Instinct - Part 9
Title: Instinct - Part 9
Author: Lindao
Pairing/Characters: Harold Finch, John Reese, Will Ingram, Nathan Ingram, OFC
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Survival instinct. Some people have it in spades. Will Ingram doesn’t have it at all. But his new girlfriend has enough for both of them. Unfortunately, she’s not who he thinks she is. And her Number just came up. If Finch and Reese are going to save a life - and a budding romance - they’ll have to find out who she is, who wants her dead, and why, even after she brutally dumped him, she won’t stop following Will all over the city.
Season 1, before Firewall.
Warnings: Language, violence
Word Count: 56,000 total
Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8
Finch stepped off the elevator onto very plush carpeting, deep gray, and looked around with approval. The lobby of the law firm was elegant, understated. It had also, he’d learned from the security console downstairs, taken over the top five floors of the building.
Bittern, Cardinal and Smyth was doing very well indeed.
He made his way to the reception desk, leaning heavily on his walking stick. The woman there was young and highly decorative. She looked up and gave him just the right amount of smile, as discrete and elegant as the lobby. “May I help you?”
“I wonder,” Harold said, “if Mr. Cardinal might be available.”
She blinked, just once. “I’m sorry, do you have an appointment?”
“No.”
She pursed her elegant lips. “I can see if he’s available.” She clearly found it unlikely, but she was far too polite to say so. “Your name, sir?”
“Harold Bittern.”
“Mr. …” She looked up sharply, her perfect poise slipping for just an instant. Harold gave her his best innocuous smile. “Oh. Just … one moment, please.” She picked up her handset and dialed an extension quickly. “Mr. Bittern is here to see Mr. Cardinal, if he’s available.”
She listened, nodded. “Thank you.” As she put down the phone, she slid smoothly to her feet. “Mr. Cardinal will be right out,” she announced. “Can I offer you some coffee?”
“No, thank you.” Finch leaned one arm on her polished glass counter and looked around. “The firm’s grown since I was last here.”
The woman nodded, still wide-eyed. “Yes. We just took over an additional floor of offices last month.”
“That’s good to hear. I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”
“I’m sorry. I’m Dana. Dana Markham.” She half-raised her hand to offer it, then lowered it again, uncertainly. “I’ve, um, I’ve been with the firm just over two years now.”
Finch gave her the same reassuring smile. “And how do you like it?”
“Oh, I like it very much. Sir.”
“I’m glad.” He nodded. “It’s important that you like what you do. Otherwise, life is just putting in time.”
She blinked again, uncertain how to respond. Fortunately one of the doors behind her clicked and opened, and then a man ten years older than Finch hurried out. He swerved around her counter and threw his arms around Finch. “Harold! How the hell are you?”
“I’m well, Henry. And you?”
Dana Markham settled behind her fastidious counter again. From her expression, neither hugging nor swearing was welcome in her sanctum. But she was far too prim to correct two of firm’s senior partners.
“You didn’t tell me you were in town. What’s it been, five years? How’s retirement treating you?”
“Rather too well, I’m afraid,” Finch admitted. He gestured to his leg with his stick. “Jet skis were meant for younger men.”
Cardinal looked him over. “Is it serious?”
“Serious enough. That’s why I’m in town, to consult a specialist. The islands are lovely, but their medical resources …”
“Oh, I’m sure. Come in, come in. Have you seen the new offices? We just expended. Again.”
“Miss Markham told me.”
They walked down a quiet hallway toward Cardinal’s corner office. “You want some coffee? No, not coffee. Tea. I’ll get you some tea.”
“No, no,” Harold said. “I really can’t stay long. I have an doctor’s appointment. But I wanted to stop by and say hello. And also,” he adjusted his glasses, “I wanted to have a quick look at an old client file.”
“Sure. Which one?”
“Angela Smith Carson.”
Cardinal looked at him. Then he laughed broadly. “Harold, you old dog. Come in here like it’s a casual visit and drop a name like that. I might have known you were keeping an eye on that one. But trust me, we’ve got it under control.
Finch nodded to himself. He hated to guess about things - but he had to admit, it was vastly satisfying when a guess turned out to be correct. “Old habits, Henry. She was a very good client.”
“She was a pain in the ass. But she paid good money for the privilege. And of course the rest of the family still is.” Cardinal touched his arm, steered him down another hallway. “I’ve got Griffin working on it personally. Have you met Griff? You haven’t, have you?”
“Griffin Smyth? I haven’t seen him since he was this high.” Finch waved one hand over the floor at waist level.
“You’ll like him. Smart as a whip, that one. Just like his dad.” He stopped, tapped on a door, pushed it open without hesitation. “Griff, you in here?”
The young man behind the desk had his jacket off, his tie loose, and his sleeves rolled up. He had three neat piles of folders in front of him, a stack of papers at the center of his desk. The very picture of a junior partner working extremely hard. He practically jumped to his feet when he saw Cardinal. “Mr. Cardinal. Good morning.”
“Griff, do you remember Harold Bittern?”
The young man gave a manly version of Miss Markham’s double-take. “Mr. Bittern.” He came around the desk, extended his hand. “I had no idea you were back in town.”
“Just a temporary visit, I’m afraid,” Harold answered. The young man had a good handshake, just long enough. “I’ve had a bit of a boating accident that needs repair.”
“He wants to get his eyes on the Carson files,” Cardinal said without preamble.
The young man paled just a little. “It’s all here,” he said, gesturing to his desk. “Everything’s ready to go. The transfer takes place at noon tomorrow, as designated in Mrs. Carson’s will.”
“And we have a good address to get the papers to Mrs. Essex?” Cardinal asked.
“Actually,” Smyth said, “she called this morning, and she’s in town. She’ll be able to attend the transfer in person.”
“Good. That makes things simpler.”
“Do you have the actual will here?” Finch asked.
The young man laid his hands on it immediately and passed it over. Harold glanced through it, trying to look only professionally interested. It was indeed Angela Smith Carson’s entire fortune, and it was all going to Julie Carson Essex. There were no specific numbers, of course, and no list of assets. The will simply stated ‘all’. He skimmed down to the details of the transfer. “Why did she decide the girl had to be thirty?” he wondered aloud.
Cardinal snorted. “After the way the other kids acted at twenty-five? I’ve surprised she didn’t decide she had to be fifty.”
“We’ve got a copy of her birth certificate,” Smyth said, eagerly producing it. “Not that there’s any doubt about her age, but I wanted to be sure to dot the i’s and cross the t’s.”
“She had access to the interest and dividends immediately,” Cardinal added. “She hasn’t pulled out much of it, though.”
Finch nodded. He flipped through the other folder. Julie’s birth certificate. Angela’s death certificate. A dozen other forms. He glanced up. Young Smyth was watching him anxiously. “I think everything’s in order, sir.”
“I’m sure it is,” Harold said reassuringly. “I’m just … overcautious, I suppose.” He went back to the will, ran his finger over the document. “This was typed?”
“Mrs. Carson didn’t believe in computers,” Cardinal answered. “She wanted it typed with carbon paper. We have to borrow a typewriter from a prop shop. Didn’t even have one in storage. Stubborn old woman.”
Harold smiled. “The technological advances she must have seen in her lifetime. I can understand why she was suspicious.” He put the document down. He was still missing something. “Are the other family members aware of the will?”
Smyth blanched a little. “The older family members are. Mrs. Carson’s children. The grandchildren - I don’t know.”
“No one’s going to challenge the will,” Cardinal said firmly. “They wouldn’t dare. They’re afraid Grandma Angela would rise from her grave and smite them.”
“And also,” Smyth said, recovering his composure, “when she made this will, she brought two physicians and a psychiatrist with her. She was definitely of sound mind. I have their certifications here …”
He reached for them, but Finch waved him off. “I believe you. I’m just trying to think of any possible impediments.”
“Robert’s put together a team of accountants,” Cardinal said. “They’re going to take a look at the trust as soon as it’s turned over, recommend changes as needed.”
There, Finch thought. That’s it. “It will be an open trust?”
“Only for ninety days,” Smyth said. He grabbed a folder off the third stack. “We’ve set a revocable trust in Mrs. Essex’s name. We’ll transfer the funds from Mrs. Carson’s trust tomorrow. Mrs. Essex will be acting as her own trustee, but as Mr. Cardinal said, her father’s accounting team will be working with it. After ninety days, if there are no major issues, it will be converted back into a blind trust. That trustee will be determined later, but Mr. Carson has several recommendations.”
“And the State Department doesn’t object to the open trust interval?”
“We got them to sign off on it,” Smyth answered. He produced yet another document. “They’re aware of the potential for conflict of interest and will limit Mrs. Essex’s assignments accordingly. But given the nature of her work, they don’t anticipate any problems. Of course, they’ll need to approve the trustee of the blind trust, but we can handle that going forward. The mechanics are all in place.”
Finch took the letter and studied it. It had been signed off by W. Waldman. He was much more important than a field supervisor.
Joseph Kemp had been copied on the document.
He gave the letter back. “It does look as if you’ve covered everything very nicely, Mr. Smyth. Well done.”
The young man beamed with pleasure. “Thank you, Mr. Bittern.”
Finch glanced at his watch. “Well. I must be off to meet with the bone saw men.” He shook Smyth’s hand again. “A great pleasure to meet you again, young man. You’ve done an excellent job with this.” He turned back to Cardinal. “Henry. Good to see you.”
“And you, old man. Next time come when you’re not so banged up. We’ll go to lunch.”
“I’ll look forward to it.”
On his way out, Finch gave the decorous Miss Markham a wink. It should have flustered her. Instead, she winked back.
Blushing, Finch hurried out.
___________________________________________________________________
Just before noon, Kemp and Essex left the office building. The handler offered to buy her lunch, but Julie declined, claiming that she wanted to get a run in before she ate. Reese raised an eyebrow at this announcement; she’d already been for a long swim that morning, and she’d worked out hard the day before. Maybe Finch was right and she actually was training for a triathlon.
Ingram had called her phone three more times, but hadn’t left any more messages. She’d listened to his first message, but hadn’t called him back.
Kemp dropped the girl off across the street from her hotel. Reese kept his own car back a couple blocks. She waited until Kemp drove off, then walked down to the corner and crossed at the light.
From the other side of the intersection, Reese saw a car speeding toward her. It was black, four doors, unremarkable - and clearly aiming for her as she stepped into the crosswalk. He was too far away to do anything about it. Cursing, Reese leaned on his horn. It was a risk. He might distract her at the wrong second, cause her to look and jump the wrong way. She did look toward him. But she also stepped back onto the curb. Instinct, Reese thought gratefully. Faced with an unknown danger, retreat to safer ground until you can determine what it is.
The car ran the light, swung around the corner at about fifty miles an hour, and kept going.
Julie shook it off like it was nothing. Maybe it was; New York drivers were widely known for their disregard for pedestrian safety. She looked both ways again and crossed the street safely.
Reese sat back hard, both hands tight on the steering wheel. That might have been an attempted hit. It might have been a casual traffic encounter. The only thing he was sure of was that the driver of the black sedan had had dark hair. It was not the blond man they seemed to be pursuing.
He tapped at his phone again. There was no answer. “Finch, where are you?” he muttered.
He found a mostly-legal parking space and strode toward the Mandarin Hotel.
Julie stopped outside the door and made another call. This time the voice from the night before answered. “Vince.”
“It’s Julie. How’s our boy?”
“Still in his room. A guy came to see him a while ago. Looked like he brought him breakfast. We checked on the boy after. He was fine.”
“What’d the visitor look like?”
“A little older, short, glasses, bad limp.”
Julie nodded. “That’s his uncle. Sorta uncle. He’s okay. No threat to Ingram.”
“Doesn’t look like he’s much of a threat to anybody, if you ask me.”
“Not all threats are physical, Vince.”
“I guess.”
“No sign of the blond guy?”
“No. But that picture’s not worth a shit, you know.”
“I know. Do the best you can. Give me a yell.”
“Will do.”
John was still a block away when the doorman of the hotel opened the door for Julie. She went inside, but before he even closed the door behind her, she was out again, and running, hard, away from him.
Reese froze, looking for the threat. It wasn’t hard to find. Three young men came out of the hotel just behind her and gave chase. They’d clearly been waiting in the lobby. It was a clumsy and obvious trap, but she’d walked right into it.
It could have been simple. If she’d turned left when she came out the door, she would have run right into Reese’s arms. But she’d turned right, and he was a block behind all of them. Reese began to run. He already knew he couldn’t catch the girl over a short distance; she was a sprinter. But there was a good chance the men couldn’t keep up with her either. And he might be able to catch them.
The girl turned south, and he changed direction, ducked into an alley that would cut the distance - if she kept going the same way. She did; he saw her cross the mouth of the alley. But he couldn’t get there fast enough to cut off the men that were chasing her. All four of them were running at top speed, but Reese began to sense there was something odd about the pursuit.
For one thing, no one had any guns visible.
It was hard to run with a gun in your hand; common practice was to run to where you were going, then stop and draw your weapon. But the young men were in polo shirts and khaki shorts, and none of them had a weapon in evidence.
Julie sprinted into an alley, and as the boys entered behind her she grabbed the top of a fence and flung herself over. They all followed. Reese was gaining on them. He was barely fifteen seconds behind them on the fence.
The girl vaulted onto a low wall, kicked off a corner and changed direction sharply. She swung over a railing into a construction zone, dodged a bulldozer, leapt across an open hole in the road, and then hurdled an orange barrel on her way out.
The young men continued to follow. Reese swerved around the barrels and avoided the site. He actually gained a little distance going the long way around.
And then, of course, his phone chirped.
He slapped at his earwig as he cut across the street. “Busy now, Finch!” The distance was down to ten seconds. The girl swerved unexpectedly, slid over the hood of a car, ran up the stairs to the front door of a building and them jumped off the other side of the stoop, breaking her fall by hanging on the rail for an instant before she dropped. The first boy lost his footing trying to make the curve and slipped to the ground. His companions jumped over him and continued the pursuit.
“What in the world are you doing?” Finch wondered calmly in his ear.
“Running. Again.”
Julie caught another railing, swung her legs over. Sprinted up the sidewalk, dodging pedestrians. Jumped over a dog’s lease, grabbed a post at the corner and flung herself in a new direction. Sprinted down three more blocks.
“Mr. Reese, do not shoot any of those men,” Finch said helpfully.
“I’ll do my best,” Reese promised. The girl had opened some room between herself and her pursuers with her broken-field running, but Reese’s leather-soled shoes weren’t helping him gain on them. He needed to find a way to cut the girl off, but she changed direction so often that he couldn’t find a safe direction to go.
And the three men evidently had the same idea. When the girl dodged into another alley, they split up, two going around to cut her off and the third chasing her.
Reese nodded to himself. He chased the one into the alley; he liked those odds better.
It turned out to be a good choice. Julie Essex had stopped dead, facing a smooth ten-foot wall at the back of the alley.
The man chasing her skidded to a halt and laughed. “Gotcha!”
She spun around to face him. Reese flattened himself against a wall to stay out of her sight. “Get me over this wall,” she said firmly, “or I’ll tell Mom you’re still growing pot on the farm.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“Bet me.”
“You bitch!”
“Wall, baby. Hurry up.”
“Bitch!” But he hurried over to the wall, leaned down and cupped his hands. Julie stepped into the stirrup, climbed to his shoulder in one move, and pulled herself to the top of the wall with ease. “Thanks, Spencer!”
The young man bent back down, with his hands on his knees, and tried to catch his breath. Reese stayed against the building and watched. A few seconds later, the other two ran to the mouth of the alley. “Where’d she go?” the taller of the two demanded.
The first man gestured to the wall. “She got over it.”
“You helped her!” the second man squealed. “Traitor!”
The first man was still panting; so were the others. “Had to. She threatened me.”
“Wimp!”
They gathered closer. They were barely ten feet from Reese. He reached for his gun; he could get all of them at once.
“Spencer Carson is Julie’s brother,” Finch said firmly in his ear. “The other two, I believe, are her cousins.”
Reese released his grip on his weapon. “Where’d she go?”
“She’s just around the corner. To your right. On the patio of a bistro.”
Reese leaned against the wall and drew deep, oxygen-rich breaths. He was somewhat gratified that the younger men took longer to recover. Julie Essex was very fit, and she could have run all of them into the ground, but at least he was better than these guys.
The youngest one’s phone beeped. He glanced at it, scowled and shook his head. Then he nodded to the others, and all three of them walked out of the alley and around the corner.
Reese followed, not very distantly. Julie was already sitting at a round table, smiling sweetly at them. Ruefully, the young men fell into the other chairs. They were still sucking for air. The girl had pretty much recovered. The waiter brought them four bottles of Dos Equis that Julie had evidently ordered before they arrived.
“You’re buying, right?” Spencer panted.
Julie shook her head. “I got here first. You buy.”
“Damn.”
Reese found a dim corner to watch them from. “What was that, Finch? A traditional Carson family greeting?”
“It would seem so.”
“The rich are different, aren’t they?”
Finch chuckled. “A little pre-lunch parkour is probably good for the appetite.”
“It just made me want a beer.”
“If you weren’t carrying a gun, I’d encourage you to order one.”
“You never let me have any fun, Finch.”
“I let you chase young women around the city, don’t I?” There was a brief pause. “The slightly darker-haired one is Spencer. He’s the brother closest in age to Julie. The oldest of them is Tim, and the one in the middle is Greg. They’re sons of her uncle Charles.”
“Big on classic names, aren’t they?”
“I gather that every one of the children, especially the sons, are named with an eye toward a future presidential bid. How does it sound in a television ad, how will it look on a billboard. ”
Reese nodded. “Sure. They want to be the Kennedys.”
“That’s probably frighteningly accurate.”
The waiter brought tapas for the table, and the boys fell on the snacks with enthusiasm.
“So what the hell?” Greg said, “How could you use extortion on your own brother?”
Julie sipped her beer, ignored the finger food. “I think it’s just blackmail. Extortion implies a threat of physical harm.”
“If Mom finds out there’s still pot on the farm, there will definitely be physical harm,” Spencer answered.
“Your point is well taken. And also, why is there still pot on the farm? I thought they plowed that under years ago.”
The boys shared a look around the table. “Well …” Tim said, “you know, sometimes seeds just get dropped and they sprout.”
“It’s ditch weed,” Greg added. “It’s hardly got any THC in it at all. You can smoke the whole field and not catch a buzz.”
Julie looked at him. “Aren’t you going to run for Congress or something?”
He laughed. “I mean, that’s what the kids say. I wouldn’t know, personally.”
“And which of my nieces and nephews are smoking the ditch weed?”
“Damn,” Spencer said. “I forgot how hard it was to talk to you. You’ve always got an angle.”
“Survival strategy. The more I know, the more I can make you help me over the wall.” She took another swig of beer. “What do you guys want?”
“Aunt Stephanie sent us,” Greg volunteered. “We’re supposed to make you come home.”
“Oh, God.”
“She really wants to see you,” Spencer said.
“We’re going shooting this weekend,” Tim offered. “You’ve always been almost as good as me.”
“Almost?”
“I beat you last time.”
“I was nineteen years old.”
“Yeah. You’ve had lots of time to practice up. All that fancy government training and all.”
“I will kick your ass on the skeet range, Tim.”
“We’ll see.”
“So you’re coming home with us?” Greg asked eagerly.
Julie shook her head, sat back and drank her beer.
___________________________________________________________________
“Finch?”
“I’m here, Mr. Reese.”
“Check your e-mail. I sent pictures. It might be our guy.”
Finch opened the files. “They’re certainly better quality that Ms. Essex’s pictures.” He picked the best four and set his facial recognition program to work on them. “I’ll let you know.”
“What’d you find out about the will?”
“Miss Morgan’s information was correct, as I anticipated. At noon tomorrow Ms. Essex will inherit her grandmother’s entire fortune.”
“Any significance to the date?”
“It’s the anniversary of Angela Carson’s death, and in particular the one that follows Ms. Essex’s thirtieth birthday. Apparently she thought the idea of turning a twenty-five year old loose with a vast fortune was unwise.”
“Can’t argue with that. How vast is the fortune?”
“That’s what I’m determining now,” Finch answered. His fingers flew over his keyboard. Armed with the name of the estate’s current trustee, he was sure he could find everything he wanted to know. “Mr. Waldman and Mr. Kemp from the State Department are aware of this transaction,” he said.
“Which makes them suspects,” Reese answered immediately. “Who else?”
“A number of people at the law firm. Robert Carson’s crack team of accountants. All of the elder Carsons, apparently. But none of them have a financial motive for wanting Julie dead. Once the money passes into her hands, her will is very straightforward and none of them benefit. With the exception of Mr. Kemp, and I doubt a hundred thousand dollars is sufficient motive for him.”
“I could hire twenty hits in this town for that,” Reese reminded him.
“True. More, if you got the bulk discount.”
“And he did trade information to her mother for a box of steaks.”
Finch nodded to himself. Information about Angela’s estate began to come back on several screens. The funds were widely divested, domestic and international, mostly in stock accounts but also other choice commodities. A couple caught his eye, and he flagged them as he went.
A quick scan told him it didn’t add up to a billion dollars. She wasn’t in Will’s league, financially, and certainly not in Harold’s. On the other hand, it did add up to enough to make the twenty-five million that she hadn’t inherited seem somewhat trivial.
“Vast enough,” Finch said. As Cardinal had suggested, Julie had drawn out three hundred thousand in interest over the years and stashed it in various common bank accounts. Nearly all of it was still there. She lived on her salary; the accounts were mad money. For quick access in emergencies.
Like hiring freelance security guards for a man she wasn’t supposed to be watching.
Finch nodded to himself. The picture was coming into focus in his mind. He might be wrong; he would need to check the details. But he finally had some idea where to look.
He went back to the list of investments and began to consider each one of them.
Author: Lindao
Pairing/Characters: Harold Finch, John Reese, Will Ingram, Nathan Ingram, OFC
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Survival instinct. Some people have it in spades. Will Ingram doesn’t have it at all. But his new girlfriend has enough for both of them. Unfortunately, she’s not who he thinks she is. And her Number just came up. If Finch and Reese are going to save a life - and a budding romance - they’ll have to find out who she is, who wants her dead, and why, even after she brutally dumped him, she won’t stop following Will all over the city.
Season 1, before Firewall.
Warnings: Language, violence
Word Count: 56,000 total
Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8
Finch stepped off the elevator onto very plush carpeting, deep gray, and looked around with approval. The lobby of the law firm was elegant, understated. It had also, he’d learned from the security console downstairs, taken over the top five floors of the building.
Bittern, Cardinal and Smyth was doing very well indeed.
He made his way to the reception desk, leaning heavily on his walking stick. The woman there was young and highly decorative. She looked up and gave him just the right amount of smile, as discrete and elegant as the lobby. “May I help you?”
“I wonder,” Harold said, “if Mr. Cardinal might be available.”
She blinked, just once. “I’m sorry, do you have an appointment?”
“No.”
She pursed her elegant lips. “I can see if he’s available.” She clearly found it unlikely, but she was far too polite to say so. “Your name, sir?”
“Harold Bittern.”
“Mr. …” She looked up sharply, her perfect poise slipping for just an instant. Harold gave her his best innocuous smile. “Oh. Just … one moment, please.” She picked up her handset and dialed an extension quickly. “Mr. Bittern is here to see Mr. Cardinal, if he’s available.”
She listened, nodded. “Thank you.” As she put down the phone, she slid smoothly to her feet. “Mr. Cardinal will be right out,” she announced. “Can I offer you some coffee?”
“No, thank you.” Finch leaned one arm on her polished glass counter and looked around. “The firm’s grown since I was last here.”
The woman nodded, still wide-eyed. “Yes. We just took over an additional floor of offices last month.”
“That’s good to hear. I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”
“I’m sorry. I’m Dana. Dana Markham.” She half-raised her hand to offer it, then lowered it again, uncertainly. “I’ve, um, I’ve been with the firm just over two years now.”
Finch gave her the same reassuring smile. “And how do you like it?”
“Oh, I like it very much. Sir.”
“I’m glad.” He nodded. “It’s important that you like what you do. Otherwise, life is just putting in time.”
She blinked again, uncertain how to respond. Fortunately one of the doors behind her clicked and opened, and then a man ten years older than Finch hurried out. He swerved around her counter and threw his arms around Finch. “Harold! How the hell are you?”
“I’m well, Henry. And you?”
Dana Markham settled behind her fastidious counter again. From her expression, neither hugging nor swearing was welcome in her sanctum. But she was far too prim to correct two of firm’s senior partners.
“You didn’t tell me you were in town. What’s it been, five years? How’s retirement treating you?”
“Rather too well, I’m afraid,” Finch admitted. He gestured to his leg with his stick. “Jet skis were meant for younger men.”
Cardinal looked him over. “Is it serious?”
“Serious enough. That’s why I’m in town, to consult a specialist. The islands are lovely, but their medical resources …”
“Oh, I’m sure. Come in, come in. Have you seen the new offices? We just expended. Again.”
“Miss Markham told me.”
They walked down a quiet hallway toward Cardinal’s corner office. “You want some coffee? No, not coffee. Tea. I’ll get you some tea.”
“No, no,” Harold said. “I really can’t stay long. I have an doctor’s appointment. But I wanted to stop by and say hello. And also,” he adjusted his glasses, “I wanted to have a quick look at an old client file.”
“Sure. Which one?”
“Angela Smith Carson.”
Cardinal looked at him. Then he laughed broadly. “Harold, you old dog. Come in here like it’s a casual visit and drop a name like that. I might have known you were keeping an eye on that one. But trust me, we’ve got it under control.
Finch nodded to himself. He hated to guess about things - but he had to admit, it was vastly satisfying when a guess turned out to be correct. “Old habits, Henry. She was a very good client.”
“She was a pain in the ass. But she paid good money for the privilege. And of course the rest of the family still is.” Cardinal touched his arm, steered him down another hallway. “I’ve got Griffin working on it personally. Have you met Griff? You haven’t, have you?”
“Griffin Smyth? I haven’t seen him since he was this high.” Finch waved one hand over the floor at waist level.
“You’ll like him. Smart as a whip, that one. Just like his dad.” He stopped, tapped on a door, pushed it open without hesitation. “Griff, you in here?”
The young man behind the desk had his jacket off, his tie loose, and his sleeves rolled up. He had three neat piles of folders in front of him, a stack of papers at the center of his desk. The very picture of a junior partner working extremely hard. He practically jumped to his feet when he saw Cardinal. “Mr. Cardinal. Good morning.”
“Griff, do you remember Harold Bittern?”
The young man gave a manly version of Miss Markham’s double-take. “Mr. Bittern.” He came around the desk, extended his hand. “I had no idea you were back in town.”
“Just a temporary visit, I’m afraid,” Harold answered. The young man had a good handshake, just long enough. “I’ve had a bit of a boating accident that needs repair.”
“He wants to get his eyes on the Carson files,” Cardinal said without preamble.
The young man paled just a little. “It’s all here,” he said, gesturing to his desk. “Everything’s ready to go. The transfer takes place at noon tomorrow, as designated in Mrs. Carson’s will.”
“And we have a good address to get the papers to Mrs. Essex?” Cardinal asked.
“Actually,” Smyth said, “she called this morning, and she’s in town. She’ll be able to attend the transfer in person.”
“Good. That makes things simpler.”
“Do you have the actual will here?” Finch asked.
The young man laid his hands on it immediately and passed it over. Harold glanced through it, trying to look only professionally interested. It was indeed Angela Smith Carson’s entire fortune, and it was all going to Julie Carson Essex. There were no specific numbers, of course, and no list of assets. The will simply stated ‘all’. He skimmed down to the details of the transfer. “Why did she decide the girl had to be thirty?” he wondered aloud.
Cardinal snorted. “After the way the other kids acted at twenty-five? I’ve surprised she didn’t decide she had to be fifty.”
“We’ve got a copy of her birth certificate,” Smyth said, eagerly producing it. “Not that there’s any doubt about her age, but I wanted to be sure to dot the i’s and cross the t’s.”
“She had access to the interest and dividends immediately,” Cardinal added. “She hasn’t pulled out much of it, though.”
Finch nodded. He flipped through the other folder. Julie’s birth certificate. Angela’s death certificate. A dozen other forms. He glanced up. Young Smyth was watching him anxiously. “I think everything’s in order, sir.”
“I’m sure it is,” Harold said reassuringly. “I’m just … overcautious, I suppose.” He went back to the will, ran his finger over the document. “This was typed?”
“Mrs. Carson didn’t believe in computers,” Cardinal answered. “She wanted it typed with carbon paper. We have to borrow a typewriter from a prop shop. Didn’t even have one in storage. Stubborn old woman.”
Harold smiled. “The technological advances she must have seen in her lifetime. I can understand why she was suspicious.” He put the document down. He was still missing something. “Are the other family members aware of the will?”
Smyth blanched a little. “The older family members are. Mrs. Carson’s children. The grandchildren - I don’t know.”
“No one’s going to challenge the will,” Cardinal said firmly. “They wouldn’t dare. They’re afraid Grandma Angela would rise from her grave and smite them.”
“And also,” Smyth said, recovering his composure, “when she made this will, she brought two physicians and a psychiatrist with her. She was definitely of sound mind. I have their certifications here …”
He reached for them, but Finch waved him off. “I believe you. I’m just trying to think of any possible impediments.”
“Robert’s put together a team of accountants,” Cardinal said. “They’re going to take a look at the trust as soon as it’s turned over, recommend changes as needed.”
There, Finch thought. That’s it. “It will be an open trust?”
“Only for ninety days,” Smyth said. He grabbed a folder off the third stack. “We’ve set a revocable trust in Mrs. Essex’s name. We’ll transfer the funds from Mrs. Carson’s trust tomorrow. Mrs. Essex will be acting as her own trustee, but as Mr. Cardinal said, her father’s accounting team will be working with it. After ninety days, if there are no major issues, it will be converted back into a blind trust. That trustee will be determined later, but Mr. Carson has several recommendations.”
“And the State Department doesn’t object to the open trust interval?”
“We got them to sign off on it,” Smyth answered. He produced yet another document. “They’re aware of the potential for conflict of interest and will limit Mrs. Essex’s assignments accordingly. But given the nature of her work, they don’t anticipate any problems. Of course, they’ll need to approve the trustee of the blind trust, but we can handle that going forward. The mechanics are all in place.”
Finch took the letter and studied it. It had been signed off by W. Waldman. He was much more important than a field supervisor.
Joseph Kemp had been copied on the document.
He gave the letter back. “It does look as if you’ve covered everything very nicely, Mr. Smyth. Well done.”
The young man beamed with pleasure. “Thank you, Mr. Bittern.”
Finch glanced at his watch. “Well. I must be off to meet with the bone saw men.” He shook Smyth’s hand again. “A great pleasure to meet you again, young man. You’ve done an excellent job with this.” He turned back to Cardinal. “Henry. Good to see you.”
“And you, old man. Next time come when you’re not so banged up. We’ll go to lunch.”
“I’ll look forward to it.”
On his way out, Finch gave the decorous Miss Markham a wink. It should have flustered her. Instead, she winked back.
Blushing, Finch hurried out.
___________________________________________________________________
Just before noon, Kemp and Essex left the office building. The handler offered to buy her lunch, but Julie declined, claiming that she wanted to get a run in before she ate. Reese raised an eyebrow at this announcement; she’d already been for a long swim that morning, and she’d worked out hard the day before. Maybe Finch was right and she actually was training for a triathlon.
Ingram had called her phone three more times, but hadn’t left any more messages. She’d listened to his first message, but hadn’t called him back.
Kemp dropped the girl off across the street from her hotel. Reese kept his own car back a couple blocks. She waited until Kemp drove off, then walked down to the corner and crossed at the light.
From the other side of the intersection, Reese saw a car speeding toward her. It was black, four doors, unremarkable - and clearly aiming for her as she stepped into the crosswalk. He was too far away to do anything about it. Cursing, Reese leaned on his horn. It was a risk. He might distract her at the wrong second, cause her to look and jump the wrong way. She did look toward him. But she also stepped back onto the curb. Instinct, Reese thought gratefully. Faced with an unknown danger, retreat to safer ground until you can determine what it is.
The car ran the light, swung around the corner at about fifty miles an hour, and kept going.
Julie shook it off like it was nothing. Maybe it was; New York drivers were widely known for their disregard for pedestrian safety. She looked both ways again and crossed the street safely.
Reese sat back hard, both hands tight on the steering wheel. That might have been an attempted hit. It might have been a casual traffic encounter. The only thing he was sure of was that the driver of the black sedan had had dark hair. It was not the blond man they seemed to be pursuing.
He tapped at his phone again. There was no answer. “Finch, where are you?” he muttered.
He found a mostly-legal parking space and strode toward the Mandarin Hotel.
Julie stopped outside the door and made another call. This time the voice from the night before answered. “Vince.”
“It’s Julie. How’s our boy?”
“Still in his room. A guy came to see him a while ago. Looked like he brought him breakfast. We checked on the boy after. He was fine.”
“What’d the visitor look like?”
“A little older, short, glasses, bad limp.”
Julie nodded. “That’s his uncle. Sorta uncle. He’s okay. No threat to Ingram.”
“Doesn’t look like he’s much of a threat to anybody, if you ask me.”
“Not all threats are physical, Vince.”
“I guess.”
“No sign of the blond guy?”
“No. But that picture’s not worth a shit, you know.”
“I know. Do the best you can. Give me a yell.”
“Will do.”
John was still a block away when the doorman of the hotel opened the door for Julie. She went inside, but before he even closed the door behind her, she was out again, and running, hard, away from him.
Reese froze, looking for the threat. It wasn’t hard to find. Three young men came out of the hotel just behind her and gave chase. They’d clearly been waiting in the lobby. It was a clumsy and obvious trap, but she’d walked right into it.
It could have been simple. If she’d turned left when she came out the door, she would have run right into Reese’s arms. But she’d turned right, and he was a block behind all of them. Reese began to run. He already knew he couldn’t catch the girl over a short distance; she was a sprinter. But there was a good chance the men couldn’t keep up with her either. And he might be able to catch them.
The girl turned south, and he changed direction, ducked into an alley that would cut the distance - if she kept going the same way. She did; he saw her cross the mouth of the alley. But he couldn’t get there fast enough to cut off the men that were chasing her. All four of them were running at top speed, but Reese began to sense there was something odd about the pursuit.
For one thing, no one had any guns visible.
It was hard to run with a gun in your hand; common practice was to run to where you were going, then stop and draw your weapon. But the young men were in polo shirts and khaki shorts, and none of them had a weapon in evidence.
Julie sprinted into an alley, and as the boys entered behind her she grabbed the top of a fence and flung herself over. They all followed. Reese was gaining on them. He was barely fifteen seconds behind them on the fence.
The girl vaulted onto a low wall, kicked off a corner and changed direction sharply. She swung over a railing into a construction zone, dodged a bulldozer, leapt across an open hole in the road, and then hurdled an orange barrel on her way out.
The young men continued to follow. Reese swerved around the barrels and avoided the site. He actually gained a little distance going the long way around.
And then, of course, his phone chirped.
He slapped at his earwig as he cut across the street. “Busy now, Finch!” The distance was down to ten seconds. The girl swerved unexpectedly, slid over the hood of a car, ran up the stairs to the front door of a building and them jumped off the other side of the stoop, breaking her fall by hanging on the rail for an instant before she dropped. The first boy lost his footing trying to make the curve and slipped to the ground. His companions jumped over him and continued the pursuit.
“What in the world are you doing?” Finch wondered calmly in his ear.
“Running. Again.”
Julie caught another railing, swung her legs over. Sprinted up the sidewalk, dodging pedestrians. Jumped over a dog’s lease, grabbed a post at the corner and flung herself in a new direction. Sprinted down three more blocks.
“Mr. Reese, do not shoot any of those men,” Finch said helpfully.
“I’ll do my best,” Reese promised. The girl had opened some room between herself and her pursuers with her broken-field running, but Reese’s leather-soled shoes weren’t helping him gain on them. He needed to find a way to cut the girl off, but she changed direction so often that he couldn’t find a safe direction to go.
And the three men evidently had the same idea. When the girl dodged into another alley, they split up, two going around to cut her off and the third chasing her.
Reese nodded to himself. He chased the one into the alley; he liked those odds better.
It turned out to be a good choice. Julie Essex had stopped dead, facing a smooth ten-foot wall at the back of the alley.
The man chasing her skidded to a halt and laughed. “Gotcha!”
She spun around to face him. Reese flattened himself against a wall to stay out of her sight. “Get me over this wall,” she said firmly, “or I’ll tell Mom you’re still growing pot on the farm.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“Bet me.”
“You bitch!”
“Wall, baby. Hurry up.”
“Bitch!” But he hurried over to the wall, leaned down and cupped his hands. Julie stepped into the stirrup, climbed to his shoulder in one move, and pulled herself to the top of the wall with ease. “Thanks, Spencer!”
The young man bent back down, with his hands on his knees, and tried to catch his breath. Reese stayed against the building and watched. A few seconds later, the other two ran to the mouth of the alley. “Where’d she go?” the taller of the two demanded.
The first man gestured to the wall. “She got over it.”
“You helped her!” the second man squealed. “Traitor!”
The first man was still panting; so were the others. “Had to. She threatened me.”
“Wimp!”
They gathered closer. They were barely ten feet from Reese. He reached for his gun; he could get all of them at once.
“Spencer Carson is Julie’s brother,” Finch said firmly in his ear. “The other two, I believe, are her cousins.”
Reese released his grip on his weapon. “Where’d she go?”
“She’s just around the corner. To your right. On the patio of a bistro.”
Reese leaned against the wall and drew deep, oxygen-rich breaths. He was somewhat gratified that the younger men took longer to recover. Julie Essex was very fit, and she could have run all of them into the ground, but at least he was better than these guys.
The youngest one’s phone beeped. He glanced at it, scowled and shook his head. Then he nodded to the others, and all three of them walked out of the alley and around the corner.
Reese followed, not very distantly. Julie was already sitting at a round table, smiling sweetly at them. Ruefully, the young men fell into the other chairs. They were still sucking for air. The girl had pretty much recovered. The waiter brought them four bottles of Dos Equis that Julie had evidently ordered before they arrived.
“You’re buying, right?” Spencer panted.
Julie shook her head. “I got here first. You buy.”
“Damn.”
Reese found a dim corner to watch them from. “What was that, Finch? A traditional Carson family greeting?”
“It would seem so.”
“The rich are different, aren’t they?”
Finch chuckled. “A little pre-lunch parkour is probably good for the appetite.”
“It just made me want a beer.”
“If you weren’t carrying a gun, I’d encourage you to order one.”
“You never let me have any fun, Finch.”
“I let you chase young women around the city, don’t I?” There was a brief pause. “The slightly darker-haired one is Spencer. He’s the brother closest in age to Julie. The oldest of them is Tim, and the one in the middle is Greg. They’re sons of her uncle Charles.”
“Big on classic names, aren’t they?”
“I gather that every one of the children, especially the sons, are named with an eye toward a future presidential bid. How does it sound in a television ad, how will it look on a billboard. ”
Reese nodded. “Sure. They want to be the Kennedys.”
“That’s probably frighteningly accurate.”
The waiter brought tapas for the table, and the boys fell on the snacks with enthusiasm.
“So what the hell?” Greg said, “How could you use extortion on your own brother?”
Julie sipped her beer, ignored the finger food. “I think it’s just blackmail. Extortion implies a threat of physical harm.”
“If Mom finds out there’s still pot on the farm, there will definitely be physical harm,” Spencer answered.
“Your point is well taken. And also, why is there still pot on the farm? I thought they plowed that under years ago.”
The boys shared a look around the table. “Well …” Tim said, “you know, sometimes seeds just get dropped and they sprout.”
“It’s ditch weed,” Greg added. “It’s hardly got any THC in it at all. You can smoke the whole field and not catch a buzz.”
Julie looked at him. “Aren’t you going to run for Congress or something?”
He laughed. “I mean, that’s what the kids say. I wouldn’t know, personally.”
“And which of my nieces and nephews are smoking the ditch weed?”
“Damn,” Spencer said. “I forgot how hard it was to talk to you. You’ve always got an angle.”
“Survival strategy. The more I know, the more I can make you help me over the wall.” She took another swig of beer. “What do you guys want?”
“Aunt Stephanie sent us,” Greg volunteered. “We’re supposed to make you come home.”
“Oh, God.”
“She really wants to see you,” Spencer said.
“We’re going shooting this weekend,” Tim offered. “You’ve always been almost as good as me.”
“Almost?”
“I beat you last time.”
“I was nineteen years old.”
“Yeah. You’ve had lots of time to practice up. All that fancy government training and all.”
“I will kick your ass on the skeet range, Tim.”
“We’ll see.”
“So you’re coming home with us?” Greg asked eagerly.
Julie shook her head, sat back and drank her beer.
___________________________________________________________________
“Finch?”
“I’m here, Mr. Reese.”
“Check your e-mail. I sent pictures. It might be our guy.”
Finch opened the files. “They’re certainly better quality that Ms. Essex’s pictures.” He picked the best four and set his facial recognition program to work on them. “I’ll let you know.”
“What’d you find out about the will?”
“Miss Morgan’s information was correct, as I anticipated. At noon tomorrow Ms. Essex will inherit her grandmother’s entire fortune.”
“Any significance to the date?”
“It’s the anniversary of Angela Carson’s death, and in particular the one that follows Ms. Essex’s thirtieth birthday. Apparently she thought the idea of turning a twenty-five year old loose with a vast fortune was unwise.”
“Can’t argue with that. How vast is the fortune?”
“That’s what I’m determining now,” Finch answered. His fingers flew over his keyboard. Armed with the name of the estate’s current trustee, he was sure he could find everything he wanted to know. “Mr. Waldman and Mr. Kemp from the State Department are aware of this transaction,” he said.
“Which makes them suspects,” Reese answered immediately. “Who else?”
“A number of people at the law firm. Robert Carson’s crack team of accountants. All of the elder Carsons, apparently. But none of them have a financial motive for wanting Julie dead. Once the money passes into her hands, her will is very straightforward and none of them benefit. With the exception of Mr. Kemp, and I doubt a hundred thousand dollars is sufficient motive for him.”
“I could hire twenty hits in this town for that,” Reese reminded him.
“True. More, if you got the bulk discount.”
“And he did trade information to her mother for a box of steaks.”
Finch nodded to himself. Information about Angela’s estate began to come back on several screens. The funds were widely divested, domestic and international, mostly in stock accounts but also other choice commodities. A couple caught his eye, and he flagged them as he went.
A quick scan told him it didn’t add up to a billion dollars. She wasn’t in Will’s league, financially, and certainly not in Harold’s. On the other hand, it did add up to enough to make the twenty-five million that she hadn’t inherited seem somewhat trivial.
“Vast enough,” Finch said. As Cardinal had suggested, Julie had drawn out three hundred thousand in interest over the years and stashed it in various common bank accounts. Nearly all of it was still there. She lived on her salary; the accounts were mad money. For quick access in emergencies.
Like hiring freelance security guards for a man she wasn’t supposed to be watching.
Finch nodded to himself. The picture was coming into focus in his mind. He might be wrong; he would need to check the details. But he finally had some idea where to look.
He went back to the list of investments and began to consider each one of them.