"Where's she from?"
"Brazil."
"Brazil?"
"Yes."
"Does she look, you know, Brazilian?"
"I guess."
"Show her in."
Sandy met her at the door and greeted her warmly. Eva gave her name as Leah, with nothing behind it.
"I didn't catch your last name," Sandy said, all smiles.
"I don't use one," she said. "Not yet, anyway."
Must be a Brazilian thing, Sandy thought. Like Pele, the soccer player. Just a first name with no last.
He escorted her to a chair in the corner and sent for coffee. She declined and sat slowly. He glanced at her legs. She was dressed casually, nothing flashy. He sat across the coffee table from her and noticed her eyes-beautiful eyes, light brown, but very tired. Her long dark hair fell past her shoulders.
Patrick always had a good eye. Trudy was a mismatch, but she could certainly stop traffic.
"I'm here on behalf of Patrick," she said haltingly.
"Did he send you?" Sandy asked.
"Yes, he did."
She spoke slowly, her words soft and low. The accent was very slight.
"Did you study in the States?" he asked.
"Yes. I have a degree in law from Georgetown."
That would explain the near perfect American-English.
"And you practice where?"
"In a firm in Rio. My work is in international trade."
She had yet to smile, and this bothered Sandy. A visitor from afar. A beautiful one at that; one with a brain and nice legs. He wanted her to relax in the warmth of his office. This was, after all, New Orleans.
"Is that where you met Patrick?" he asked.
"Yes. In Rio."
"Have you spoken to him since-"
"No. Not since he was taken." She almost added that she was desperately worried about him, but that would seem unprofessional. She was not to divulge much here; nothing about her relationship with Patrick. Sandy McDermott could be trusted, but he was to be fed information in small doses.
There was a pause as they both looked away, and Sandy instinctively knew that there were many chapters to this story he would never know. But, oh, the questions! How did he steal the money? How did he get to Brazil? How did he pick her up along the way?
Arid the big one: Where's the money?
"So what am I supposed to do?" he asked.
"I want to retain you, for Patrick."
"I'm available."
"Confidentiality is crucial."
"It always is."
"This is different."
Got that right. Different to the tune of ninety million bucks.
"I assure you that anything you and Patrick tell me will be held in the strictest of confidence," he said with a reassuring smile, and she managed a very slight one in return.
"You might be pressured to divulge client secrets," she said.
"I'm not worried about that. I can take care of myself."
"You might be threatened."
"I've been threatened before."
"You might be followed."
"By whom."
"Some very nasty people."
"Who?"
"The people chasing Patrick."
"I think they've caught him."
"Yes, but not the money."
"I see." So the money was still around; that was not surprising. Sandy, and everyone else for that matter, knew Patrick couldn't go through such a fortune in four years. But how much was left?
"Where is the money?" he asked, somewhat tentatively, not for a moment expecting an answer.
"You can't ask that question."
"I just did."
Leah smiled, and quickly moved on. "Let's settle some details. How much is your retainer?"
"For what am I being retained?"
"To represent Patrick."
"For which batch of sins? According to the newspapers, it'll take an entire army of lawyers to cover his flanks."
"A hundred thousand dollars?"
"That'll do for starters. Am I doing the civil as well as the criminal?"
"Everything."
"Just me?"
"Yes. He wants no other lawyer."
"I'm touched," Sandy said, and he meant it. There were ^dozens of lawyers Patrick could turn to now, bigger lawyers with more death penalty experience, connected lawyers on the Coast with local clout, lawyers in bigger firms with more resources, and, undoubtedly, lawyers who'd been closer friends than Sandy had been for the past eight years.
"Then I'm hired," he said. "Patrick's an old friend, you know."
"I know."
How much did she really know? he wondered. Was she more than a lawyer?
"I'd like to wire the money today," she said. "If you could give me wiring instructions."
"Of course. I'll prepare a contract for legal services."
"There are some other things Patrick is concerned about. One is publicity. He wants you to say nothing to the press. Never. Not a word. No press conferences unless approved by him. Not even a casual 'no comment.' "
"No problem."
"You can't write a book about it when it's over."
Sandy actually laughed, but she missed the humor. "I wouldn't think of it," he said.
"He wants it in the contract."
He stopped laughing, and scribbled something to that effect on the legal pad. "Anything else?"
"Yes, you can expect your office and home to get wired. You should hire a surveillance expert to protect you. Patrick is willing to pay for this."
"Done."
"And it will be best if we don't meet here again. There are people trying to find me, because they think I can lead them to the money. So we'll meet in other places."
There was nothing Sandy could say to this. He wanted to help, to offer protection, to question her about where she would go and how she would hide, but Leah seemed to have things very much under control.
She glanced at her watch. "There's a flight to Miami in three hours. I have two first-class tickets. We can talk on the plane."
"Uh, where might I be going?"
"You'll fly on to San Juan, to see Patrick. I've made arrangements."
"And you?"
"I'll go another direction."
SANDY ORDERED more coffee and muffins while they waited for the wiring instructions to be finalized. His secretary canceled his appointments and court appearances for the next three days. His wife brought an overnight bag to the office.
A paralegal drove them to the airport, and at some point along the way Sandy noticed she had no luggage, nothing but a small brown leather satchel, well used and quite handsome.
"Where are you staying?" he asked as they sipped a cola in an airport deli.
"Here and there," she said, looking out the window.
"How do I contact you?" he asked.
"We'll work that out later."
They sat next to each other in the third row in first class, and for twenty minutes after takeoff she said nothing as she skimmed a fashion magazine and he tried to read a thick deposition. Sandy didn't want to read the deposition-it could wait. He wanted to talk, to fire away the endless questions, the same questions everyone else wanted to ask.
But there was a wall between them, a rather thick one that went far beyond gender and familiarity. She had the answers, but she was perfectly willing to keep them to herself. He tried his best to match her coolness.
Salted peanuts and pretzels were distributed. They declined the complimentary champagne. Bottled water was poured. "So how long have you known Patrick?" he asked cautiously.