“Well, it was Nancy.”
“Then I believe you,” Ben said.
“It really was!”
“I said I believe you.”
“Ben, I-”
“Listen, if I really thought you were lying, I’d pretend to go to the bathroom and then I’d go up to Nancy to ask her if she called you. I trust you, Lisa. If you say it was her, it was her.”
By late Friday afternoon, Ben had been staring at his computer screen for three consecutive hours. “I can’t believe he hasn’t made a move yet,” he said, rubbing his now bloodshot eyes. “The only way to make money is to buy the property.”
For the eighth time since Wednesday, Lisa reread the final draft of Grinnell. “Maybe Rick never got the Grinnell decision. Maybe he got a different decision.”
“No way,” Ben said. “He definitely got Grinnell. I can feel it.”
“Oh, you can?” Lisa asked, her eyes still glued to the page. “And assuming your supernatural powers are correct, what makes you so sure that Rick’s seller will even report the sale? He may just hand over the deed and run.”
“The seller may do that, but Rick won’t. It’s in Rick’s best interest to report the sale. Otherwise, the seller might be able to renege on the deal. By reporting the property, Rick will guarantee the transaction, and he’s too smart not to do that.”
Intrigued by the logic of Ben’s hypothesis, Lisa put down the decision and turned toward her own computer, which was also logged onto Lexis’s Public Records database. As the two clerks sat mesmerized in front of the property records, their silence was interrupted by the ringing of Ben’s phone.
“Hello. Justice Hollis’s chambers,” Ben answered.
“Hey, is this Ben Addison? The same Ben Addison that worked at Wayne and Portnoy two summers ago?”
Rolling his eyes, Ben recognized the voice of Adrian Alcott. He forced a congenial tone. “How’re you doing, Adrian? Great to hear your voice.”
“Yours too,” Alcott said. “We haven’t spoken in a while. How’s everything at the Court?”
“Busy, busy, busy,” Ben said, annoyed that his attention was taken from his computer screen.
“So I hear,” Alcott said. “I’ve heard it gets really crazy there as the year comes to a close.”
“Absolutely. They try to get out as many decisions as possible so everyone can enjoy their holidays.”
“Don’t I know it,” Alcott said. “Even here, we try to-”
“Ben, you better take a look at this!” Lisa yelled, pointing to her screen.
Ignoring Alcott’s ramblings, Ben turned back to his screen, where he struggled to find the source of Lisa’s outburst.
“So have you decided on your career plans for next year yet?” Alcott asked. When he didn’t get an answer, he added, “Ben, are you there?”
“Yeah, yeah. I’m here,” Ben said, scrolling through the list of more than a hundred identifiable owners. “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear that last part.”
“I just wanted to know if you had decided on your career plans for next year,” Alcott repeated.
“Not yet. I’ve been too busy to think about next week, much less next year.”
“Go to the top of the list!” Lisa called out.
“I totally understand,” Alcott said. “As long as you’re keeping us in mind, that’s all I ask.”
As he scrolled to the top of the alphabetical list, Ben searched for the most recent addition to the register of Grinnell property owners. When he finally saw the newest entry, his heart dropped. He didn’t want to believe his eyes, but there it was at the top of his screen: Addison & Co. “Listen, Adrian, I have to go.”
“Is everything okay?” Alcott asked. Before Alcott finished the question, Ben was gone.
“I don’t believe this,” Ben said, his hands pulling at his hair. “I can’t believe this is happening. I’m completely screwed.”
“Don’t say that,” Lisa said, walking over to calm her co-clerk. “It’s not-”
“Lisa, when this decision comes down on Monday, a company with my last name attached to it is going to make millions because of a decision I worked on. You don’t think that’s something to worry about?”
“Ben, there’s no way to link that company to you. You didn’t create it; you have nothing to do with it. Besides, who else besides us is actually watching the Public Records database for current changes in Grinnell ownership?”
Ben’s phone rang. Frozen, he looked at Lisa. Again, the ring cut through the room.
“Are you going to answer it?” Lisa asked.
Again, the phone rang.
“It’s the Marshals Office,” Ben said. “They know.” He raced toward the closet and grabbed his coat.
“Where are you going?” Lisa asked.
“I have to get out of here,” Ben explained, picking up his briefcase and heading for the door. “Switch I.D.s with me.”
“What?”
“I said, switch I.D.s,” Ben demanded, throwing Lisa his Court I.D. “Hurry!”
Lisa ran back to her desk, pulled her I.D. from her desk drawer, and threw it to him. As soon as he caught it, he was gone.
“Call me when you get home,” Lisa yelled as the phone continued to ring.
Running full speed down the main staircase, Ben was in a deep sweat. When he reached the main floor, his pace slowed and he tried his best to maintain a casual walk. Avoiding the main exit, he stayed in the north wing of the Court and headed for the only unmanned door in the building. As he approached the exit, he thought he heard someone behind him. He turned around and saw no one, but he picked up his pace. His heart racing, Ben reached the I.D. machine that would grant him access to the locked exit. He pulled out Lisa’s card, held his breath, and swiped it through the machine. Nothing. With shaking hands, he ran it through again. Finally, a click of recognition. He pressed forward and pushed open the side door of the building. Once outside, he let out his breath and dropped his briefcase on the ground, relieved to feel the bitter wind on his face. Bent over, with his hands on his knees, Ben took a minute and struggled to compose himself. Running his fingers through his hair, he closed his eyes and tried to think. He picked up a handful of snow from the ground, rubbed it across his forehead, and put the rest in his mouth. Walking a few blocks up Maryland Avenue, Ben stopped at a pay phone and dialed Lisa’s office number.
“Hello, Justice Hol-”
“Lisa, it’s me.”
“What the hell happened to you?”
“I’m sorry. I just had to get out of there. I felt sick to my stomach.”
“What the hell did you need my I.D. for?”
“I thought the marshals were going to put a lock on mine so I couldn’t leave the building. That’s how they got me last time.”
“So now I’m stuck here?”
“No,” Ben said, checking over his shoulder. “You can still use mine. If the marshals lock you in, it means they know about Grinnell. If not, I’ll know they’re clueless.”
“But that doesn’t answer my question. If they lock me in, how am I supposed to get out of here?”
“Just walk to the main exit and tell them you can’t find your I.D. They’ll look you up manually and you’ll get out. Meanwhile, have you figured out who Rick bought the property from?”
“I went through the list we printed out last week and there was only one name missing. Addison and Company replaced a company called the Micron Group.”
“And the Micron Group is?”
“I ran a Lexis search on them and it came up blank. All I could find was that they were a limited partnership chartered in Delaware about five years ago. The original incorporation papers were registered to a Murray Feinman, but when I looked up Feinman, the only story on him was his obituary. He died late last year at the age of eighty-four. Micron was probably created solely to make predeath investments, and I have no idea who runs it now.”