State Of Fear

Page 12

"You do, I can see it in your eyes. A lot of people do. They go, He was just a kid, how could you do that? Let me tell you, people don't know what the hell they're talking about. One of us was going to get killed that night. I'm glad it wasn't me. But of course, it still bothers me."
"I'll bet."
"Sometimes I wake up in a cold sweat. Seeing the gunshot blow the windshield in front of my face. Realizing how close I came to dying. I was stupid. I should have killed him the first time."
Evans paused. He didn't know what to say.
"You ever had a gun at your head?" she said.
"No amp;"
"Then you have no idea how it feels, do you?"
"Was there trouble about it?" he said.
"You bet your ass there was trouble. For a while I thought I wasn't going to be able to practice law. They claimed I led him on. Do you believe that shit? I never saw the guy in my life. But then a very good attorney came to my rescue."
"Balder?"
She nodded. "That's why I'm here."
"And what about your arm?"
"Ah hell," she said, "the car crashed and I cut it on the broken glass." She signaled to the waitress. "What do you say we get the check?"
"I'll do that."
Minutes later they were back outside. Evans blinked in the milky midday light. They walked down the street. "So," Evans said. "I guess you're pretty good at karate."
"Good enough."
They came to the warehouse. He shook her hand.
"I'd really like to have lunch again some time," she said. She was so direct about it, he wondered whether it was personal, or whether she wanted him to know how the lawsuit was going. Because like Balder, much of what she had said was not encouraging.
"Lunch sounds great," he said.
"Not too long?"
"Deal."
"Will you call me?"
"Count on it," he said.
Chapter 14
BEVERLY HILLS
TUESDAY, AUGUST 24
5:04 P.M.
It was almost dark when he went home to his apartment and parked in the garage facing the alley. He was going up the back stairs when the landlady poked her head out the window. "You just missed them," she said.
"Who?"
"The cable repair people. They just left."
"I didn't call any cable repair people," he said. "Did you let them in?"
"Of course not. They said they would wait for you. They just left."
Evans had never heard of cable repair people waiting for anyone. "How long did they wait?"
"Not long. Maybe ten minutes."
"Okay."
He got up to the second-floor landing. A tag was hooked on his door-knob. "Sorry We Missed You." There was a check box to "Call again to reschedule service."
Then he saw the problem. The address was listed as 2119 Roxbury. His address was 2129 Roxbury. But the address was on the front door, not the back door. They'd just made a mistake. He lifted his doormat to check on the key he kept there. It was right where he'd left it. It hadn't been moved. There was even a ring of dust around it.
He unlocked the door and went inside. He went to the refrigerator, and saw the old container of yogurt. He needed to go to the supermarket but he was too tired. He checked the messages to see if Janis or Carol had called. They hadn't. Now of course there was the prospect of Jennifer Haynes, but she had a boyfriend, she lived in DC, and amp;he knew it would never work.
He thought of calling Janis, but decided not to. He took a shower, and was considering calling for pizza delivery. He lay down on the bed to relax for a minute before he called. And he fell immediately asleep.
Chapter 15
CENTURY CITY
WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 25
8:59 A.M.
The meeting was held in the big conference room on the fourteenth floor. Morton's four accountants were there; his assistant Sarah Jones; Herb Lowenstein, who did estate planning; a guy named Marty Bren, who did tax work for NERF, and Evans. Morton, who hated all financial meetings, paced restlessly.
"Let's get to it," he said. "I am supposedly giving ten million dollars to NERF, and we have signed papers, is that right?"
"Right," Lowenstein said.
"But now they want to attach a rider to the agreement?"
"Right," Marty Bren said. "It's pretty standard boilerplate for them." He shuffled through his papers. "Any charity wants to have full use of the money they receive, even when it is earmarked for a particular purpose. Maybe that purpose costs more or less than predicted, or it is delayed, or mired in litigation, or set aside for some other reason. In this case, the money has been earmarked for the Vanutu lawsuit, and the relevant phrase NERF wants to add is "said moneys to be used to defray the cost of the Vanutu litigation, including fees, filing, and copying costs amp;blah blah amp;or for other legal purposes, or for such other purposes as NERF shall see fit in its capacity as an environmental organization."
Morton said, "That's the phrase they want?"
"Boilerplate, as I said," Bren said.
"It's been in my previous donation agreements?"
"I don't recall offhand."
"Because," Morton said, "it sounds to me like they want to be able to pull the plug on this lawsuit, and spend the money elsewhere."
"Oh, I doubt that," Herb said.
"Why?" Morton said. "Why else would they want this boilerplate? Look, we had a signed deal. Now they want a change. Why?"
"It's not really a change," Bren said.
"It sure as hell is, Marty."
"If you look at the original agreement," Bren said calmly, "it says that any money not spent on the lawsuit goes to NERF for other purposes."
"But that's only if there's money left after the lawsuit ends," Morton said. "They can't spend it on anything else until the suit is decided."
"I think they imagine there may be long delays here."
"Why should there be delays?" Morton turned to Evans. "Peter? What is going on over there in Culver City?"
"It looks like the suit is going forward," Evans said. "They have a large operation. There must be forty people working on that one case. I don't think they plan to give it up."
"And are there problems with the suit?"
"There are certainly challenges," Evans said. "It's complicated litigation. They face strong opposing counsel. They're working hard."
"Why am I not convinced here?" Morton said. "Six months ago Nick Drake told me this damn lawsuit was a slam dunk and a great publicity opportunity, and now they want a bail-out clause."
"Maybe we should ask Nick."
"I got a better idea. Let's audit NERF."
Murmurs in the room. "I don't think you have that right, George."
"Make it part of the agreement."
"I'm not sure you can do that."
"They want a rider. I want a rider. What's the difference?"
"I'm not sure you can audit their entire operation"
"George," Herb Lowenstein said. "You and Nick are friends of long standing. You're their Concerned Citizen of the Year. Auditing them seems a little out of character for your relationship."
"You mean it looks like I don't trust them?"
"Put bluntly, yes."
"I don't." Morton leaned on the table and looked at everyone sitting there. "You know what I think? They want to blow off the litigation and spend all the money on this conference on abrupt climate change that Nick is so excited about."
"They don't need ten million for a conference."
"I don't know what they need. He already misplaced two hundred and fifty thousand of my money. It ended up in fucking Vancouver. I don't know what he is doing anymore."
"Well, then you should withdraw your contribution."
"Ah ah," Marty Bren said. "Not so fast. I think they've already made financial commitments based on the reasonable expectation that the money was coming."
"Then give them some amount, and forget the rest."
"No," Morton said. "I'm not going to withdraw the grant. Peter Evans here says the litigation is going forward, and I believe him. Nick says that the two hundred and fifty grand was a mistake, and I believe him. I want you to ask for an audit and I want to know what happens. I will be out of town for the next three weeks."
"You will? Where?"
"I'm taking a trip."
"But we'll have to be able to reach you, George."
"I may be unreachable. Call Sarah. Or have Peter here get in touch with me."
"But George"
"That's it, guys. Talk to Nick, see what he says. We'll be in contact soon."
And he walked out of the room, with Sarah hurrying after him.
Lowenstein turned to the others. "What the hell was that all about?"
Chapter 16
VANCOUVER
THURSDAY, AUGUST 26
12:44 P.M.
Thunder rumbled ominously. Looking out the front windows of his office, Nat Damon sighed. He had always known that that submarine lease would mean trouble. After the check bounced, he had canceled the order, hoping that that would be the end of it. But it wasn't.
For weeks and weeks he had heard nothing, but then one of the men, the lawyer in the shiny suit, had come back unexpectedly to poke a finger in his face and tell him that he had signed a nondisclosure agreement and could not discuss any aspect of the submarine lease with anybody, or risk a lawsuit. "Maybe we'll win, and maybe we'll lose," the lawyer said. "But either way, you're out of business, friend. Your house is mortgaged. You're in debt for the rest of your life. So, think it over. And keep your mouth shut."
All during this, Damon's heart was pounding. Because the fact was, Damon had already been contacted by some sort of revenue service guy. A man named Kenner, who was coming to Damon's office that very afternoon. To ask a few questions, he had said.
Damon had been afraid that this Kenner would show up while the lawyer was still in his office, but now the lawyer was driving away. His car, a nondescript Buick sedan with Ontario plates, drove through the boatyard, and was gone.
Damon started to clean up the office, getting ready to go home. He was toying with the idea of leaving before Kenner arrived. Kenner was some revenue agent. Damon had done nothing wrong. He didn't have to meet any revenue agent. And if he did, what would he do, say he couldn't answer questions?
The next thing, he'd be subpoenaed or something. Dragged into court.
Damon decided to leave. There was more thunder, and the crack of distant lightning. A big storm was moving in.
As he was closing up, he saw that the lawyer had left his cell phone on the counter. He looked out to see if the lawyer was coming back for it. Not yet, but surely he would realize he had left it, and come back. Damon decided to leave before he showed up.
Hastily, he slipped the cell phone in his pocket, turned out the lights, and locked the office. The first drops of rain were spattering the pavement as he went to his car, parked right in front. He opened the door and was climbing into the car when the cell phone rang. He hesitated, not sure what to do. The phone rang insistently.
A jagged bolt of lightning crashed down, striking the mast of one of the ships in the boatyard. In the next instant there was a burst of light by the car, a blast of furious heat that knocked him to the ground. Dazed, he tried to get up.
He was thinking that his car had exploded, but it hadn't; the car was intact, the door blackened. Then he saw that his trousers were on fire. He stared stupidly at his own legs, not moving. He heard the rumble of thunder and realized that he had been struck by lightning.
My God, he thought. I was hit by lightning. He sat up and slapped at his trousers, trying to put out the fire. It wasn't working, and his legs were beginning to feel pain. He had a fire extinguisher inside the office.
Staggering to his feet, he moved unsteadily to his office. He was unlocking the door, his fingers fumbling, when there was another explosion. He felt a sharp pain in his ears, reached up, touched blood. He looked at his bloody fingertips, fell over, and died.
Chapter 17
CENTURY CITY
THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 2
12:34 P.M.
Under normal circumstances, Peter Evans spoke to George Morton every day. Sometimes twice a day. So after a week went by without hearing from him, Evans called his house. He spoke to Sarah.
"I have no idea what is going on," she said. "Two days ago he was in North Dakota. North Dakota! The day before that he was in Chicago. I think he might be in Wyoming today. He's made noises about going to Boulder, Colorado, but I don't know."
"What's in Boulder?" Evans said.
"I haven't a clue. Too early for snow."
"Has he got a new girlfriend?" Sometimes Morton disappeared when he was involved with a new woman.
"Not that I know," Sarah said.
"What's he doing?"
"I have no idea. It sounds like he has a shopping list."
"A shopping list?"
"Well," she said, "sort of. He wanted me to buy some kind of special GPS unit. You know, for locating position? Then he wanted some special video camera using CCD or CCF or something. Had to be rush-ordered from Hong Kong. And yesterday he told me to buy a new Ferrari from a guy in Monterey, and have it shipped to San Francisco."
"Another Ferrari?"
"I know," she said. "How many Ferraris can one man use? And this one doesn't seem up to his usual standards. From the e-mail pictures it looks kind of beat up."
"Maybe he's going to have it restored."
"If he was, he'd send it to Reno. That's where his car restorer is."
He detected a note of concern in her voice. "Is everything okay, Sarah?"
"Between you and me, I don't know," she said. "The Ferrari he bought is a 1972 365 GTS Daytona Spyder."
"So?"
"He already has one, Peter. It's like he doesn't know. And he sounds weird when you talk to him."