Need to Know (Sisterhood Book 28) by Fern Michaels (13)

Chapter 12

Arthur Forrester paced the long, narrow kitchen, a glass of iced tea, which tasted like dishwater flavored with vanilla, in his hand. Tea he’d made himself. He whipped around the center island, the tea sloshing out of the glass onto the floor. He ignored the spill and let his gaze go to the clock on the stove—4:49. Time to call Ballard, Ballard and Quinlan. He took another gulp of the tea, wishing that Nala had made it. He didn’t miss her at all, but he did miss some of the things she did, like making tasty iced tea. She always made sure there was an extra pitcher, full to the rim, in the fridge. She even took the time to make ice cubes out of the tea so the tea wouldn’t taste watered down.

Arthur set down the glass, which was sticky to the touch. He wiped his hand on the leg of his khaki pants before he picked up the receiver on the landline. He pressed in the digits of the firm and waited. When the receptionist announced the firm’s name, Arthur identified himself and asked to be put through to Henry Ballard.

The cheerful voice on the other end of the line said, “I’m sorry, Mr. Forrester, but Mr. Ballard has left for the day. Would you like to leave a message on his voice mail?”

“No. Then put me through to Alvin or Robert, please.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Forrester, but they’re also gone for the day. The senior partners left together fifteen minutes ago. Are you sure you don’t want to leave a message?”

Arthur didn’t bother to respond. Instead, he slammed down the phone and cursed under his breath. The bastards weren’t taking him seriously. If they had, they’d be sitting in Henry’s office, waiting for his promised call. Now what was he to do? Obviously, he needed to fall back and regroup. He headed for his office, the sticky glass of foul-tasting tea still in his hand.

Outside, in her car, Sasha Quantrell called Avery Snowden to report what she’d just heard. He, in turn, called Charles, who informed Annie and Myra, who immediately sent out texts to the sisters and Maggie, to keep them current.

Maggie sighed as she gathered up her belongings into a neat pile. Her plan was to wait in the office until the next update on the law firm’s partners and someone named Matthew Spicer. By then, the locally flooded streets should be safe enough to travel home. In the meantime, to pass away the time, she headed for the kitchen to see what she could scrounge up in the way of food. She carried a paperback novel with her, just in case she was unsuccessful in the food department.

* * *

Arthur Forrester looked at the bedside clock. He didn’t think he’d slept more than twenty minutes after he climbed into bed. The digital clock said 5:30. He got up and headed for the shower. A shave was out of the question. His face was still red and raw, and his day-old stubble itched. He took a second to wonder what his blood pressure was. Well, after today, if his pressure was still high, it would come down when he settled things with his old firm.

Forrester stepped into the steaming shower, danced around as he lathered up, doing his best not to get his face wet. He made quick work of the shower, stepped out, and vigorously toweled himself off. He wiped the steam from the vanity mirror and winced at the condition of his face. He dabbed on two different prescription ointments. He dressed in his last pair of pressed khakis, along with a pristine white button-down shirt. As he peered at himself in the mirror, he made a mental note to take a trip to the dry cleaner, something Nala had always taken care of. As much as he hated the thought, he was going to have to apply the special blend of makeup his dermatologist had made up for him. He convinced himself that if he wore a ball cap, with the bill pulled low, and sunglasses, no one would stare at him. He didn’t know why he cared, but he did. Vanity was the only thing he could come up with.

Unable to look at himself any longer, he quickly closed his eyes and brushed his teeth. His thoughts all over the map, Forrester left the bathroom and headed for the kitchen to make his morning coffee. In his opinion, there was nothing better than a good cup of coffee and the morning paper. Even if he read it online. No matter what else was going on. Today was a perfect example.

While he waited for the coffee to drip into the pot, Forrester leaned against the sink to stare out at the heavy rain battering the kitchen window. He absolutely, totally detested rainy days. Rainy days depressed him. A rainy day was for ducks. He wondered where that thought had come from. He felt a shiver course through his body. His second thought was that it was going to be one hell of a ride through the rain to the train station. Something else he had to deal with. The last plop of the coffee was like music to his ears.

Forrester filled his cup and carried it back to his office, where he turned on his computer. He waited patiently while it booted up. The time flashed on the bottom of the computer screen: 7:10. He clicked the keys, and his home page came up. He clicked again until he saw the large black headline on the front page of the Sentinel. He blinked, sucked air into his lungs, and held his breath until he grew light-headed. In a million years, he could never have anticipated what he was seeing. Especially today, of all days. His stomach roiled and his heart fluttered as bile rose in his throat. He fought to keep it down. He broke out into a cold sweat. Shit on a shingle! Now he was going to have to reapply the medical makeup. He swore then—every dirty, filthy word he’d ever heard in his seventy years of life. When he had exhausted all the words he knew, he made up more as he raced through the text on the Sentinel ’s front page. Frenzied, he exited the article and clicked on the New York Times. Garland Lee smiled at him from his computer monitor.

Forrester bit down on his bottom lip. He fought with himself not to put his fist through his computer. He pushed his swivel chair backward with such force, the chair hit the wall. If he had not been gripping the armrests, he would have catapulted and bounced forward into the monitor, either cracking it or his head. As it was, whiplash was not out of the question. He struggled with his breathing. He dropped his head between his knees and took deep breaths. It seemed to take forever to get his breathing under control.

What he’d just seen was nothing more than a blip. A small bump in the road. Water under the proverbial bridge. Once Henry Ballard, the other name partners, and the firm got in line, it wasn’t going to mean a damn thing. Once Henry fell into line, he’d own Garland Lee’s tour. He took it one step further and told himself he would own Garland Lee. Period. End of story. He turned off his computer with a wild flourish.

Forrester looked into his coffee cup, surprised to see that it was empty. He made his way back to the kitchen. He was happy to see that his hands were steady as he poured coffee into his cup. A blip. He’d handled blips all his life. What’s one more?

His cup full, Forrester sat down on the bar stool. He reached for his cell phone. Time to call Matthew Spicer. He scrolled through the numbers on his smartphone and placed his call. Spicer’s cell phone rang five times before a metallic, robotic voice said, “The number you are dialing is no longer in service.” Frowning, Forrester ended the call and pressed in the digits for the number again, only to get the same metallic, robotic message.

Forrester stomped his way back to the office and his file cabinet. He rummaged until he found the files for Tram v Oden. He searched through the loose notes in the folder until he found a background report on Matthew Spicer. He copied the phone number for his landline onto a sticky note. He closed the folder, returned it to the file cabinet, which he locked. He carried the sticky note back out to the kitchen, where he dialed the number for Spicer’s landline. His eyes narrowed at the message he heard after the phone rang three times: “The number you are calling has been disconnected at the customer’s request.”

Now it all made sense. The partners never left the office till seven o’clock so as not to sit in rush-hour traffic. Yet, the three partners had left before five o’clock yesterday. The fix was in, and Forrester knew it. Matthew Spicer was long gone, thanks to Henry Ballard and his cronies. Matthew Spicer could be anywhere in the world by now. The bastards had one-upped him. He gave himself a mental kick for not being one step ahead of the sons of bitches. My bad. It will not happen again. That was a given.

Forrester thought back to the headlines in the Sentinel and Times. If this wasn’t a conspiracy, he didn’t know what was.

Forrester drummed his fingers on the countertop as his mind raced. Obviously, a trip into the city was no longer necessary or even desirable. He was sure that if he went to where Spicer lived, he’d find a note on the door that said something to the effect that he was out of town to handle a family emergency. Thanks to his old law firm. He supposed he could go to the firm and confront the senior partners, but he didn’t really have the stomach for that. If necessary, he could do the same thing over the phone.

All he had to do was think this through and get his thoughts in order. He had the partners on the run, that was a given. Otherwise, they wouldn’t have arranged a disappearing act for Matthew Spicer. What the partners didn’t know was he had Spicer’s Social Security number among the copious notes in his file. When it was time to lay hands on the man, he could hire an investigative firm to look for him. Sooner or later, Matthew Spicer would have to open a bank account somewhere. Also, somewhere there was a paper trail that would lead back to the damn partners, who thought they were so smart. No, he wasn’t worried about Spicer. At least not now.

Forrester continued to drum his fingers on the countertop as his mind spun in circles. So what is their game with the newspaper articles on Garland Lee? Do they think planting those stories will make me go off the deep end? Or . . . does it have something to do with the countess who’s considering turning a four-hundred-million-dollar portfolio over to Ballard, Ballard and Quinlan to oversee? But according to Henry, the countess will only consider giving them her portfolio to manage if the case with Garland Lee is off the books. Yeah, yeah, that makes sense.

And wasn’t the other woman at that meeting from the Post? Of course she was, and she also had the front page with Garland Lee. Forrester was sure of it. He snorted, an ugly sound of displeasure. Then he started to mutter to himself. “You must think I’m really stupid, Henry, to fall for something so asinine.”

Forrester reached for his smartphone and looked for the app that would give him the front page of the Post. He made another ugly sound in his throat when he saw the headline and Garland Lee’s picture above the fold. He was right; it was all one big, gigantic conspiracy. He gave himself a mental pat on the back for his astuteness.

Now what was he to do? No knee-jerk reactions here. Knowing what he knew about Henry Ballard, Henry would think he had him on the ropes and that he’d buckle and drop the lawsuit against Garland Lee. Henry had always been a cocky bastard. It was about time someone cut him down to size, and he, Arthur Forrester, was just the man to do it.

There was not an iota of doubt in Arthur Forrester’s mind that he was the man to do the job.

Pleased with himself, Forrester got up to pour himself the last of the coffee. Coffee he didn’t need, but he was going to drink it, anyway. He did so hate waste.

With nothing pressing on his agenda, Forrester decided to while away the time by making himself some breakfast. By the time he did that, ate, and cleaned up, it would be time to place the call to the firm.

As he cooked, ate, and cleaned up, Forrester mentally rehearsed the conversation he would have with Henry Ballard. It would be a conversation where he did all the talking, and Henry Ballard did all the listening. Finally, at last, he was going to get the upper hand with the son of a bitch who had made his life so miserable for over thirty years.

He wished now, and not for the first time, that he had taken this route a long time ago. He never should have let the case drag on so long. No matter how many times he asked himself why, he had never been able to come up with an answer. Even now, with everything within his grasp, he still didn’t know the answer. Maybe he would never know.

His arm snaked out to reach for his smartphone, when it buzzed. He looked at the caller ID, knowing he knew the number from somewhere, but couldn’t quite place it. He clicked on and said, “Arthur Forrester.”

“Arthur, this is Max Hubert. What’s this I see splashed across all the papers this morning? And you didn’t call me to include my venue in Garland’s tour. What? You want a bigger slice this time around? Negotiations are always good, Arthur. Why don’t we get together and talk about this? What do you say?”

Forrester’s heart started to pound. What to say? What not to say? He struggled to find the words. “It’s . . . it’s all still in the talking stages, Max. I do not know why the papers ran with it. You know I would never ace you out. I’ll be in touch.” The two men talked for a few minutes, the weather, the family, the entertainment business in general, before they ended the call.

Forrester’s hands were shaking. He needed to calm down. Forget about the stupid call. Concentrate on what to say to Henry Ballard. He needed to decide if he should use his smartphone or the landline to make the call. Such a decision. He debated a full minute, finally settling on the landline. He pressed in the digits and waited for the phone to ring and for the receptionist to say the musical words, “Ballard, Ballard and Quinlan. How may I direct your call?”

“This is Arthur Forrester. Please put me through to Henry Ballard.”

“One moment, please.”

One moment turned into a full five minutes before Henry Ballard came on the phone. “Arthur, what can I do for you on this miserable rainy day?” Henry Ballard’s flat-sounding voice suggested he would rather be talking to anyone other than Arthur Forrester.

“Actually, Henry, there’s quite a lot you can do for me on this miserable rainy day, and you can do it all without moving from your desk. So let’s get to it. I know that you arranged to plant that story about Garland Lee in all the papers, so do not think I am going to do something stupid in response to it. I am also aware that you spirited Matthew Spicer out of town. My guess would be you sent him out of the country last night. Or maybe you sent him to the Hawaii hideaway, which you think no one knows anything about, while, in reality, everyone in the firm knows about it and how you use it. But I’m not calling you to talk about real estate. I just wanted you to know that I know about Matthew Spicer. Just for the record, I have his Social Security number. If I need to find him, I will have no trouble being able to do so. You know the old saying ‘You can run, but you can’t hide’? Well, this is a perfect example of that little ditty.

“This is what I want you to do, and I want you to start on it the minute we disconnect from this call. Call the court and tell the judge we have all come to a settlement. That will put an end to the summary judgment motion that has still not been ruled on. You are to call Garland Lee’s lead attorney to tell him two eyewitnesses have just come forward with damaging information concerning Garland Lee. So damaging that she will never be able to show her face in public again. Where you find these two eyewitnesses is up to you. Maybe wherever you found Matthew Spicer. Make them available to Garland’s attorney at some point. I don’t have to tell you what and how to do it, Henry. You’re a pro. Just look at what you did for the Odens in Tram v Oden. They do say practice makes perfect.

“This business with Matthew Spicer is just a pimple on your ass, Henry, compared to what I am prepared to do to you and the firm if you don’t come through. I do not want to hear any bullshit, any excuses. The only thing I want to hear from you is that you have two sterling witnesses ready to go on my behalf.

“If I don’t hear from you in the affirmative, I will proceed with social media. Within forty-eight hours, your firm will be down the legal drain. The truth is more like twenty-four hours. Every client you have handled in the last fifty years will be screaming for your blood. You’ll never be able to come back from that. Never. Every lawyer in the firm will be tainted. No one will hire them. You’ll be defending yourself and the firm in the courts for the rest of your life.

“I think that about covers it. Do you understand everything I just said? Just say yes or no.”

“Yes” was the weary-sounding reply.

“Can you do this by the end of the day? Yes or no?”

“I’ll do my best.”

“Not good enough, Henry. Try again.”

“Yes.” The single word was a snarl sound.

“Good, good. We’re on the same page. I’ll expect your call soon.”

Arthur Forrester replaced the receiver clenched in his hands into the cradle of the phone. Well, that went rather well. He frowned as he tried to imagine what Henry Ballard was doing right this very second.

* * *

What Henry Ballard was doing was crying. At that moment in time, he didn’t know if he had the strength to call out to reception to call his brother and Robert Quinlan. God Almighty, how did it come to this? “Tell them to meet me in the garage immediately.”

Henry Ballard felt every single one of his years as he tottered to the door that would take him to the service elevator and down to the garage, where he found both his brother and Robert Quinlan waiting for him, their expressions a mixture of panic and fear.

Henry took a deep breath and let it loose as he recounted the entire conversation he’d just had with Arthur Forrester. He steeled himself for the recriminations he feared were forthcoming. He was stunned when his brother just said, “So what’s our game plan here?”

“What? Do you think I carry around a list of people who are willing to perjure themselves just because I ask them to? I don’t know what to do. Arthur is right, we’ll be ruined. Every case will be open for scrutiny. The lawsuits alone will be a tsunami. We could never, ever recover from something like that. Either we do as he instructed . . . or we shoot ourselves and leave the mess behind for someone else to clean up. To be honest about it, I don’t know if I’m ready to give up the ship just yet.”

“Where are we going to find two stupid people willing to perjure themselves? We didn’t have to look for Matthew Spicer. He came to us because he couldn’t decide if the information he had was valuable. All we did was steer him the way we wanted him to go, and he followed our lead. He never thought he was perjuring himself. What you’re talking about now is out-and-out. . . evil. That’s not who we are, Henry. And yet, I don’t see any other recourse. We have to do it, but how?” Alvin said.

Robert Quinlan jerked at his tie. Then he took off his jacket and laid it on top of the hood of his car. “I might have an idea. How about we hire two actors. We set them up in the conference room and pretend we’re doing a scene. We do the script. We tell them we’re going to present it in court when the case comes to trial. Like in a few years down the road. We’ll pay them well. Really well. Since we will be videoconferencing it, we can show it later to Garland Lee’s lead attorney. Once he sees it, he’ll know he has to convince his client to drop her case. In turn, the management company holding the escrow monies will release them to Arthur. That’s all he wants, the escrow monies.”

“Henry, did you record Arthur’s call? By any chance, did you mention that we found the listening device he planted?” Alvin asked.

“Hell no. I didn’t get the part about the newspaper articles on Garland Lee. Arthur accused me of being responsible for them, but as he said, he wasn’t buying into it. Whatever the hell that is supposed to mean.”

“Then he will still have a hold on us, even after it’s over,” Alvin said.

“Not if Henry tapes the next call,” Robert said. “We need to go back to the office. You two, Alvin and Henry, start to work on the script. Don’t call the court just yet. Time enough to do that after I lock down my idea. I’ll call the dean at Georgetown I did some work for him, and he owes me. I’ll ask him to pick two of his best and brightest from the drama department and send them over ASAP. Once we lock that down, we should be good to go. When and after we pull this off, and we will succeed, only then will we deal with our consciences and Arthur Forrester. If it is humanly possible, we will make it right. If not, we will stand up and take whatever comes our way because we own it. This might be a good time for the three of us to think about stepping down permanently. We’re too old to be dealing with bullshit like this.”

Henry Ballard squared his shoulders, his face grim. He stomped his way to the elevator, his brother and partner behind him. “Once we hit the office, be careful what you say. We’ll make our last call of the day to Arthur from here in the garage. My phone will record it all.”

“Let’s do it!” Alvin and Robert said in unison.