussions, but I was hoping it would make him feel less insecure about his future at the company. Initially I believed he was only testing the waters, and I couldn’t really blame him, nor would I have stopped him. I’m sure he sees his position now as a dead end, and I would prefer to be rid of him as we move forward.”

“And something has made you now suspect there is more to his overtures?”

“I believe he’s been playing Kendall and Galaxy against each other and I believe he’s using Metamorphis to do it.”

“How?”

“He knows that if Metamorphis succeeds, it eliminates any chance of Galaxy acquiring Kendall. If it fails, the chances of Kendall surviving the economic downturn or a hostile bid by Galaxy are equally as slim. If that happens, Bolelli does not need Santoro to get what she wants; she could just absorb Kendall’s action figure department for pennies on the dollar. Why bother hiring Santoro?”

“It makes sense.”

“So it is in Santoro’s interest for Kendall to fail outright but for Metamorphis to succeed.”

“He uses Metamorphis to entice Bolelli to hire him.”

Fitzgerald nodded. “He takes a position as head of Galaxy’s new action figure department, and he just so happens to bring with him the design of a toy that could very well be the toy of the decade. It’s a win-win.”

“How is he going to accomplish this?”

“He has apparently paid a low-level toy designer to take credit for the design of Metamorphis, and to allege that he placed Kendall on notice of a flaw in the design.”

“We’ll simply expose this man as an imposter.”

Fitzgerald stood. “I wish it were that simple. It seems Santoro has sent this man to an attorney, and not just any attorney, but to David Sloane.”

Kendall shook his head to indicate the name meant nothing to him.

“He’s the attorney who brought suit against the government last year on behalf of that national guardsman’s family. The attorney who never loses.”

“Wasn’t he just in the news?”

“His wife was murdered by an intruder in their home. Sloane was shot twice but lived and seems no worse for wear. I had a meeting with him this afternoon. He knows about Metamorphis and he’s convinced that this Kyle Horgan designed it. He says he has a file with the design drawings to prove it, as well as a letter from Horgan warning of a flaw in the plastic. Only Santoro could have provided the design drawings. As careful as we’ve been, we can’t deny that Santoro still has a lot of support at the company. Who knows what he’s promised certain individuals if he takes a position at Galaxy, or what he’s told them about Kendall’s future. But our immediate problem is Sloane. We cannot let him disclose this design, and we cannot let him stand up in court and argue that Kendall has knowledge of a flaw but intends to put the toy to market.”

“You indicated on your last visit that the toy has met all regulations and received PSA approval.”

“It has, but there was that matter in Mossylog.”

“An aberration, likely misuse of the product. Besides, there was insufficient evidence to confirm that the death was caused by the toy.”

“Legal arguments, Sebastian, which are persuasive to other lawyers but not necessarily to the general public. You know that. Sloane would spin the child’s death as evidence the toy design is flawed. He wants us to pull the plug until Metamorphis can be independently tested.”

“Out of the question.”

“He says he’ll file suit and make this a very public matter.”

“Did you talk to Barclay?”

“Not a minute after Sloane left my office. She says we can fight any attempt to set aside the Gallegos settlement, that the family was represented by counsel and signed an agreement, but that isn’t my primary concern. My primary concern is Sloane making the design public during litigation.”

“And what did Ms. Reid say?”

“She said that
if
Sloane has a plaintiff, and
if
he files suit, we can seek a court order preventing him from disclosing any information about the design. But that still does not prevent Santoro from taking the design to Galaxy and exploiting any delay caused by this litigation.”

“A knockoff.”

“And when Kendall goes under, Santoro shows up at Galaxy.”

“Can we expose this imposter, Kyle Horgan?”

“We can’t even locate him. I think Santoro has him hidden.”

“Have you confronted Santoro?”

Fitzgerald shook his head. “Not yet. I don’t have anything concrete to confront him with, and he would only deny it and become more guarded. I was hoping that he’d make a mistake and hang himself.”

“You may be running out of time for that,” Kendall said.

“That’s why I’m here.”

Kendall nodded. “Put a tap on his office and cell phone and monitor his e-mails. Use the people we’ve used in the past. Arian is smart. He’ll be discreet. So see about putting something in his
car as well and put him under twenty-four-hour surveillance. All you need is one phone call or e-mail or photograph to expose him.”

Fitzgerald nodded.

“Santoro lost any expectation of privacy when he talked with Galaxy.”

“What about Sloane?”

“Pay him what he wants and get rid of this before it gets in the media. You must fiercely protect the Kendall name. This toy could be to you what Sergeant Smash and Captain Courageous were to my father and my grandfather, a solid foundation upon which to build Kendall’s, and your, future. Do not let anyone take that away from you.”

CHAPTER
EIGHT

KING COUNTY SUPERIOR COURT

SEATTLE, WASHINGTON

King County Superior Court Judge John Rudolph stared down at Sloane with a mixture of curiosity and confusion, like a man viewing a breed of animal he’d never seen but with which he was vaguely familiar. Two weeks after meeting the McFarlands in his conference room, Sloane was appearing ex parte in Rudolph’s courtroom. Unlike other legal proceedings, in which the attorneys filed their papers days in advance, by appearing ex parte, Sloane had not given Rudolph the opportunity to read the papers before Rudolph’s clerk handed him the copy Sloane brought with him. When Rudolph appeared in court from his chambers his robe was only partially zipped. His clerk, court reporter, and bailiff followed him, a clear indication Rudolph wanted every word spoken in his courtroom on the record. Sitting behind his elevated bench, Rudolph’s already ruddy complexion was nearly as red as his hair.

“I’ve been on the bench for thirty years, Mr. Sloane, and in all those years I have never had anyone make a request like this.”