Tuesday’s Child

Chapter 10

RYAN SPENSER’S STAFF OF THREE WOMEN AND THREE MEN WERE on tenterhooks as they waited for their boss to return from his early command-performance meeting. All of them looked wary and uneasy as they tried to imagine what had taken place and what their roles would be when their boss returned to the office. The woman who was senior to the others whispered, “We’ll know by the expression on his face when he walks through the door. Let’s go over the checklist one more time.”

“Coffee’s fresh, pastries are under the dome so they don’t dry out.”

“E-mails are taken care of.”

“The Lee transcript has been opened, and everything is on Mr. Spenser’s desk. Even Kala Aulani’s appeals. Files are stacked next to the desk.”

“The plants have been watered.”

“All his appointments were canceled for the day.”

The senior member of the staff nodded as she brushed at an imaginary speck of lint from her jacket sleeve. “Then we just wait.”

“Maybe we should go back to our respective offices so he doesn’t think-”

“Good idea,” the senior member said as she walked away in relief. The others scattered like mice who had just smelled a cat coming in their direction.

The clock in the foyer read 8:50 when Ryan Spenser stormed through the door. He took a moment to glare at the receptionist, then slammed through the double doors that led to a hallway and his office at the end of it. “Everyone! My office!” he roared like a lion as he rushed to his suite.

When they heard the roar, the staff scurried again like the mice they were. They stood at attention, waiting for the shouts, the demands, the threats that Ryan Spenser was famous for.

“Coffee?”

“Here, sir,” a mousy looking young man who had graduated summa cum laude from Yale University said, his hands shaking as he set a cup of coffee on his boss’s desk. He almost fainted with relief when he realized he hadn’t spilled a drop.

The mousy young man stepped back into the precise line, his hands folded in front of him like the others, as if they were soldiers at a drill parade waiting for orders. No one blinked, no one twitched, and no one coughed.

Spenser looked down at his desk. His three daily newspapers were neatly lined up. The Atlanta Journal-Constitution, the Wall Street Journal, and the New York Times. He almost spewed the coffee he had in his mouth when he stared down at the color photo of Sophie Lee. His insides started to churn at how innocent she looked, how normal. They were right-she was the girl next door. A crazy thought invaded his mind. How could she be the girl next door when she was an orphan? Orphan was the magic word.

Spenser fixed his gaze on his senior staff member. “I want a full background on Sophie Lee from the moment she came out of some woman’s womb. I want twelve of the best investigators we have going at this full bore. Yes, I know a lot of that is in the transcript and in our files, but we are going to start from scratch as if this were day one in preparing for trial. Forget what’s in those files,” he said, pointing to the boxes neatly lined up at the side of his desk. “We need information yesterday. We work around the clock until we get this resolved. Screw up, and you’re on the unemployment line. From this moment on, your lives are mine. If I sink, you all go with me. No interviews. Is that understood?” Six heads bobbed as one. “Now listen up, and listen good.”

They listened, making mental notes as to their various assignments, then nodded again, until their boss was satisfied that they understood what their jobs were to be.

“Here’s a tip. Shake the tabloid trees. Those sleazy reporters know ways to get information we can only dream about utilizing. Promise them whatever the hell you have to promise. Pay them, do whatever it takes. In the end, they’ll probably get the information we need before our investigators can. And you also need to know this. At the meeting this morning there was a stranger there. His name was Jonas Emanuel Darrow. He’s the great-grandson of Clarence Darrow. He works for the Aulani firm, and he just marched into that private meeting like he belonged and sat his ass down and listened to everything that was said. He was a goddamn spy, and no one knew it. I didn’t know it either until one of the conferees called me on my cell after I left the meeting. The son of a bitch now has the inside track. We’re all going to look like fools on the next newscast. Did you all hear what I said? He just marched in there like he belonged, and no one knew who the hell he was. We all look like idiots. You’re all still standing here. What part of what I just said didn’t you understand?”

The mad rush for the doorway would have been comical any other time. Not so that day.

Spenser drained his coffee and fervently wished he’d dosed it with something a little stronger. He buzzed his secretary and held up his cup for her. Just now, that very second, Ryan Spenser couldn’t help wishing that he were dead.

When his secretary returned, Spenser could not avoid frowning at the few drops of coffee that had spilled over into the saucer. Looking up, he asked, “Where are the messages, the e-mails? How many calls did we get from the media?”

“It’s all there on your desk, sir. Your father has called five times this morning and said to tell you he wants you to call him the moment you get into the office. I explained about the early-morning meeting. He said he didn’t care about early-morning meetings and to remind you he is your father, and if you don’t call him, he’s coming here. That was verbatim, sir. Do you want me to ring him for you?”

“No! Absolutely not! I’ll deal with my father. Do not let anyone near this office.”

“Of course, sir.” The secretary backed out of the room and quietly closed the door behind her. She felt so dizzy that she had to sit down. Every light on the telephone console was a glowing red button. She hated that console.

She also hated the pompous ass sitting behind the closed door. It was like this anytime he heard from his father, another real piece of work, whatever his position. I should have quit years ago, she thought. But at sixty years of age, who would hire me?

She had two more years until that glorious day; then she could thumb her nose at this place. On the other hand, given what was going on these days, she might not get the chance to thumb her nose at the jackass she worked for. She crossed her fingers that Ryan Spenser would go down for the count on the very same day she was scheduled to retire. She shot a hate-filled glance at the closed door as she jabbed at one of the glowing red buttons.

Inside the suite of offices where everyone feared to tread, Ryan Spenser sat in his custom-made chair and rubbed his temples. He had a killer headache, one that six Advil had not alleviated. He also felt sick to his stomach. Just the thought of calling his domineering father made him want to puke. He took great gulps of air, hoping to relax himself. Someone had told him once it was a marvelous way to shift into the neutral zone when under pressure. Obviously, that person had lied, because it wasn’t working.

Spenser looked around at his office, his home away from home. He loved it there. He belonged there. At least until he moved into the governor’s mansion, where he would truly belong. The suite had been decorated by some long-ago paramour whose name he no longer remembered. Cherrywood, one-of-a-kind window treatments, splendid comfortable furniture you could get lost in. Ankle-deep carpeting, the best that money could buy, luscious green plants. His own private lavatory complete with shower. He even had a closet, where he kept several changes of clothes. Built-ins galore and a private bar that didn’t emerge from its hidden recess until he pressed a button. Another button revealed a concealed safe deep enough to hold his life’s most memorable moments. And enough cash to see him through any kind of trouble that found its way to his doorstep. All paid for from his robust trust fund, at no expense to the taxpayers.

These two rooms were his lair, his sanctuary. Today, though, they felt more like a prison, however luxurious. He removed his designer jacket and tossed it across the room, where it landed on one of the deep, comfortable chairs. He jerked at his tie. It landed on top of the jacket. He rolled up the sleeves of his pristine white shirt. He didn’t feel one bit better, and his head continued to thump and pound inside his skull. He continued to massage his temples as he tried to contemplate his next move. A skilled politician, he knew this was do-or-die stuff, and he had to come off just right. If his father was running true to form, he probably already had Spenser’s speech drafted for him.

Spenser wanted to cry as he looked back at the turns in the road he’d taken. What if he had missed, say, just one of those turns, and today he was a plumber or a mailman? Would he be happy? Hell no! He didn’t know the first thing about plumbing other than you turned on water and turned it off. A mailman was out of the question. They kept getting bitten by dogs and delivered mail bombs and anthrax to unsuspecting recipients. Who the hell wanted to be a mailman? No, he was right where he was supposed to be at that point in his life.

Spenser picked up the paper and stared at the picture of a smiling Sophie Lee. God, how he hated that young woman. And for sitting her ass in prison, she was going to get $20 million from the state of Georgia. That was practically a given. She was also, or at least would be shortly, one of the richest people in the country thanks to Adam Star’s having left her the Star fortune. That kind of money could and would bury him. Where the hell had Kala Aulani sent her? For all he knew, she could be with Sophie right that minute, but Kala was too smart for that. She’d spirited her away, far away, that was for sure.

It all came back to the tabloids’ investigative reporters. The first picture of Sophie Lee, wherever she was, would pay enough money to put three kids through college. He reminded himself that he hated Kala Aulani.

Maybe Kala sent her to Mumbai. That sure as hell was far enough away. Or the Hindu Kush. Even farther. Or was it? He’d have to look that up. Kala was crafty, though; she could have stashed Sophie Lee someplace in Georgia, right under their noses.

Spenser’s mind traveled back in time to the day Sophie Lee’s verdict was read and the courtroom was empty except for him and Kala. He’d asked her what the girl had whispered to her, and she said… she said… Kala had said, “She told me to put a hex on you.” Had she?

He thought about karma then. What goes around comes around threefold, or was it tenfold? He couldn’t remember. Well, that was why they had Google, wasn’t it? He’d dated some woman who was into the stars and all that psychobabble, and she was big on karma.

Spenser’s arm snaked out. He buzzed his secretary. “Did the Aulani firm send over Adam Star’s video?” he barked.

“No, sir, they did not.”

“Well, call them and tell them if I don’t have it in an hour, I’m going to file a motion with the court saying they are withholding evidence. Never mind, just call Jay Brighton for me.”

“I can do that, sir, but the last time I called, the person answering the phone said their office is not taking any calls from you. Do you want me to try again?”

“Son of a bitch! Who the hell do they think they are?” he roared into the intercom.

“They say they are the Aulani, Brighton, Brighton, and Darrow law firm when they answer the phone,” the secretary responded smartly. Spenser missed the sarcasm. He broke the connection and decided to e-mail Jay Brighton.

Hawaii? Maybe Kala sent the girl to Hawaii. No, that was too obvious. Or was it? He thought about that old saying, “Keep your friends close, your enemies closer.” Kala had a huge family still in Hawaii. He’d read an article about her right after she announced her retirement, and she had talked about the Aulanis’ coffee business, the huge family, and how she couldn’t wait to go back to her roots. That huge family would take care of Sophie Lee. Probably guard her with their lives. Strangers poking around would get nowhere with a family like that. Then he thought about another old saying, “Money talks and bullshit walks.” Yeah, yeah, Kala probably sent her to Hawaii. Well, he’d just throw that out to the media and let them take it from there. He made a mental wager with himself that Kala Aulani would cut her six-month vacation short and suddenly return to Hawaii if he did that. Oh, yeah.

Spenser pulled out his cell phone, took a deep breath, and hit number four on his speed dial-his father’s number. Much as he hated to do it, he really had to return his father’s call.