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  “The ‘right’ decision?”

  “Okay, a favorable decision.”

  “How much did you pay Frankie?”

  “10,000 up front, and another 40,000 if the outcome in the arbitration was beneficial.”

  “Frankie never got the second forty?”

  “No.”

  “And you asked Frankie to do another job, didn’t you, Dick?”

  “Yes.” Dick’s voice was a whisper now.

  “Tell me.”

  “From our surveillance it looked like you weren’t going to allow the confidential report into discovery. I was asked to approach Frank again.”

  “To do what?”

  “Make a copy of the report for us.” Dick hung his head now.

  “So you hired Frankie to steal the report?”

  “Yes. But just to make a copy Judge. Then put it right back.”

  “How much were you to pay Frankie for the copy?”

  “20,000 up front, 180,000 more after we validated the copy.”

  “Did Frankie have any second thoughts?”

  “How’d you know? He tried to back out the Wednesday before your swim. Called and said he couldn’t do it. He was scared.”

  “What time did he call, Dick?”

  “About 8 p.m.”

  “What’d you say?”

  “Told him he’d cashed the check. Taken the money. It was too late for either of us to go back. Told him these folks I worked for played rough. He’d best just go through with it. Told him he could get hurt if he didn’t hold up his end after accepting the money.”

  “What’d he say?”

  “He got angry. Asked if that was why I was having him followed. Said maybe it would be better if he met with Mr. Hicks directly, so both sides were at risk if anything ever came out.”

  “I told him that wasn’t possible. He needed to damn well go through with his end just as we agreed. There was no turning back.”

  “How’d he respond?”

  “He said okay.”

  “When were you to meet to get the copy of the report?”

  “On Thursday, at 11 p.m., in Playa del Rey, in the Village.”

  “And did he show up? Give you the copy?”

  “No, Judge. He never showed up. I waited an hour. Wolin never came.”

  “Why do you suppose, Dick?”

  Dick looked at the Judge now, guilty eyes pleading for some sort of redemption.

  “Cause he was dead. Cause he couldn’t take the pressure. Cause he killed himself.”

  “Or he was murdered?”

  “Murdered? Nobody’s said anything about murder, Judge. There was no murder.”

  “I think there was, Dick. I think Frank Wolin was killed.”

  Dick’s complexion turned from pink to white. It was good he hadn’t had his lunch yet.

  The Judge plowed on. “Your client was more interested in obtaining the confidential report than in winning the arbitration. True?”

  “How’d you know that?”

  “True?”

  “Yes. My sailing instructions were to get the information on the ‘new’ technology at any cost.”

  “At the cost of bugging my chambers? At the cost of the corruption of my young law clerk? At the cost of your career? Perhaps at the cost of your freedom? At the cost of Frankie’s life?”

  “No. No, Judge. There was nothing about murder. I don’t know anything about murder. I don’t know who killed Carl Greene and I don’t know how Frank Wolin died. I thought he killed himself.”

  “So here’s the big question, Dick.”

  “Yes.”

  “Who was your client?”

  “Why Randall Hicks of course.”

  “Dick, the time for bullshitting is over. I know Randall was set up as a schmuck with a pen. And so do you. Who were you working for?”

  “I thought it was Randall. I…I…”

  “Enough lies, Dick,” the Judge interrupted. “Tell me about the Chinese conglomerate. Tell me about Mr. Wang.”

  Fear spread over Dick’s face now. The Judge could see he was truly afraid.

  “I can’t talk about them, Judge. It’d be dangerous for me.”

  “You can talk to me about ‘them’, or you can talk to the police and then the DA and then the grand jury. And after that’s all over, the State Bar. It’s your choice.”

  Dick covered his face with his hands for a minute. Thinking. The Judge could imagine his sharp legal mind darting from one possible course of action to another, weighing risks and consequences, trying to figure a sanitized way out. Like a rat in a maze.

  “Here’s what I know, Judge. But you didn’t hear this from me.”

  “Okay.”

  “The conglomerate is just a public shell, masking the activities of a group of very clever Chinese computer engineers who break into computers around the world and steal data. They are funded by the Chinese government. Practically a secret arm of the government. Commercial espionage is their mission. Jeffrey Wang is their Hong Kong lawyer. I took my directions from Jeffrey.

  The law firm was failing. They were going to throw me out ‘cause I didn’t have any business. My entire book of business disappeared with this damn recession. I was desperate. Jeffrey offered a 500,000 dollar retainer which I took and brought into the law firm. It saved my partnership there. Gave me a year’s breathing room. I agreed to represent Jeffrey Wang and his group.”

  “Did they tell you what you were going to do for the retainer?”

  “Yes, Judge. I’m afraid they did. I introduced Randall Hicks and his public company, essentially a shell, to Jeffrey. Wang’s group funded acquisition of control of Hicks’ public company though a British Virgin Islands company I set up. Jeffrey funneled new money into Hicks’ company. Assigned the existing technology to Randall’s company. Arranged for Randall to assert that the technology was his own. Jeffery essentially manufactured the opportunity to bring a lawsuit against Carl Greene.”

  “And the goal was always to get Carl’s new technology?”

  “Yes.”

  “By hook or by crook?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did Randall Hicks get in the way?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Did Hicks go along with this program? The bribing of Frank. The effort to steal a copy of Greene’s confidential report?”

  “He didn’t know about it. He took orders from Jeffery Wang like everyone else. But he wasn’t included in our internal planning.”

  “Did he know how valuable the report was?”

  “He no doubt guessed. He’s no fool.”

  “Do you think Hicks might have obtained the copy of the report from Frankie in your stead?”

  “I hadn’t thought of that. Randall could have made some side deal with Frank I suppose. He didn't tell me about it if he did. I honestly don't know.”

  “Randall Hicks is dead.”

  The words just lay there, like stones dropped into a quiet pond between them. Concentric circles rippling out in all directions. Harper looked at the Judge, not comprehending at first. Realization and fear gradually spreading across his face. Into his eyes.

  “How?” he finally muttered.

  “Drowned. Hit his head, or someone hit it for him, and into the water he went.”

  “When?”

  “Sometime early this morning.”

  “Shit.”

  “What were you doing at Frank’s condo building on Tuesday, Dick? Were you there to see Frank?"

  "No. I didn’t know. No Judge, no way. Like I said, I was there to pick something up from one of our paralegals out sick. I didn't know it was Frank's building."

  "Give me a break, Dick. Fancy partners like you don't trot out to pick up a paralegal's work. It's sent by email or fax, or a courier if you need an original document."

  Dick looked up from his hands then, desperation in his face. Lowering his voice further he muttered, "Shit, Judge, do I have to spell it out? Sheila and I are having a bloody affair. I was t
here for our… you know."

  "Christ, Dick. You're a mess. On top of conspiracy to steal documents, corruption of my law clerk, breaking bar rules and legal ethics, and violating the privacy laws, you’re screwing one of your employees, setting your firm up for a sexual harassment suit. Do your partners know they have a ticking bomb for a law partner?"

  There was panic in Dick's face now. "You're not going to tell them are you? Please. I know I've messed up. But it can all be fixed. Just don't tell my partners, or report me to the bar."

  "I'll have to think about that, Dick." The Judge stood up, disgust on his face. “You're not helping the image of our profession with shenanigans like this. We’re all tarred when this sort of conduct comes out. I don't know what I'm going to do."

  The Judge turned and stalked out of the Johns’ Club. He had no appetite for lunch.

  Chapter 36

  2:00 PM Friday

  The Judge headed to The Papillon from the Johns’ Club with the intent of kicking back for the rest of the afternoon. He was tired. It had been a hectic and emotional week. His arm was throbbing again. And he was still bummed about Frankie. Katie was off with her mother shopping. No doubt discussing plans for the big wedding reception. He would meet her later in Palos Verdes.

  The boat would be his alone for a little bit. It was an opportunity to enjoy the old peace and quiet of a solidary existence aboard the yacht. The way he used to enjoy it before he’d become partnered up with Katy.

  He climbed on to the swim step, up the ladder, across the aft deck, and unlocked the hatch. He slid into the main salon, tired, and glad to be in his own space. He slung his sport coat over the sofa and made his way down two steps into the galley. He could hear the small waves slapping softly against the hull as he pulled vanilla vodka and vermouth from beneath the small sink and poured a liberal amount of each into a silver martini shaker. He added a little ice, shook vigorously for a few seconds, and dumped the cold concoction into a martini glass, pulled from the upside-down rack above the sink.

  He settled down into the sofa, kicking off his loafers, and drifted off to sleep. He was dreaming about Katy and the kid, a small monstrous male with evil eyes and a shrill voice, totally spoilt, who Katy wouldn’t let him discipline or even touch. In the middle of his dream, or more nightmare really, his cell phone went off with a clatter. He sat up, stretched, retrieved his cell from his sport coat pocket and answered, expecting Katy.

  The voice on the other end said “hello” with a male voice, but electronically distorted. It was a cold voice. Even menacing.

  “Is this the Judge?”

  “It is.”

  “Good. I’ve got a message for you from the powers that be.”

  “And who might those powers be?”

  “That don’t matter. You’re one lucky son of a bitch, Judge. Damn near died twice, but still around.”

  “You’re the one responsible?”

  “That don’t matter either. Here’s the deal. The powers that be have decided you don’t know what this is all about. Don’t understand the significance of it all. Didn’t really get a solid look at the new technology. Basically don’t know jack shit.”

  “So?”

  “So I’m calling to ask you politely to butt out of this. Drop your private investigation. Let the hack cops do their job. Let them run around like ants for a while before they move the whole thing to their cold case files.”

  “I assume there is a threat behind this somewhere. What’s the ‘or else’? Are they going to find me in a bathtub with my brains blown out?”

  “You’re pretty quick for a judge. They said you were stubborn and not likely to budge. Said you’d need a little demonstration. So here you go.”

  The Judge pressed the cell closer to his ear. Suddenly intent on each word as it dropped from the other end.

  “Your sweet Katy is going to need special shoes if she’s missing toes.”

  The line went dead. The disembodied voice had hung up.

  The Judge, panicked, stabbed at his cell phone. The auto dial for Katy. Willing her to answer. The phone rang several times, then moved to voice mail.

  “Urgent. Call Me,” snapped the Judge. Then hit the redial.

  He tried four times to reach her. On the fifth redial the phone was answered.

  A voice came across the line. “Hello, this is Katy’s cell phone.” It was Florence Thorne, Katy’s mother.

  “It’s the Judge. Where’s Katy?” he barked.

  She picked up the urgency immediately. Mirrored his anxiety intuitively.

  “We’re in a shoe store in The Beverly Center. Jimmy Choo’s. Katy’s been trying on shoes for the reception. Her purse and phone are here. She just walked around the corner to use the lady’s room. She’ll be right back, Judge.”

  “Who’s in the store with you?”

  “Just the shoe clerk.”

  “Katy may be in extreme danger. Go find her. Now. Move as you talk on the phone. Get her back in the store. Now. Under the lights. Keep me on the line. Move methodically, Florence. Don’t panic. Pretend you’re talking to an old friend right now and nothing’s wrong as you move. But hurry. Get Katy. Take her back in the store, to the back. Try on a bunch more shoes. Stay in the store. Pretend you can’t make up your mind. Don’t leave until I get help there. Try to be calm. Look like you’re enjoying your shopping trip. Smile now, Flo. Smile.”

  “I’m almost to the lady’s restroom, Judge. But the store closes in 20 minutes.”

  “I’ll have help there by then, Flo.”

  “Is Katy there, Flo?”

  The line suddenly went dead.

  “Shit,” muttered the Judge.

  Twenty agonizing seconds later the cell rang.

  “Yes,” said the Judge. Holding his breath.

  “It’s us, Judge.” It was Florence. “No cell signal in the lady’s room. I have Katy. She’s okay. But we’re both a little scared. We’re walking back to Jimmy Choo’s. Now we’re inside. We’ll try on some more shoes.”

  “Good. Go to the very back. Hang in there. Let me get some help.”

  The Judge called 911 and asked for help. He was routed to the LAPD. The desk officer said they’d have a black and white there inside 15 minutes.

  He thought a minute, then called Steven Straw, his neighbor in Palos Verdes. Steve had a 17,000 square foot chateau above him on The Hill. Steve was the landlord of The Beverly Center Mall. His dad had bought the land and developed retail space back in the day when most of the shopping was still downtown. He foresaw the enormous growth potential for the West side of L.A. long before anyone else. Steve had inherited the company and continued to build and manage, creating an even larger real estate empire.

  Steve answered. Thank God he was available.

  The Judge outlined the problem in 60 seconds and asked for help.

  “I’m on it, Judge. I’ll scramble the security at the mall. They’ll be in that shoe store in under a minute.” Steve hung up.

  The Judge’s phone rang again, 60 seconds later. It was Katy.

  “Judge, what’s going on? There’s a security guard just came tearing in here. And now there’s two more, lined up either side of the door. Now there’s three, no four of them.”

  The Judge slumped back in his seat. Katy was safe. At least for now.

  He explained briefly what had happened. The phone call. The threat. He didn’t mention feet. Katy had gone quiet. She was processing.

  “Why don’t you go back to your mom’s for now? Not home. Not the boat. The LAPD will be there shortly. Let them do their report. Then see if they’ll give you an escort to your parents’ house. Have the police call me when they arrive. I’m leaving here now. I’ll see you at your parents’ house in about thirty minutes.”

  Katy’s parents lived in Brentwood, behind private gates. The drive from the Marina would give him time to consider his next move.

  CHAPTER 37

  4:00 PM Friday

  Florence and Ralph Thorne lived in
one of the most exclusive sub-communities in the City of Los Angeles. Brentwood climbed from the base of the Santa Monica Mountain range, squeezed between the 405 Freeway to the Valley on one side and Santa Monica on the other. Like a separate fiefdom all to itself. Its claims to fame included hosting part of the pentathlon in the 1932 Summer Olympics, a disastrous fire in 1961, and of course the site of the O. J. Simpson murder case in 1994.

  The Thornes lived in a track of large estates protected by heavy gates and a security guard. They were expecting him at the gates and waved him through. Tall eucalyptus trees lined the road, providing a canopy overhead. Patterns of light splayed through the leaves onto the pavement and across his windshield. The Judge could smell the eucalyptus, mixed with the earthy scent of private stables and manicured lawns adjacent to the road.

  Far off, glimpsed here and there through the trees and shrubs, was Los Angeles: row after row of small homes, deferred maintenance apartment buildings, strip commercial buildings, and at the horizon, downtown’s skyscrapers. It was a view through the prism of distance, security, and most of all money. The people who lived here didn’t have to live up close to the poor, the disadvantaged, and the blue collar workers who made the metropolis work.

  The Thornes home was a stone manor house looking as though plucked from woods in the south of France. Two stories and an attic, grey purplish stone with pale blue trim, and three towering chimneys, as though fireplaces were still the primary source of heat in the 21st century.

  The Judge pulled half way up the circular driveway and stopped behind Katy’s Mustang, opposite steps leading to the massive front door. The door flew open as he got out and Katy came down the steps at a run, spilling into the Judge’s arms. Frightened. Out of breath.

  He held her there for a long minute, smelling the fragrance of her hair and feeling the wet splash of her tears of relief. Then they kissed a long kiss.

  She put her arm around his waist then and leaned into him, leading him up the steps and inside. Into the great hall where Florence stood waiting, wringing her hands with anxiety. Waiting for an explanation.