But he had contacted a local security firm and made an appointment to have his offices swept for bugs. This was his client's wish, not his.
Leah greeted him with a firm handshake and a quick smile, but he could tell instantly that she had many things on her mind. She was barefoot, in jeans and a white cotton tee shirt, very casual, the way most Brazilians probably are, he thought. He'd never been down there. The closet door was open; there weren't many clothes hanging. She was moving around quickly, living out of a suitcase, probably on the run just as Patrick had been until last week. She poured coffee for both of them, and asked him to sit at the table.
"How is he?" she asked.
"He's healing. The doctor says he'll be fine."
"How bad was it?" she asked quietly. He loved her accent, slight as it was.
"Pretty rough." He reached into his briefcase, removed a folder, and slid it to her. "Here."
She frowned at the sight of the first photo, then mumbled something in Portuguese. Her eyes watered as she looked at the second one. "Poor Patrick," she said to herself. "Poor baby."
She took her time with the photos, gently wiping tears with the back of her hand until Sandy found the presence of mind to get her a tissue. She wasn't ashamed to cry over the pictures, and when she was finished with them she placed them in a neat stack and put them back in the folder.
"I'm sorry," Sandy said. He could think of nothing else to offer. "Here's a letter from Patrick," he finally said.
She finished her crying and poured more coffee. "Are any of the injuries permanent?" she asked.
"The doctor thinks probably not. There will be scarring, but with time everything should heal."
"Mentally, how is he?"
"He's okay. He's sleeping even less. He has nightmares constantly, both day and night. But with medication, he's getting better. I honestly can't imagine what he's going through." He took a sip of coffee and said, "I guess he's lucky to be alive."
"He always said they wouldn't kill him."
There was so much to ask her. The lawyer in Sandy almost screamed out an endless barrage: Did Patrick know they were close behind him? Did he know the chase was about to end? Where was she when they were closing in? Did she live with him? How did they hide the money? Where is the money now? Is it safe? Please, tell me something. I'm the lawyer. I can be trusted.
"Let's talk about his divorce," she said, abruptly changing the subject. She could sense his curiosity. She stood and walked to a drawer where she removed a thick file and placed it before him. "Did you see Trudy on TV last night?" she asked.
"Yes. Pathetic, wasn't it?"
"She's very pretty," Leah said.
"Yes, she is. I'm afraid Patrick made the mistake of marrying her for her looks."
"He wouldn't be the first."
"No, he wouldn't."
"Patrick despises her. She is a bad person, and she was unfaithful to him throughout their marriage."
"Unfaithful?"
"Yes. It's all in the file there. The last year they were together, Patrick hired an investigator to watch her. Her lover was a man named Lance Maxa, and they were seeing each other all the time. There are even some photographs of Lance coming and going from Patrick's house when he was away. There are pictures of Lance and Trudy sunbathing by Patrick's pool, naked of course."
Sandy took the file and flipped quickly until he found the photographs. Naked as newborns. He smiled wickedly. "This will add something to the divorce."
"Patrick wants the divorce, you understand. He will not contest it. But she needs to be silenced. She's having a nice time saying all those bad things about Patrick."
"This should shut her up. What about the child?"
Leah took her seat and looked him squarely in the eyes. "Patrick loves Ashley Nicole, but there is one problem. He is not the father."
He shrugged as if he heard this every day. "Who is?"
"Patrick doesn't know. Probably Lance. It seems as if Lance and Trudy have been together for some time. It goes back to high school even."
"How does he know he's not the father?"
"When the child was fourteen months old, Patrick obtained a small blood sample by pricking her finger.
He sent it, along with a sample of his, to a lab where DNA tests were run. His suspicions were correct. He is definitely not the father of the child. The report is in the file."
Sandy had to walk around a bit to sort things out. He stood in the window and watched the traffic on Canal. Another clue in the Patrick puzzle had just fallen into place. The question of the moment was this: How long had Patrick planned his departure from his old life? Bad wife, bastard child, horrible accident, no corpse, elaborate theft, take the money and run. The planning was astonishing. Everything had worked perfectly, until now of course.
"Then why fight the divorce?" he asked, still looking below. "If he doesn't want the child, why bring up the trash?"
Sandy knew the answer, but he wanted her to explain it. In doing so, she would give the first glimpse of the rest of the master plan.
"You bring up the trash only to her lawyer," she said. "You show him the file, all of it. At that point, they'll be anxious to settle."
"Settle, as in money."
"Correct."
"What type of settlement?"
"She gets nothing."
"What is there to get?"
"Depends. It could be a small fortune, or a large one."
Sandy turned and glared at her. "I cannot negotiate a property settlement if I don't know how much my client has. At some point, you guys have to clue me in."
"Be patient," she said, thoroughly unruffled. "With time, you'll know more."
"Does Patrick really think he can buy his way out of this?"
"He'll certainly try."
"It won't work."
"Do you have a better idea?"
"No."
"I didn't think so. It's our only chance."
Sandy relaxed and leaned against the wall. "It would be helpful if you guys would tell me more."
"We will. I promise. But first, we'll take care of the divorce. Trudy has to relinquish all claims to his assets."
"That should be easy. And fun."
"Get it done, and we'll chat again next week."
It was suddenly time for Sandy to leave. She was on her feet, gathering papers. He took his files and placed them in his briefcase. "How long will you be here?" he asked.
"Not long," she said, and handed him an envelope. "That's a letter for Patrick. Tell him I'm fine, I'm moving around, and so far I haven't seen anyone behind me."
Sandy took the envelope and tried to make eye contact. She was nervous and anxious for him to leave. He wanted to help her, or at least to offer, but he knew whatever he said at this point would be dismissed.
She forced a smile and said, "You have a job to do. So do it. Patrick and I will worry about the rest."
WHILE STEPHANO TOLD his story in Washington, Benny Aricia and Guy set up camp in Biloxi. They leased a three-bedroom condo on the Back Bay, and installed phones and a fax.
The theory was that the girl would have to surface in Biloxi. Patrick was confined, and for the foreseeable future his life was fairly predictable. He wasn't going anywhere. She would have to come to him. And they had to catch her when she did.
Aricia had budgeted a hundred thousand for this last little campaign, and that would be the end of it, he swore to himself. Down almost two million, he simply had to stop burning money while he had some left. Northern Case Mutual and Monarch-Sierra, the other two members of his shaky partnership, had thrown in the towel. Stephano would keep the FBI happy with his tall tales, while hopefully Guy and the rest of the organization could find the girl. It was a longshot.