Rogue Justice (7 page)

Katrina wasn't buying this argument either. "With all due respect, sir, it
is
about the money. And Samson's a license to print the stuff. He's the central spectacle here, your Mickey Mouse."

"Okay, look, what I need from you is a little time," Freeman said, lowering his eyes. "Is that too much to ask?"

Katrina thought about that. "How
much
time?"

"Forty-eight hours."

A long silence, then, "Samson may not live that long."

Freeman nodded demurely. "Let me be frank about something, okay? Leanne's daughter is quite ill, as I'm sure you know. If these pot-smoking lefties put us out of the killer whale business, then she's out of a job, which means no health coverage. I have two girls of my own, both headed off to college soon, and I can't imagine not having health insurance. So please, doctor, carefully consider what's at stake here."

Katrina didn't respond right away, wondering why Freeman hadn't reported Samson's illness to authorities two weeks earlier when he should have. It wasn't as if the Feds wouldn't find out. Then again, his request did not seem all that unreasonable. "Okay, forty-eight hours," she said. "And if Samson's still with us at that point, we'll need to talk about euthanizing him. He must be suffering terribly."

A hefty weight seemed to lift from Freeman's shoulders. "Absolutely. Thank you."

Katrina stood up again, only this time she headed for the door.

"Oh, one last thing," he said. "Samson's test results, I assume they're confidential?"

"The lab techs know there's a sick animal, but that's
all
they know."

Freeman smiled weakly. "Perfect! Again, I can't thank you enough, doctor."

At that, Katrina stiffened somewhat. "Good luck, Mr. Freeman. You're going to need it." She ignored his outstretched hand, marched out the door, and did not look back.

Chapter 6

28 March, 7:10 PM PDT

San Francisco, California

The evening rush hour was winding down as the big black Town Car rolled along Lombard Street in light traffic. The lanky man sitting in the back seat stared mindlessly out the window. Mitchell Chandler loved this City by the Bay, yet he deplored its politics and despised the perpetual cold and fog. Like tonight, a thick gray soup. He was a people watcher, always had been, and spotting the locals was easy enough. They dressed for the weather. Most tourists did not, which often left them shivering in long lines to catch cable cars or squeezed together inside crowded, over-priced restaurants.

Chandler glanced at his watch, then tapped the hand of the striking brunette sitting on his right. Forty-six-year-old Savannah Sokolov was not only his lover and confidant, she also ran CGE's worldwide security operation out of the company's headquarters in Olympia, Washington. She'd held the job for nearly three years now, and they'd been an item for exactly half that time. Initially, of course, the talk was that Savannah had slept her way to the top. In fact, the relationship was built on mutual trust and respect. Those were feelings Chandler had never experienced before, certainly not with any of his gold-digging ex-wives, all three of them.

He turned to her and said, "Ten minutes, Savannah."

"What's that?" she asked.

"We're ten minutes late."

"You're the big tuna, Mitchell. They'll wait."

"I know. I feel like I'm running for the goddamn bus all the time, that's all."

Savannah wore a simple black wrap around her shoulders, her strapless red evening gown accentuating a cleavage so deep, it made Chandler shudder. "Then, let's make it a short night," she said, smiling flirtatiously. This was a woman used to handling powerful men, even one
this
powerful. "Besides, I have a surprise waiting for you back at the house."

Chandler winked and said, "Now that's an offer no man in his right mind could refuse."

Savannah smiled. "It's a date, then."

The limo driver turned right on Van Ness and accelerated up the steep hill. A few minutes later he pulled in front of The Fairmont Hotel, its stylish facade shrouded in an amber-colored mist. He jumped out and opened the back door.

"Thanks, Rizzo," Chandler said. "You and the boys stay close. Got that?"

Rizzo was a hulking brute with a buzz cut and deep-set eyes. He nodded. "Of course, sir."

Chandler's three-man security detail never trailed more than a few car lengths behind, which was where they were tonight, riding in a dark green SUV with tinted windows and a souped-up engine. There were simply too many nefarious characters out there with warped agendas to take any chances, even at a swanky soiree such as this one.

The handsome couple slipped out of the vehicle, walked quickly up the red-carpeted steps, and moved inside. Savannah took it all in. "They sure don't build 'em like this anymore, do they, Mitchell?"

They entered the lobby. It was as busy as Grand Central Station and damn near as big. Moments later they passed through a crowded restaurant and into the elegant Venetian Room. Like everything else in this storied place, the ballroom had a fascinating history. Crooner Tony Bennett had first sung his signature song, "I Left My Heart in San Francisco," on the Venetian's compact stage.

Tonight, a shimmering, full-dress affair was in full swing. Soft string music played in the background and everyone appeared well-heeled, well-connected, or, at the very least, beautiful. The room had been transformed into an authentic Italian villa by two flamboyant party planners, affectionately known among their peers as the VIPs of RSVPs. And for this event, they'd somehow managed to wangle a dozen priceless paintings from a pair of enterprising museum curators, including works by Chagall, Rembrandt, Matisse, and Van Gogh.

Chandler looked around, admiring the impressive display. The Van Gogh, he mused, would probably fetch $10 million on the open market, which was precisely $10 million more than the tortured genius had earned while he was still alive, a fact most people didn't know. But Chandler did. That was because he belonged to an exclusive club, a rogues' gallery of eccentric art lovers, prepared to fork over millions of dollars for paintings they often stashed in attics or basements.

His art collection included more than two thousand pieces. Even he didn't know the exact number, or the value. But there was no mistaking his status among this crowd. He was the richest guy in a
roomful
of rich guys. Chandler's net worth was estimated at more than $20 billion, good enough to land him on Forbes' top-ten list of the wealthiest Americans. And on this festive occasion, he was being honored by the American Alliance of CEOs, or AAC, an invitation-only membership that included the most powerful names in business—investment bankers, hedge fund whizzes, high-tech gurus, oil barons, and other titans of industry. Collectively, they wielded enormous clout in a host of state capitals, and in the one place where it counted most, Washington, D.C.

The organization met twice a year, fall on the East Coast and spring on the West Coast.

Following cocktails and small talk, Chandler and Savannah took their seats at the head table. A sumptuous, five-course meal followed, after which AAC's president stepped to the dais. He cleared his throat, then gestured for quiet. "Ladies and gentlemen, as most of you know, Mitchell Chandler represents the quintessential American success story. He started modestly with a couple of small apartment buildings in Reno, Nevada. Today, Chandler Global Enterprises is a thriving conglomerate comprised of fifty-four companies—at last count—spanning the globe. And it's no secret Mitchell's rock-star lifestyle is catnip for the media. He does, dare I say, have an affinity for hiring beautiful women."

"Here, here!" one man shouted from the back. The room erupted in laughter and cat-calls.

Chandler smiled, threw Savannah an admiring look. With her radiant hair, porcelain skin, and gracious curves, she had always reminded him of the classic femme fatale from Hollywood's Golden Age—not the cagey former federal agent who knew more about art than he did. And that was saying something. He had lured her away at great expense from a booming Bay area high-tech firm, where she'd held a similar position in corporate security. She'd accepted that job after a somewhat controversial career in law enforcement, first as a criminal investigator in the Boston district attorney's office, and then with the FBI's renowned art-theft team. The small unit, established in 2004 following the looting of Iraq's Baghdad Museum, investigated all manner of stolen art, looted art, and art fraud on both national and international stages.

The speaker continued. "In just the past month alone, no less than five magazines have done feature stories on our distinguished guest of honor. Now, I took the liberty of lifting a few highlights from those articles.
Newsweek
calls him, 'Brilliant, aggressive, a steamroller with gold cuffs.'
Fortune
says, 'He makes waves other people ride.' Then, there's my personal favorite from
The Weekly Standard
, 'Mitchell Chandler is an alchemist when it comes to money. Nobody does it better.' As for Mitchell's enigmatic nature? I'm told he kept his latest acquisition so secretive that, when the announcement was finally made, someone said they saw white smoke coming from corporate headquarters: 'We have a deal!'"

"Domini Patris," someone bellowed, followed by a round of enthusiastic applause.

Chandler leaned in close to Savannah, whispered in her ear. "He left out megalomaniac, the Prince of Arrogance, and
my
personal favorite—he's got the ethics of an alley cat."

Savannah turned toward him, smiled, pressed two fingers against his lips.

"And now, ladies and gentlemen, please put your hands together for AAC's Executive of the Year, my good friend, Mr. Mitchell Chandler."

Stepping to the podium, Chandler was greeted by a standing ovation. With his chiseled features and tousled long, silver-gray hair, he looked every bit the swaggering deal maker. Born for the stage, as he'd often been told. He knew, however, that this acknowledgement, like the glad-handing during the cocktail hour, was mostly for show. A man in his position made plenty of enemies and the majority of people in this room landed solidly in that camp.

No matter, he would give them a performance to remember, anyway.

Chandler accepted the award with an appropriate degree of decorum, then immediately took off the gloves, unloading on government bureaucrats, the lunatic fringe, and a host of liberal causes, with the skill and passion of a seasoned politician.

After breathing fire for twenty minutes, he finished with a flourish.

"Today, more than ever before, this great country of ours is under siege from the far-left and from shadowy forces deep within our own government. Forces that threaten to systematically destroy the heart and soul of America. How we respond to these challenges will determine our future on the world stage. Will we continue as a beacon of freedom and hope, of economic security and independence? Or, will we slip into the abyss of socialism, the slow creep toward state control of practically everything that has swallowed large chunks of Europe? We must never forget, ladies and gentlemen, that knowledge is power
only
if we know how to use it. So I urge each and every one of you to take a stand. To make your voices heard. To fight back! And if we do that, if we can stop these raging liberals, then we will honor and protect all that has made this country great. It is time we reclaim our heart and soul—
America's
heart and soul."

Chandler took a moment, turned, and winked at Savannah.

He then stepped back from the podium to thunderous applause.

Chapter 7