Lawyer Trap

56





DAY NINE–SEPTEMBER 13

TUESDAY EVENING


Aspen and Christina sat at the bar in a half-filled tavern near Larimer Square, drinking white wine too fast and bowing to the luck gods for letting them get out of the law firm alive and undetected. The crowd seemed like young professionals, dressed for success, taking a mid-week breath of life on their way to the weekend.

Christina seemed even more rattled than Aspen.

“So I still don’t get it,” Aspen said. “Some woman in New York goes into a suicide-by-bus routine. Derek Bennett calls her a dumb bitch and agrees with whoever it was on the other end of the phone that things are reaching critical mass—his words, critical mass.”

Christina took a sip of wine.

No, not a sip, a drink.

“Bennett’s turning out to be one strange piece of work,” she said. “And that gun. Why does a lawyer need a gun in his office? It gives me the creeps just knowing it’s in the building, much less that he’s the one who has it.”

She shuddered.

“That was a stroke of genius, by the way. That whole battery thing.”

Christina frowned.

“Sorry I didn’t think of it sooner,” she said. “I was a heartbeat away from pulling the fire alarm when I thought of it.”

“That would have been subtle.”

Two men came over, wearing suits, very polite, and wanted to buy them drinks.

They let them.

Then they headed back to Christina’s.

While Christina went to shower the day off, Aspen fired up her laptop and plugged into the Internet to do a little research. The suicide-by-bus woman, Rebecca Yates, turned out to be a still-gorgeous ex-model who had landed a full-time job as a trophy wife ten years ago. Other than giving her husband’s money away to charities, and parading her face in every high-society function this side of the moon, she really didn’t have many other dimensions.

Her husband—Robert Yates—on the other hand, turned out to be quite the story. A self-made man who worked his way up to Harvard and later said it was the most boring four years of his life. It did, however, springboard him onto a path that eventually landed him as the president, CEO, and majority shareholder of Tomorrow, Inc., a satellite communications company.

He and eight-year-old daughter Amanda Yates were playing Frisbee in Central Park on a nice July afternoon earlier this summer, a common ritual. Except this time they died.

Both had been ripped open with a jagged knife.

The prevailing theory being that a robbery had gone bad.

The father resisted and ended up on the wrong side of the blade.

That left the girl.

A witness.

So she had to go too.

There were no solid leads or suspects.

Even to this day.

Ordinarily it wouldn’t have been much of a story, except the guy was richer than God and everyone wondered what the wife would do afterwards. Most expected her to live it up. Who wouldn’t? She was young, beautiful, filthy rich, and single.

But, strangely, she actually grew despondent instead.

She threw herself in front of a bus.

When Christina came out of the shower, Aspen told her the story.

“He was President of Tomorrow, Inc.?”

“Right.”

She scrunched her face.

“We had major litigation against that company,” she said. “We represented Omega in a federal case in D.C. against Tomorrow. An antitrust case based on predatory pricing. Our client got a judgment against Tomorrow for over a hundred million dollars.”

“Wow.”

“They appealed and managed to dodge having to post a supersedeas bond,” she added. “But the case comes up for oral argument next month.”

“Do they have any basis for reversal?”

“According to the powers that be, no. So Tomorrow’s on the verge of writing a very big check to our client.”

Aspen spun around in her chair.

“This is getting too complicated,” she said.

“Forget about it,” Christina said. “Obviously it has nothing to do with Rachel. We need to stay focused on Derek Bennett the weirdo sadist and not Derek Bennett the antitrust lawyer.”

“You’re right.”

She looked at her watch.

10:42.

“I’m ready to hit the sack.”

“Let’s do it.”

Christina had only one bed, but it was big enough that neither of them felt uncomfortable sharing it. They said goodnight and snuggled in. Five minutes later Aspen said, in a very low voice, “Are you sleeping yet?”

“Yes.”

“Robert Yates got killed on July 22nd. We need to find out if anyone from the law firm was in New York at that time.”

Christina moaned.

“Go to sleep.”