In a far corner office, where his mother had once worked, sat a bookish clerk with an eager-beaver face. A pang struck across Peter’s chest, causing the air to thicken as if he were in a freshly watered sauna. In an effort to seal his grief, he swallowed, then redirected his attention. An African-American woman in blue business attire and stylish wire-frames sat behind a formal-looking reception desk. Handsome, in her fifties, she had gray hair and wore a phone headset, thus freeing her hands for other chores. Her nameplate read: Elaine Robinson.
Observing his approach and making eye contact, the receptionist nodded and held up a forefinger, signaling she would be right with him once she finished her phone call. After taking a message and hanging up, she said, “Mr. Neil, Mr. Ayers will be a few moments. I am sorry about your mother. I was a dear friend, and we all loved Hannah. Especially me, she was my . . .”
Elaine Robinson couldn’t finish. Peter nodded his understanding, thanked her, and stepped to the coffee table and sofa set up for visitors to cool their heels. He skimmed the Wall Street Journal headlines and was reading about a coordinated attack on a third-world central bank when a voice hailed and distracted him from across the room.
“Peter Neil?” A mid-twenties woman whisked over to him. “I couldn’t believe it when I heard you were coming to the office.” She had a husky voice that easily carried the twenty-five feet.
An understated skirt and open jacket moved in rhythm with the bob of her rounded shoulder. And something about freckles dotting a cockeyed smile made her seem familiar. But who was she? he asked himself.
Just before she introduced herself, a movie-clipped-memory projected itself. Her hair still hung long and thick with a chestnut shine, but she was no longer skinny, nor did she wear braces. When she said, “I’m Kate. Kate Ayers,” he had already guessed.
Fourteen years had passed since their families’ occasional dinners, but this was the grownup version of that girl. Peter could not suppress his delight, a response originating in his toes, flowing up his spine, and onto his face, culminating in a hearty smile. She had a warm aura, and an odd mix more cute than pretty, but better than both. When she grabbed his hand, Peter said, “Little Katie Ayers. Damn. This is quite a surprise.”
Ten minutes of catching up later, Peter asked, “You work here?”
“I’m embarrassed to say so, but yes. I just graduated from UCLA Law, and I’m working as a third-year legal associate for part of the summer. Naturally, I got the job on my merits . . .” She smiled, then laughed. “Okay, okay, Father had something to do with it. But I’m working for nothing. I didn’t want to take one of the spots away from another intern; I’m pro bono. I’ve got to head back to LA in mid-July, so I couldn’t commit to a full summer anyway.”
“You’re going back in July? How come?”
“I’m assisting one of my law professors on a textbook—on personal injury and tort law. Kind of a snooze, but it looks good on the old resumé. While I do that, I study for the bar exam.”
“That’s impressive. Are you going to concentrate on securities law?”
“Nope. Way too boring. I’m heading for criminal. That’s if I pass the exam.”
“You’ll pass. I can see the intensity in your eyes.”
“My eyes?”
“They’re smart eyes.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment, though I can think of something a little more endearing.”
“I’m tongue-tied. Perhaps I should have said you’ve got a certain je ne sais quoi about you.” Kate curtsied, the tilt of her head hiding what Peter guessed was a smile. He continued, “By the way, I rode up in the elevator with a potential client.” The image of the tattooed man with the deep bruises still gave him the creeps. “I hope you find a better class of criminal once you take the plunge.”
“Even the guilty need counsel,” she quickly replied, half-serious. The remark kept the mood light but hinted at her principles. As she spoke, Peter recalled his mother’s comments about representing evil. “I’d like to start out in the Public Defender’s Office. I don’t know where I’ll go after that.”
“Mr. Neil,” the receptionist gently interrupted Kate. “Mr. Ayers is ready.”
Peter nodded. When he said, “I enjoyed seeing you again after all these years, Kate,” he meant the words. She eased the tension he’d felt all morning by drawing him back to a happier time in his life.
“It was fun,” she replied. “I don’t know if you remember, but you used to make fun of my freckles. The first time you did, I cried because I didn’t want you to think I was ugly. I had a crush on you.”
“I was too busy being a thirteen-year-old to notice. Long belated apologies. Anyway, you’ve blossomed—blossomed’s a dumb word—but you’ve . . . well, you get my point.”
A light blush accompanied an appreciative nod. “You want to get together?” she asked. “I’m free tonight.”
“Tonight?”
“I’ll buy dinner.”
“You’ll have to,” Peter said. “I’m broke.”
“Good. I like my men beholden.” She laughed. “You can tell me if you take the job.”
“You know about the Stenman Partners position?”
“Of course I do. Father tells me everything. If I were you, I’d accept. If you’ve got what it takes, you’ll do very, very well there.”
“You know Morgan Stenman personally?” Peter asked.
“My godparent. Father’s been the partnership’s counsel for thirty years.”
“That’s a good recommendation—”
“Excuse me, Mr. Neil, but they’re waiting.” The receptionist stepped around her desk, ready to lead him away.
Peter and Kate agreed to meet, seven p.m., at Bully’s in Del Mar. As he made his way to Ayers’ office, he wondered if he’d heard correctly. Had the receptionist said “they’re waiting”?
If so, who besides Jason Ayers?
Kate’s words, “If I were you, I’d take the position,” bolstered him. He prayed he’d have the opportunity to take her advice. If so, he vowed to work ten times as hard as anyone else.
The overworked moonstone radiated friction-heat as Peter dropped it into his hip pocket. With a deep gulp, he knocked on the solid door. For the first time in weeks, he had a good feeling. He prayed it wasn’t a head fake.
“Come in,” Ayers said through the solid door.
Leaning forward, Peter obeyed.
CHAPTER FOUR
AGENT OLIVER DAWSON ROSE FROM HIS DESK AND STRAYED TO HIS fourth floor window, grabbing a quick look at the Washington, D.C. scene. A June gloom hung over repugnant air spewing from the exhaust pipes of Fifth Street’s bumper-to-bumper traffic. He turned the latch and slid the window open, breaking cobwebs in the process. Immediately, the sounds of revving engines and horns in staccato blares filled the room. He stared at the sky, filtered through gauzy air. Squeezing a dent into the can, he clutched his fourth Diet Coke of the morning—a ritual that kept his head buzzing and his mind racing. Behind him, the inaugural photos of the last eight presidents hung in a row. “The rogues’ gallery,” Dawson called them. Ronald Reagan’s photo had his autograph scribbled across his chest. Dawson wished he had President Kennedy’s signature instead, but he was too young to have met JFK.
It had been a depressing few weeks, as unfulfilling as any time in his life. When he returned to Washington after the Cannodine and Drucker fiascoes, Dawson handled a small insider trading case. A CEO’s in-laws had traded shares of his company ahead of a takeover bid. Having settled this brief investigation with a paltry fine, he now had additional time to feed his frustrations. For the last fourteen of his thirty-nine years, the agent had dedicated himself to enforcing the nation’s securities laws. No matter how hard he tried or cared, it wasn’t enough. Tight budgets, sophisticated lawbreakers, the explosion of wealth around the world—all made his efforts less than the proverbial drop in a bucket.