Saving Sophie: A Novel (11 page)

“He wants it played.”

Kelsen counted the bills. He nodded and raised the window.

*   *   *

D
AN GIBSON RECEIVED A
call just after dinner. The doorman in the Trump lobby informed him that two policemen wanted to come up and talk to him. Gibson opened the door when they arrived.

Detective O’Herrin spoke, his head lowered slightly. “I’m afraid I have bad news for you, sir. Mr. Harrington’s body was found this evening at the Fullerton breakwater.”

Gibson’s legs went wobbly and he sat down on the couch. “What happened?”

“Well, sir, it … it looks like there’s been foul play. There was a bullet wound. His body was taken to the medical examiner’s. You can see him there, sir, if you want to. Are you okay?”

“No, I’m not okay. Would you be okay?” Gibson’s chin quivered. “Where was the wound?”

O’Herrin hesitated. “In his right temple.”

Gibson grabbed his face with both hands and cried.

O’Herrin pulled a small writing pad from his back pocket. “Can we ask a few questions?”

Gibson swallowed hard. “Can we do this tomorrow?”

“Sure. That’d be all right. We’ll call you tomorrow, but can I ask just one question? Just one or two?”

Gibson nodded.

O’Herrin pulled up a chair opposite the couch and sat on the edge. “Was Mr. Harrington depressed recently? Were there any … what they call suicidal ideations? Would he take his own life?”

Gibson sobbed. “No. Never. We were so happy. His company was just sold and we were going to take a vacation. Denny’s idea—a cruise through the Panama Canal.” Gibson grabbed a tissue. “Did you find a gun?”

O’Herrin shook his head and penciled a few notes. “If his company was sold, where was he going to work?”

“We have some savings. Denny can easily get another job if he wants one. He’s very good at what he does.” Gibson caught himself. “At what he did.”

“I’m truly sorry, sir. Do you know whether he had money troubles? Was he indebted to anyone?”

“I told you, we have savings,” Gibson snapped. “And besides, he told me he was getting a substantial bonus on the sale of the company.”

“Excuse me for asking this, sir, but with him dead and all, would he still get that bonus?”

Gibson shook his head. “I don’t know. It’s not something we ever discussed. Would you leave now, please?”

“Of course.” O’Herrin stood and took a step toward the door, then stopped. “Just one more question, please. Did he have any enemies?”

Gibson shook his head.

“Anybody who would want to do him harm?”

Gibson shook his head.

“Excuse me for asking this, but did he have any other relationships? You know, other guys who would, um, would be jealous enough to be violent?”

“That’s insulting. Now please leave.”

“Very sorry, sir. Can we call you tomorrow?”

Gibson nodded and showed them out.

E
IGHTEEN

M
ARCY SMILED OVER THE
rim of her wineglass. They sat side by side at a plank table on the veranda of Paca’s Seaside Sushi Shack. Her elbows rested on the table and she wrapped her hands around the glass. “You were so gallant.”

“That was not my intent. I assure you it was all knee-jerk.” Jack gazed out at the Pacific. The stars and the horizon were both discernible in the minutes following the sun’s dip beneath the edge of the earth, known to sailors as nautical twilight. The sea moved in shadows. Swells and whitecaps.

“’Twas gallantry nonetheless. I choose to believe my version of the story. Reasonable minds can differ. Isn’t that what you lawyers say?” Marcy took a deep, relaxing breath and stared at the ocean. “This reminds me of that weekend at Grand Haven. Remember? We were all sitting at a picnic table on the beach. It must have been midnight, but Sophie wasn’t the least bit sleepy. She kept running through the sand, chasing fireflies.” Marcy chuckled. “What a sight. Alina chasing after her, trying to slow her down. They had quite a bond, those two.”

Sommers was silent. His lips quivered.

“Jack, I’m sorry. Should I not bring up the past? They were such good times.”

He nodded. “I’m okay. Let’s talk about you.”

“Oh, now there’s an interesting subject. Struggling photographer trying to make ends meet in one of the country’s most expensive locations. I used to think Ted did me a favor, chasing me out of Chicago, but now I think I bit off more than I can chew. I’m not even sure where I’ll be living next week.”

“Pacific Properties?”

“How do you know about that?”

“The summons and complaint were sitting on the counter beside your coffeemaker.”

“So you read them? Nosy!” She shook her head. “I’m getting evicted. Mr. Nakamura wants me out of the house and he’s been looking for an excuse. I was out of town on the first when the rent was due. I took it over to him on the third but he wouldn’t accept it.”

“Two days late? Did he serve you with any notices?”

She shook her head. “He showed me a section of the lease that said that if the rent wasn’t paid on time, he would have the right to cancel the lease. It’s right there in black and white.”

“How much time is left on the lease?”

“Eighteen months, but it looks like I’ll have to find another place pretty quick. The court date is next Tuesday.”

“Have you talked to his lawyer?”

“He doesn’t have one. He’s a real estate man. He filed the papers by himself.”

Jack nodded and smiled.

“Jack,” she said quietly. “A few minutes ago, I didn’t mean to upset you. You should cherish those memories of the good times. They’re yours to keep. They’re ours to keep. And to share with Sophie.”

“I know.” He turned his head away to look at the ocean.

“Jack, I’m worried about you. Alina’s death was a heartbreaker for all of us, but most of all, you need to hold it together. You’ve got Sophie to raise. She needs you.”

Jack stood suddenly. “Thanks, Marcy. I have to go. I’m sorry.”

He put a $100 bill on the table and walked away.

*   *   *

“H
ELLO, MR. JENKINS,” CATHERINE’S
receptionist said. She took his coat and offered a cup of coffee, which Jenkins accepted. He carried a large manila envelope. Moments later, she showed Jenkins into Catherine’s office.

“Here’s the lawsuit.” He placed the envelope on her desk.

She took out the pleading and skimmed through it while Jenkins sat quietly with his coffee. When she was finished reading, she said, “Who’s your malpractice carrier and what’s the coverage?”

“LNA. And it’s fifty million dollars, inclusive of defense costs.”

She nodded. “That leaves thirty-eight million dollars uninsured. Who did LNA hire to defend you?”

“Alan Beaverton.”

Catherine raised her eyebrows. “High-priced talent. Are you any closer to finding out what happened?”

Jenkins set his cup down and sat back in his chair. “Well, it’s pretty obvious. Someone engineered a theft of eighty-eight million bucks from the closing escrow and siphoned the money off to Panama—and from there, who knows where? Harrington and Sommers both signed the wire instructions and both are missing. Hard for me to believe that Sommers did this to me. The firm was so good to him after his wife died.”

“And you feel you need an attorney for the deficiency?”

“Of course. Besides, and I know you don’t believe me, but I’ve always thought you have extraordinary litigation skills. Your approach is incisive. Intuitive. You see things that others do not. I’ve known that since the day we hired you. Please, Catherine, we’re in a fix and I need the best. You can name your initial retainer, but I’m prepared to give you a check for fifty thousand dollars this afternoon.”

Catherine stared into Jenkins’s eyes. “All right, Walter. I’ll take it on. I’d like a satellite office at J and F that I can use for this case.”

Jenkins breathed a sigh of relief. “Done. And we’ve assigned Rob Hemmer to assist you. Anything you need.”

“I’ll want access to Sommers’s personnel file and any other files he maintained at J and F.”

“We’ve already pulled them. He has a file for the purchase of his house and a file, quite thick, for the custody dispute. There’s really nothing in his personnel file, but I’ll set the three files in your office. Then, of course, there’s the Kelsen file.”

Catherine stood. “I’ll come in tomorrow.”

N
INETEEN

T
HE GROUP OF TEN,
the self-styled Sons of Canaan, met again in the back of the Breadstone Bakery. A short man, in a black-on-green Palestinian keffiyeh, rushed in, out of breath, agitated.

“You are late, Rami.”

“I think I was being followed. I diverted my route and came through the rear of the butcher shop. I ran two blocks behind the square. I didn’t see her again, but I can’t be sure.”

“How do you know you were followed?”

“A woman was waiting when I left my building. She pretended to be texting on her cell phone, but when I started walking…”

“What did she look like?”

“What did she look like? She looked like any other woman in a burka. But she held her cell phone sideways, like she was taking a picture. I spotted her and she turned her back.”

Fakhir, the bakery owner, lowered his head and put his hands on top of his knitted taqiyah. “The IDF. They’ve discovered us. And
my
bakery. We have to abandon our project.”

“Stop panicking, Fakhir. Rami is a frightened squirrel. There’s no evidence that anything has been discovered,” Nizar said. “Who ever heard of IDF spies running around in burkas?”

“Nevertheless, I don’t want to meet in my bakery again. We should meet at Arif’s. He has privacy, a house with a wall around it.”

“Out of the question,” al-Zahani said. “I want no attention drawn to my laboratories. There are to be no meetings at my home. Beside, my granddaughter is living with me.”

“The granddaughter, the granddaughter, we hear too much of this American Jewess,” said Nizar.

Al-Zahani jumped to his feet and took a step in Nizar’s direction. “She is my blood, you cocksucker. The lineage of my ancestors runs through her bones. She traces her descent from the ancient Canaanites. You live in Hebron because my father liberated it. My father and my grandfather are icons to our people. They died for us. Can you say the same of your pig family?”

Fa’iz interrupted. “Stop. What are you accomplishing? You insult his granddaughter? And you call his family pigs? Are you both out of your minds?”

“Did he not bring her from America? Is she not a Jew?”

“We will have no more of this,” Fa’iz said. “We will not abandon our glorious plan. We will continue to meet. Fakhir does not want us to meet here, then we will meet somewhere else. We have much to do in the coming weeks. There is an empty apartment not far from here. I will arrange for Rami to rent it.”

“Maybe we should put off our meetings for a while,” said Ahmed. “If the IDF is looking for us, it jeopardizes the entire operation.”

“The IDF is not here. The Palestinian police patrol this area; the Israeli police are only in the H2. The IDF knows nothing of what we do,” Nizar said. “If we put off our meetings, then the entire operation is scuttled. Our target date is only two months away.”

“And we still do not have sufficient quantities,” al-Zahani said. “We will need every bit of two months.”

“Then we meet at the apartment on Monday.”

T
WENTY

O
LD, FAMILIAR TERRITORY FOR
Catherine as she walked the hallways of Jenkins & Fairchild. Bittersweet. It looked the same. Not much had changed. Two years ago, she had considered it a secure, comfortable place to be, only to abruptly learn that the firm valued pandering to clients more than moral imperatives, forcing her to tender her resignation. But she felt no regrets. Quite the opposite. Her present practice was far more satisfying. No intrafirm politics. No pandering to influential clients.

Staff members smiled and welcomed her back as she made her way to her assigned satellite office, a large, windowed room overlooking the federal plaza on Adams Street. Several expandable folders were sitting on a credenza, the largest, by far, being the matter labeled “In Re: The Guardianship of Sophie Sommers.” She would save that for last.

She picked up Sommers’s personnel file and thumbed through the contents: application for employment, tax forms, health insurance forms, and yearly self-evaluation letters written to the J&F Compensation Committee. The first several letters were unremarkable. They recited his successful handling of certain mergers and acquisitions. As the years progressed, he assumed more of the responsibilities in the business and transactional group. Four years ago, he was elevated to practice group chairman.

In the last couple years, since his wife’s death, the file reflected long absences and multiple requests for medical and family leave. Yet, as Walter said, the firm was good to him. His compensation was not reduced. His most recent self-evaluations were short and apologetic. He was sorry for his inattention to the practice. He vowed to do better.

The last few pages in the personnel file referenced loans from his pension and profit-sharing accounts. These coincided with the period when Sommers was defending the guardianship petition. From the size of the custody file alone, Catherine could surmise the enormity of the financial drain. Loans from the retirement account would have netted him $150,000.

Sommers’s house-purchase file held little of interest. The home was purchased six years ago for $325,000. It was titled to “John Sommers and Alina Sommers, husband and wife, as tenants by the entirety.” There was a second mortgage and a refinance for a total of $415,000 fifteen months ago, during and after the custody battle.

The guardianship file consisted of four folders, each four or five inches thick. Catherine poured herself a cup of coffee and started at the beginning. “Petition for Guardianship of Sophie Sommers, a Minor.” She spent the rest of the day perusing the file, occasionally setting papers to the side for further review and copying.

The al-Zahanis’s guardianship petition was aggressive. It accused Jack of dangerously neglecting Sophie. It asserted that Jack had become so depressed over the death of Alina that he was unable to make day-to-day decisions or properly care for Sophie. “The minor’s residence has become a dark and unhealthy tomb of despair,” read the petition. “Continued residence in the home would be dangerous to the child’s physical and mental well-being.