Sergei read through the file, found the photo, and showed it to me. “Is this the man?”
“Yes!”
I clapped a hand over my mouth and gave my best shot at looking horrified and terrified, and to my credit I think I might have even gotten a little teary.
“I can assure you we’ll look into this,” Sergei said.
“Yeah, but what about her blouse?” Briggs said. “Who’s going to pay for the blouse?”
“I’m not actually authorized to reimburse her,” Sergei said, “but when we conclude our investigation I might be able to recommend some compensation.”
Briggs cupped his ear. “What?” He looked at me. “What did he say? Did he say something about condensation?”
“He has a temporary hearing loss,” I said to Sergei.
“Yeah,” Briggs said. “Someone blew up my car, and I was standing too close.”
“It was a political act,” I said to Sergei. “I’m sure you understand about these things.”
“So what about the blouse?” Briggs said. “There was no condensation on it. Just handprints. And my good friend and client here has a big scar on her tit from where this Viktor guy went after her.”
Briggs was having a hard time seeing Sergei, so he got up and stood on the chair seat.
“We demand action,” Briggs said, jumping up and down. “Action, action, action!”
He lost his balance on the third jump, fell off the chair, and crashed to the floor.
“Ow!” he yelled. “My leg. I broke my leg. I need a doctor. Call the paramedics.”
He was rolling around on the floor, holding his leg and moaning.
“I feel sick,” he said. “I’m gonna throw up. I need air. Someone get me some air. This office is closing in on me.”
He crawled to the door, dragging his broken leg behind him, making gagging sounds. Sergei was on his phone again, calling his assistant, telling her to call for an EMT. Briggs made it into the hall. Sergei hovered over him, not sure what to do. And as soon as I was left alone in the office, I took photos of the three-page dossier on Viktor Volkov with my smartphone.
I went into the hall and looked down at Briggs. “Are you sure your leg is broken?”
“I thought it was broken,” Briggs said. “But now it’s feeling better.”
“He has panic attacks,” I explained to Sergei.
“You might think about getting a new lawyer,” Sergei said.
I grabbed Briggs by the arm and hauled him to his feet. “Upsy-daisy,” I said.
Briggs gingerly tried his leg. “It’s a miracle!”
“Oh gosh, look at the time,” I said. “I have to be at work. Thank you so much for looking into this for me. I’ll check back next week.”
“I didn’t get your name,” Sergei said.
“Joyce Barnhardt.”