Stirred (19 page)

April 1, 1:30 P.M.

I
t was his first appointment after lunch, a “potential client” intake with a man from Champagne. Their first telephone call had gone well enough to schedule an in-person meeting. The product at issue was a glass-cutter implementing some state-of-the-art, design-around technology that Mr. Siders seemed confident would be a goldmine once brought to market. Then again, that was the trouble with inventors. Seventy-five percent of them were certifiably, batshit crazy, and ninety percent harbored delusions that their invention would make them millions. But one of Peter’s strengths—he liked to think—was his gut-check when it came to accepting new clients. Knowing whether or not to sign them up. Having that innate sense about whether their product had enough potential to make dealing with their mental instability or neuroses, whatever you wanted to call it, worthwhile.

Peter’s phone rang.

He answered on speakerphone, “Yes, Kelly?”

“Mr. Roe, Mr. Siders is here for his one-thirty.”

“Thank you, I’ll be right out.”

He disconnected and lifted the microphone to his dictation machine, entered a 3.25-hour time billing for the response to an office action of the United States Patent and Trademark Office that he’d completed before lunch.

Rising from his desk, he slid into the Versace jacket he wore in court and for initial meetings—had to impress on every conceivable level when you billed out at $625 an hour.

He met Mr. Siders in reception, found a tall man with long, black hair bundled up under a White Sox baseball cap, wearing dark sunglasses, black boots, black jeans, and a long-sleeved black tee from Slayer’s
Hell Awaits
tour. Not exactly dress-to-impress attire for that first meeting with your patent attorney, but it wasn’t unusual. In Peter’s experience, inventors were a quirky bunch, and most dressed to fit that mad scientist vibe they put out into the world like a Mace-blast of pheromones.

“Rob Siders,” Peter said with a smile he’d honed to perfection over the years—confident, comfortable, wealthy, and friendly without being too open. Important to send these subtle messages to establish the appropriate attorney-client boundaries from day one.

Roe extended his hand, and the man stood up and shook it.

Limp-wristed, cold-fish grip, and something was wrong with the man’s skin. He glanced down.

What the hell?

Siders was wearing latex gloves.

“Mr. Roe, nice to finally meet you.”

“What’s with the gloves, Mr. Siders?” He tried not to make the question sound rude or prying, but Jesus, talk about strange.

“I don’t want to freak you out.”

“You won’t.”

“I have psoriasis. It’s not contagious or infectious, but it’s not very pretty either.”

“Understood. Did Kelly offer you coffee or water?”

“Yes, but I’m fine. Just had lunch.”

“Excellent, come on back.”

Siders grabbed the black duffle he’d brought along—probably contained a prototype he wanted to show off—and Peter led him down the hallway, past the large office where his paralegal and two associates slaved away in cubicles, before arriving at the corner digs he called home.

He stood in the doorway, ushered Siders through.

“Nice office,” Siders said.

“Thank you.”

And he had to admit it was—horizontal bay windows with spectacular views of The Loop. The rent was scary, but with what he pulled in annually, and his churn-and-burn approach to associate mentoring, he could swing it, and would continue to do so for the foreseeable.

Instead of artwork, his wall-space was devoted to his Illinois and Minnesota law licenses, his license to practice in the USPTO, his law degree from Duke, his master’s in mechanical engineering from Iowa State University, his Best Lawyers in America plaques, and row after row of the face pages of every patent he’d prosecuted through to issuance.

Siders, as most clients did stepping into his office for the first time, stopped a few feet in and scanned the array of credentials.

“Impressive,” he said, nodding his head.

“Please, have a seat, Rob.”

Peter unbuttoned his jacket and took a seat in the leather chair behind his desk. He’d never admit this to a client in a million years, but this meeting was merely a social inspection. He’d already undertaken some quick research, had one of his associates prepare a memorandum on the twenty most-recently issued patents in the field of glass cutting to get an overview of the current state of the technology. To be honest, he was hopeful. There were some holes, and with the guidance of a legal supernova like himself, Siders might actually have a shot at staking out his own piece of the market.

“Would you mind shutting the door?” Siders asked.

Roe kept an open-door policy in his office—not so much out of any atmosphere of sharing or generosity he wanted to foster, but more out of his inclination to “pop in” on his paralegal or associates at any time to confirm they were on task instead of surfing the Internet or taking personal calls. In truth, it didn’t matter—he monitored their web-browsing and had a secret program that logged their every keystroke and sent daily reports to his e-mail—but he liked to remind them that he was always watching.

“Mr. Siders, I can assure you—everything we discuss is subject to attorney-client privilege, and in fact, some of my associates may be assisting with all aspects of your portfolio if we go forward.”

“I understand, but it’s what I’d prefer. At least on the first occasion I set foot into your office.”

“Of course. But on one condition.”

“Name it.”

“You take off your sunglasses.”

Siders smiled and complied.

Strike one
, Roe thought as he walked to his door and closed it. All inventors had a reasonable paranoia of having their intellectual property stolen, but distrusting your attorney was the stuff of mental illness.

“I’ve taken the liberty of performing some preliminary research,” Roe said as he eased back into his chair. “It looks promising. You told me a little about what you’d designed, but just so you know, my approach is to work with my clients from square one. If you can build something from the ground up that takes into account all existing technology and pending patents, I find that the success rate of getting a quick Notice of Allowance is much higher.”

“I brought my prototype, if you’d like to see it.”

“Absolutely.”

Siders knelt down by his duffle and unzipped the bag.

He lifted out a fire ax.

“Is this a joke?” Roe asked as Siders set it on the sheet of glass that protected his desk.

“Not at all.”

“Your glass-cutting technology is an ax?”

“It’s very effective. Perhaps it would clarify things if I gave you a demonstration.”

“By all means.”

Siders stood and lifted the tool.

He went around to the plate of glass behind Roe’s desk.

Strike two.

“Excuse me, Mr. Siders.” He swiveled around in the chair. “Just what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m demonstrating.”

“On my goddamn window?”

“Well, yeah. You got any other glass around here?”

Strike three.

Roe stood, rage overtaking him. His time had been wasted. The hour he’d spent dealing with this meeting, instructing his associate on the research, reviewing his memo. He’d been on law review, been voted one of Chicago’s top patent lawyers four years running. He was better than this, and his time far more valuable.

“Mr. Siders, I don’t think that I’m going to be able to help you.”

“Why is that?”

“I’d like for you to leave now.”

“But I have to show you how this works. Once you see it—”

“I’m asking you for the last time to leave.”

“But you’ve got to see this. It’ll blow your mind.”

Siders had the ax cocked back over his shoulder, Roe fast coming to the realization that the man was massively unhinged. Mentally unstable. With genius often came debilitating emotional baggage, but this wasn’t genius. This was psychosis.

Roe lifted the phone, punched in Kelly’s extension, and brought the receiver to his ear.

“Kelly, I need you to get security up to my office right…”

He pulled the phone away from his ear and stared at the severed cord with a mix of shock and growing terror.

Holy shit.

Siders, probably when Peter had gone to close the door to his office, had cut the cord.

He needed to get out of here. Right now.

He turned and started quickly around his desk, but Siders blocked his path, smiling now.

The elbow came fast, and he didn’t so much feel the impact to his jaw as register that he was suddenly sitting on the floor.

Siders said, “Relax, and this will go quickly and without much pain.”

“You…you can’t…you…”

Peter was trying to stand up when he saw the steel tip of a black cowboy boot on an intersecting trajectory with his jaw.

April 1, 1:40 P.M.

A
s I scanned the ER for the second time in two days, I wondered how many people actually died in the waiting room before being seen by a doctor. Supposedly my blood pressure constituted enough of an emergency to warrant this trip to the hospital, but was not so critical that I didn’t have to wait an hour. Add in the forty minutes it took to get to Chicago from Bensenville, because Blessed Crucifixion was the nearest hospital in my insurance network. If my condition had truly been life-threatening, I would have been dead by now.

“If my condition was truly life-threatening I’d be dead by now,” I told Phin.

“I’ll check with the nurses’ station again.”

He got up and walked off. I sighed. No doubt I was going to be given the labor induction talk again, but today was April 1, and there was no way I was having my baby on April Fool’s Day.

My iPhone rang.

The screen said Blocked Call, but I hit the accept button anyway.

“Jacqueline Daniels? We regret to inform you that Herb Benedict is dead. He ate so many double cheeseburgers that he exploded—an explosion so powerful it also killed sixteen other people.”

McGlade often blocked his number when he called me, because when I knew it was him I usually didn’t pick up. “Are you here yet, Harry?”

“Pulling into the parking lot. Remind me again what I’m supposed to get out of watching your back all the time. Money? Fame? Are you setting me up with some close friends of yours who are twin strippers?”

“You get the satisfaction of knowing I’ve lived for another day.”

“I’d rather have the twin strippers.”

“I gotta go. My water just broke.”

“Seriously?”

“No. Two can play that stupid April Fool’s game.”

I hung up. Phin wasn’t back yet. I was thinking about texting him something dirty when my iPhone rang again. Another Blocked Call, and this one asked if I wanted to use FaceTime—an app that allowed the people talking to also see each other’s faces. Just like the Jetsons. Phin had insisted upon it, in case of emergencies, and to use it I carried around a rechargeable WiFi hotspot, which cost slightly more per month than my annual electric bill.

I tapped the button, allowing FaceTime, annoyed at the prospect of having to look at McGlade while talking to him.

But it wasn’t McGlade staring up at me.

It was a pale man with black hair.

Someone I hadn’t seen in quite some time.

Someone I’d hoped to never see again.

The repulsion was so intense that part of me—a very large part—was tempted to hang up and throw the phone away. But that’s not what cops do.

Luther smiled into the camera.

“You’re looking very pregnant, Jack.”

“You’re looking ugly as ever. Wouldn’t this be better in person? I’ve got some friends who are itching to say hello to you.”

“All in good time. I’ve got a little game for you. If you win, you save a man’s life. Interested?”

“I’m not playing any game with you, Luther.”

Luther pressed the second camera button, and the video on my iPhone switched from Luther’s face to an image of another man in a nice suit, unconscious, a strip of duct tape over his mouth, and his wrists and ankles zip-tied.

I’d played a sick game like this before with a serial killer who sent me pictures of people she was about to kill. But those were just still shots. This was live video.

“Can you still hear me, Jack?”

I didn’t answer. I felt like vomiting and then running away to someplace where this lunatic could never find me.

“Answer me, Jack, or I’ll cut out this man’s eyes.”

“Yes. I can hear you, Luther.” I was going to add, “Let him go,” but I knew that would be pointless. Luther had something in mind, and my only option was to wait and see what happened next. “Where did you come up with this idea?”

“I learned it from a mutual friend of ours. You remember Alex Kork. The most beautiful woman I’ve ever met.”

“Alex was a monster,” I said. “Like you.”

“Birds of a feather. Here’s how the game works, Jack. It’s very simple. I ask you one question. If you don’t have an answer for me, I’m going to murder him. Ready? Do I have your full attention?”