Chapter 6
Avery Snowden walked nonchalantly around the block, pretending to talk on his cell phone. He was still practicing the tradecraft he had perfected back in the old days with MI5, when he and Charles Martin worked for the queen of England. Old habits served him well in his new endeavors. The truth was, he was in tune with his surroundings. He could hear a dog barking down the street; he noticed a fat pigeon on the lookout for a stray crumb here or there. He noticed the pedestrians on their way to do whatever they did during the noon hour here, during one of the busiest hours of the day. He was aware of the light breeze, the warm sun, and, of course, the high-rise condominium building where Arthur Forrester and his wife, Nala, lived. It was a high-security building, but that didn’t worry him. There was no lock known to man that he couldn’t open.
Snowden turned the corner, jammed his phone into his pocket, then crossed the street and headed back the way he had come. He had the uncanny knack of being able to see everything without turning his head. What he was looking for, in particular, was any sign of Nala Forrester returning to the condo.
Charles had dispatched him and his team last Thursday. The condo and the Forresters had been under surveillance twenty-four/seven since the moment the team had arrived. Unfortunately, there was very little to show for their efforts. The Forresters didn’t go out much, and when they did, they stayed planted at their destination until it was time to head home. As far as he could tell, they had no friends and no social life. Arthur Forrester played golf three days a week, Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. At least that’s what one of the staff at the Golf Shack told him. He’d also said that sometimes, weather permitting, Forrester would play a round on Sunday. He went on to say Forrester had no golf buddies. He showed up and waited to see if he could join a foursome, which happened most times. He confirmed that the scuttlebutt was that Forrester was an excellent golfer.
The wife, Nala, went to a place called Lady’s Fitness every morning, stayed for three hours, then hit the Organic Market, where she bought fresh fruits and vegetables. When she had finished shopping, she walked back to the condo, carrying her workout bag on her shoulder and a string bag with the produce. She rarely left the condominium after that.
Arthur Forrester usually returned at around three o’clock and, like his wife, never left the building afterward. Except for one day, last Friday, when he had returned from his golf game. On that day, he had gone into the condo, changed clothes, then emerged and drove six blocks to his attorney’s office, where he stayed for ninety minutes.
Avery had explained to Charles in his late-night call yesterday that he didn’t have a feel for the guy yet. He’d gone on to tell Charles that he needed a few more days to make any real kind of assessment.
When asked about Mrs. Forrester, his response had been she was a nonstarter. He took that one step further and said he wasn’t 100 percent sure Nala Forrester even knew about the lawsuit. He explained it was just a gut feeling, and he couldn’t explain it any better than that.
Snowden stopped under a colorful awning and pretended to light a cigarette he didn’t want. He didn’t smoke and only used cigarettes as a prop, when needed. Pretending to be interested at what was on display, he looked in the store window at a variety of hiking boots on pedestals. He winced at the discreet price tags, which barely showed. He was in midpuff on the cigarette when his cell phone vibrated in his pocket. He dropped the cigarette, crushed it out with his shoe, then picked it up and put it in one of the pockets of his cargo pants. “Snowden,” he said by way of greeting.
The voice on the other end of the phone sounded breathless and hushed at the same time. “The Forresters are leaving in the same car. I can’t follow them, as I’m wedged in here. I updated Kelly, and she’s two cars behind them. I took the liberty of alerting Duke to get in front. We have it covered. What do you want me to do?” Sasha Quantrell asked.
“I’m headed your way. Stay put till I get there, which should be in about eight minutes. This might be my only chance to get into their condo. I want you with me.”
Snowden set off at a jog and appeared at Sasha’s car in seven minutes. “Let’s go. We’ll go in through the garage and take the service elevator up to the ninth floor, where the Forresters live. I checked the ownership records at town hall last night, and this building seems to be made up of seniors, which, to me, means it’s pretty much a mind-your-own-business kind of establishment, no little kids permitted. A high-end establishment, mainly for senior citizens. There are, however, about a dozen middle-aged investment-banker types who live here, but they work during the day. Just act like you belong or are visiting friends or family.”
Sasha laughed. She’d done this type of thing so many times, she’d lost count. Still, she nodded. After all, Avery Snowden was her boss and signed her paychecks. If he wanted to share totally unnecessary reminders about how to do her job, who was she to object?
“So if anyone asks questions, who are we today? FBI, Homeland Security, ATF, or DEA?”
“We’ll just wing it. Okay, showtime,” Snowden said as the elevator doors opened. Snowden took a moment to look at the arrows that indicated which way to go. “Apartment 909 is to the left. We knock as per usual, just in case,” Snowden said, his lock-picking kit in his hand. “Eyes everywhere, Sasha.” She nodded as Snowden pressed the doorbell and was rewarded with a pleasant chime. He waited a few seconds, then pressed the button again. When nothing happened after that, he selected the tool he wanted and was about to insert it in the lock when the door suddenly opened to reveal a woman wearing a bandanna on her head and an apron. She had a feather duster in her hand.
The woman looked puzzled, like she’d never opened the door to guests before. “Can I help you?”
Snowden reached into his pocket and withdrew a folded leather wallet. He flipped it open to reveal an FBI shield, compliments of Jackson Sparrow. “I’m Special Agent Jonathan Ryan, and this is Special Agent Martha Blake.” Martha Blake, aka Sasha Quantrell, held up her own badge. “We’d like to talk to you. May we come in?” Snowden’s tone clearly said he would not take no for an answer.
The maid or housekeeper, her hand over her heart, stepped aside, her eyes full of fear. “Mr. and Mrs. Forrester are not at home. I have a green card,” she blurted fearfully.
“I know that. We’re not here for you, but we do want to talk to you. When will the Forresters be home?”
“They say . . . not till late. They tell me to lock up when I leave. I have a key.”
“Do you know where they went?” Snowden asked.
“They did not tell me, but I heard Mr. Forrester say to his wife they had to go to where he used to work in the city. I did not hear anything else.”
Snowden nodded to himself. That makes sense, he thought, since Nikki and Maggie did pay a visit to the firm earlier today.
“We have a warrant,” Snowden said, waving a paper under the woman’s nose. She jerked back, but didn’t bother to read what was on the paper. “What that means is my partner, Special Agent Blake, is going to search the premises while you and I talk. I mean you no harm, so please do not be afraid. You have done absolutely nothing wrong. I’m going to ask you some questions, and if you know the answers, I want you to tell me the truth. If you lie to me, I will have to ask the proper authorities to take another look at that green card you have. Do you understand what I just said?”
“I do. Do you want to go to the living room or the kitchen to talk? I can make coffee for you or give you cold fruit juice.”
“The kitchen will be fine. Tell me everything you know about the Forresters. How long have you worked for them?”
“I used to work for them before they moved. Maybe for ten years, once or twice a week. They sold the house and moved here, but they said they didn’t need me any longer. I found other work. Then eight months ago, Mrs. Forrester called and asked if I would come to work one day a week. She said she would pay my travel expenses. I said yes. The work is easy. There are no children or pets, not like before.”
“Mr. and Mrs. Forrester are retired?”
“Yes. But on the days he does not play golf, Mr. Forrester works in his office here. Many, many papers, but he will not let me clean his office. It is . . . how you say . . . a pigsty. Yes, pigsty. They . . . they are different now from before, when I worked for them. Not mean, but not nice. They do not talk. They fight and argue over money all the time. Last week, I heard Mrs. Forrester say that she no give him her money. Her money is for her children and the children she helps with her charity. They closed the door so I would not hear, but I could still hear. Did they do something wrong?”
“We can’t talk about that. And your name is?”
“Elena Mendez. Am I in trouble because they pay me cash?”
“It’s a problem, but I’ll take care of it if you cooperate,” Snowden said smoothly.
“I will do what you say,” Elena said fervently. “I do not want trouble for me and my family.”
“I know that, and we’re here to help you. Now, this is what I want you to do. I want you to call either Mr. or Mrs. Forrester and tell them there is an emergency in your family, and you won’t be returning to work. Tell them you will leave the key on the counter. You said you have a key of your own, right?” Elena nodded. “Then thank them for being so good to you.” Elena grimaced. Snowden grinned. “Okay, you can leave that part out. From that point on, I don’t want you to have any further contact with them. If they call, do not answer the phone. Is that understood?”
“Yes. Yes. I understand. I understand that through no fault of my own, I am losing a job I depend on. It is not fair. I did nothing wrong.” Tears welled in Elena’s eyes.
Snowden felt lower than a snake’s belly at Elena’s words. “We at the Bureau are not that heartless, Elena. We understand, and we are going to make it right for you. If you do everything we say and do not speak of this to anyone, and you will have to sign off on that, then we’re prepared to help you.”
“How will you help me?” Fat tears rolled down Elena’s cheeks.
Snowden pulled off his rucksack and rummaged around until he found what he wanted, a thick envelope full of cash. “There is five thousand dollars in this envelope, a tidy sum to hold you over until you can find additional work. Will that work for you?”
The tears were gone, and the woman’s smile was brighter than the sun outdoors. “Yes, that will work for me. What do you want me to sign?”
A good question, Snowden thought. He fished around inside the rucksack again and came up with a paper that he didn’t have time to read, something to do with his last car maintenance. “Just sign on the bottom, and we’re good to go.” He watched as Elena signed her name carefully and handed the paper over. Snowden folded it in two and slipped it back into his rucksack. “Make the call now.”
“I will call Mrs. Forrester. Her number is here by the house phone. Mr. Forrester might not answer the phone.” As it turned out, Mrs. Forrester didn’t answer her phone, either, so Elena left a clear, concise message, ending by saying, “I will leave the key on the kitchen counter under the phone. Thank you for giving me the opportunity to work for you.” She made a funny little face at Snowden, who just smiled. “Is there anything else?” she asked after hanging up.
“Not unless you think there is something I should know?”
Elena shook her head. “They are different people, it seems to me, from when I worked for them before. Mr. Forrester is a cold, heartless man. He only cares about himself, and all he talks about is money. But I only see him a bit one day a week, so I am sorry I can’t be more helpful.”
“Do his children and grandchildren ever come here? Or do they go to visit them?”
Elena shook her head. “I don’t know. They have never been here when I’m here. I don’t know if they visit the children. Once I heard Mrs. Forrester talking to one of her daughters about a Sunday dinner. Oh, every six weeks or so, they drive to Hilton Head, South Carolina, and stay for ten days. They call to tell me they don’t need me during that time. They own a house there. Mrs. Forrester doesn’t much like going there, but Mr. Forrester likes the golf course. Should I leave now?”
“Yes. Remember everything I said, Elena.”
“I will not forget.”
“Give me your cell phone number and your home address in case I need to get in touch with you. Here is my card. If the Forresters harass you or do anything, I want you to call me right away. Is that clear?”
“Yes, it is clear. They do not know where I live. They never cared enough to ask me, and I never volunteered the information. I will not answer the phone. Thank you for the money. It will be a big help to me and my family. I will not tell anyone about my fairy godfather,” she said, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.
Sasha appeared in the doorway. “I checked everything.” Snowden nodded as he escorted Elena to the door. They said good-bye; then he closed and locked the door.
“I planted four listening devices,” Sasha continued. “I copied everything on Mr. Forrester’s computer. I took pictures of the paperwork on his desk. Do you want a bug on this kitchen phone?” Snowden nodded as he eyed the key on the counter. “Did you happen to notice any candles around here?”
“There’s one in the guest bathroom. Ah, you want to make a wax impression of the key in case you need to get back in here, eh? I’ll get the candle.”
While Snowden melted the wax on the candle, Sasha looked around the kitchen, poking in the cabinets and fridge. She blinked, then blinked again, as she counted twenty-two bottles of vitamin supplements on the counter. Crazy health nuts, she thought. She checked the mini laundry room, but nothing caught her eye. “I’m not getting this, Avery. Are these people supposed to be rich? If they are, they certainly didn’t furnish this place to impress people. I have furniture that’s better than some of this stuff. The word spartan doesn’t cover it.”
Snowden shrugged. “Not our problem. Did you wipe down everything that you touched?” Sasha nodded. “I’m going to take this candle with us and hope they won’t miss it, since it’s never been lit. A blackened wick might cause suspicion.” Sasha nodded.
“Time to leave. Do you want to go to your hotel? I can have Steve stake out here.”
“I could use a shower and a nap, so I’ll head for the hotel. If you need me for tonight, give me a call. Here are the flash drives. I almost forgot to give them to you.”
Both operatives walked out of the Forrester condo without encountering anyone. They parted company outside, with Sasha driving away and Snowden heading down the street to where he’d parked his car earlier. He sat for a while, his brain racing before he called Charles to bring him up to date. “I’m going to head over to a FedEx office and overnight the flash drives, then have a key made. I’m staying on with my people. I’ll check in later this evening when the Forresters return. The minute I found out the Forresters were headed for the city, to his old firm, I called one of my operatives to stake out the lobby of the building to see when he leaves. I’m told he and his wife took the train in. He’ll follow them back here. If Maggie was successful planting the bug at the firm, my night is going to be busy listening to what went down there and what’s going on in the condo. I’ll be in touch later this evening.”
Snowden signed off and put the car in gear. Nice town, he thought as he drove up one street and down the other. Nice place to retire if you’re an old fuddy-duddy. It was not for him, though. When it was time for him to walk off into the sunset, he wanted bright lights and noise, to prove he was still alive.
* * *
Annie, Myra, Nikki, and Maggie settled down at an outside café to talk. Myra was looking at an incoming text from Charles that said Isabelle and Yoko never made it to Washington. Something went awry at a job site that required Isabelle to be there, and Yoko didn’t want to make the trip alone. She shared it with the others, who just shrugged. They ordered coffee from a waiter as an excuse for taking up a table. Maggie grimaced; she was so counting on food. And it was almost the supper hour.
“Should we go home, or stick around and spend the night?” Nikki asked.
“Your business is finished, so other than taking a trip to Riverville, I don’t see any need to stay,” Annie said. “Unless we can think of a way to get more personal background on the Forresters.”
“I thought Avery Snowden had that covered,” Maggie said, eyeing the menu the waiter had left with their coffee. “Has anyone heard from him?”
“I’m calling him right now.” Annie held up her hand for the girls to be quiet as she listened intently to what was being said. “First things first. We’re going to take the six o’clock shuttle home. You are not going to believe what Mr. Snowden told me. Listen up, girls.” She quickly and concisely repeated everything Snowden had accomplished, ending with, “As we speak, the Forresters are right now traveling to the Ballard law firm’s offices. Seems their day lady overheard a phone call in which the husband and wife were talking to each other. I guess it was a command performance, although I don’t see Arthur Forrester dancing to anyone’s tune but his own. That tells me it was a threatening phone call. And it happened after Nikki and Maggie left their offices. What do you think, Nikki?”
Nikki offered up a low chuckle. “I think the firm wants your business so bad, they can taste it. They know that if your business goes to the O’Malley firm, it will be because of Forrester. They’ll threaten him with lawsuits till the end of time and bleed him dry. Whatever they threatened him with, it was enough to make him hightail it into the city. With his wife, no less. Must be some kind of package deal. The thing is, this is all make-believe. Although I have to say, I did like the partners at O’Malley. I liked that they didn’t try to impress us. If this was for real, I’d recommend them over the Ballard firm.”
“When things settle back down, I’ll personally send both firms letters thanking them for their interest and tell them this isn’t quite the right time to separate my holdings, but will keep them in mind,” Annie said.
“Sounds like a plan,” Maggie said as she ran her finger up and down the plastic menu.
“You know what the best part is. Avery will get it all in real time, since I planted that listening device under the conference table. When Fergus handed it to me at the last minute, I have to admit I was a tad worried how I’d get to do it and get away with it. I vote that we head for the airport and go home when we finish our coffee,” Maggie said.
The women reached out and high-fived each other, wicked smiles on their faces. They had really pulled off their little caper, with no one the wiser.
“Mr. Arthur Forrester, aka Mr. SOP, you are toast!” Myra said, shooting two thumbs up in victory.
Nikki looked around at the sisters. “What can I say? When you’re good, you are soooo good!”
Another round of high fives was followed by hilarious laughter, which had the other patrons smiling, wishing that they were part of whatever happy-making events were taking place at table four.
* * *
As the sisters were high-fiving each other, Arthur Forrester and his wife were stepping out of the cab they had taken from Union Station onto the sidewalk in front of the building in which Ballard, Ballard and Quinlan was located. Arthur looked at his wife, but didn’t say anything. He then looked at the building where he’d worked for thirty-odd years. His stomach muscles tightened. This was the first time in close to three years that he’d come anywhere near to the building where he had plied his trade for all those years. Since retiring, he had avoided this area as though it were the locus of the latest plague. He thought of the work he had done at Ballard, Ballard and Quinlan as having slaved his life away.
“What are we doing here, Arthur? I don’t understand why I had to come here with you. What are you waiting for? Open the damn door and let’s get this, whatever this is, over and done with. I don’t mind telling you that I am really fed up with this mess you’ve gotten us into. I mean really fed up, Arthur.”
“You asked me the same question on the train ride in four times, and four times I told you I do not know the answer. It was the malpractice lawyer who called this meeting. I have to be here. And, to answer the second question, yes, I am stalling. I do not want to go into that building any more than you do. I hate this place with a passion. When I walked away from here, I never thought I would ever come near it again, and yet here I am.”
Forrester drew in a deep breath and opened the heavy plate-glass door to allow his wife to go in ahead of him. She sidestepped him neatly. With his wife walking behind him, he marched across the cavernous lobby to the bank of elevators. He pressed the button and could not help but remember how slow the elevators always were.
He turned to his wife. “Listen to me, Nala. I don’t want you to say anything, and for God’s sake, do not volunteer anything, even if it is to comment on the weather. Do you understand me?”
His tone was a low snarl. Nala reared back, her eyes narrowing. “You’re the idiot in this family, Arthur. Don’t you tell me what to do. The days when you could tell me to jump and I would ask ‘how high’ are long gone. Do-you-understand- ME?”
They were alone in the elevator, riding up to the fourteenth floor, before Arthur Forrester spoke. “Seriously? You expect me to respond? Just do as I say, so we can get out of this place.”
His breathing in check, Forrester walked over to the courtesy desk. This was going to be awkward. His stomach muscles started to tense up. “Hello, Carol. I have a meeting scheduled with Henry. Could you tell him I’m here?”
The receptionist turned pink. “Ah . . . Arthur . . . ah, nice to see you again. Hello, Mrs. Forrester.” Nala nodded a greeting. “Mr. Ballard said to bring you right back when you got here. I . . . ah . . . I know you know the way, but I . . . have to . . .”
“It’s not a problem, Carol. We’ll follow you.”
The room was full. The Ballard brothers and Robert Quinlan all sat in a row. Juan Lorenzo, the malpractice attorney, sat across from them. There was no coffee on the credenza, no bowls of fruit or pastries. Not even bottles of water. Nothing for the pariah. That was fine with him. He sat down next to Juan Lorenzo, with Nala on his other side. He clamped his lips shut and waited for what was to come. He knew that the partners would say nothing, giving the floor to Lorenzo. He leaned back, but he didn’t take his eyes off the three men sitting across from him—the three lawyers that he, along with all the other drones who worked at the law firm, had helped make rich over the years. The three men he hated more than anything in the whole world. If they thought he was going to speak first, they could wait till hell froze over.
Forrester was stunned when he heard his wife say in a voice that could have chilled Jell-O, “Why are we here? More to the point, why am I here? If you do not, at this very moment, give me an answer that is acceptable, I am walking out of here. And if you think you will ever get me to come back, you all need to have your heads examined.”
Forrester wanted nothing more than to strangle his wife right then and there. He did his best to hold his emotions in check as he schooled his face to impassiveness. He looked like it was carved in granite.
“Yes, I’m sure you do want to know, and, of course, you have every right to know, so I am going to tell you.” Juan Lorenzo smiled. “Right now. This morning, two young women came into this very room and talked to Henry, Alvin, and Robert. They were, for want of a better term, fact-finding for their employer, who is considering this firm, along with another firm, to handle a portion of her very extensive real-estate holdings. I believe,” he said, looking down at his notes for confirmation, “somewhere in the neighborhood of four hundred million dollars is what the firm would be managing, should it be chosen. The client’s name is Countess Anna de Silva. She was represented here today by one of her attorneys, Nicole Quinn, who owns a twelve-member, all-female law firm in Georgetown. The other woman was the former editor in chief of the Post, which the countess also owns. Quinn has impressive credentials and was named Lawyer of the Year three years running. Maggie Spritzer has several Pulitzer Prizes to her credit. Having said that, I’m sure you can see that everyone is taking the possibility of securing the countess’s account seriously.”
Forrester wanted to outright slap his wife silly when she said, “I don’t see what that has to do with me or my husband, especially since my husband no longer works for this firm. If there’s a point to this, get to it, please.”
“Ah, yes, the point. The point is, the countess is aware of your husband’s lawsuit against Garland Lee, as well as this firm’s part in it all. While Ms. Quinn didn’t come out and directly say the countess would not consider the firm until the lawsuit is settled one way or the other, reading between the lines, the partners believe that is her intent. Which then will mean the countess will more than likely take her business to O’Malley, O’Shaunnesy and McCallister because Ms. Quinn mentioned them as the alternate firm. Which, by the way, is a sterling firm, as your husband can tell you.”
Lorenzo stretched his neck so he could see past Arthur Forrester to his wife, to whom he was responding. “As you know, we’re in limbo here with the judge, who has not ruled on the summary judgment motion filed by Ms. Lee. We can settle this now and avoid a trial. It is, after all, a trial your husband can’t possibly win. All three of the lawyers in this room and I can cite you a thousand cases where celebrity wins out. The firm is prepared to drop their case against your husband and would like to see your husband drop his suit against Garland Lee. Everyone picks up his marbles and just walks away.”
“You forgot to say empty-handed,” Arthur Forrester said coldly. “I have no intention of walking away or settling. I earned those monies held in escrow. I put the deal together. I earned my percentage. What part of that don’t you understand?”
“The part where you are a greedy idiot. You hoodwinked Garland Lee. You know it, and we know it. All you did was plug in numbers and make copies. And that movie deal you tried to engineer without telling Ms. Lee! The deal where you appointed yourself her agent, her manager, and anything else you could tack on to make you money. In the end, you would have made more off the movie deal than Garland Lee would have. But, once she had her eyes opened to what you were doing, she chopped you off at the knees and refused, just the way she refused to do the book deal and the branding deal. A jury will see right through all of your sanctimonious nonsense and see what a greedy son of a bitch you really are. You violated every ethical stricture in the book when you conspired against your own client for your own personal gain.
“You’re finished, don’t you see? Why are you being so blind? Going through a trial, putting your family through that spectacle, only to lose—because you are a greedy bastard—can’t be your endgame. You’ll spend all of your pension, your retirement, only to come out the loser by going through a trial. In addition to that, if the firm loses the de Silva account because of you, you will be sued up one side and down the other. You will be defending yourself in courtrooms till the day you die. Don’t be stupid, Arthur, you cannot win. Either drop the suit or settle,” Lorenzo said, his voice a virtual snarl.
“So you say. I want my day in court. I will not be denied that which I earned,” Forrester said, bitterness ringing in his voice at the threats raining down on him.
Lorenzo appealed to Nala. “Is this how you want it to go forward? Is this what you want for your family? For your retirement?”
Nala Forrester looked shell-shocked. She recovered nicely and sucked in a deep breath, her eyes lasers of hate directed straight at her husband of forty-some years. “This is how I see it, gentlemen. You can’t fix stupid. I do not plan on standing in the wings to watch what you described happening. This might surprise you, but I happen to agree with everything you’ve said here. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m leaving.” Nala Forrester turned to her husband, and said, “I’m going to stay in town tonight. I’ll return home when, and if, I feel like it. Good-bye, gentlemen.”
Arthur Forrester stared at his wife, disbelief at her betrayal plainly showing on his face. Gone was any attempt to keep a poker face. If he had a gun, he would have shot her stone-cold dead.
All the men rose to their feet, except Arthur Forrester. The sound of the door’s closing was so loud, it sounded like thunder in the quiet conference room.
Juan Lorenzo shot Arthur Forrester a pitying look. “Look, Arthur, I know this came as a shock to you today. Why don’t you go home, think it over, and call us in the morning. Please don’t make a decision that you’ll regret for the rest of your life. And while you’re at it, you might want to try to make peace with your wife.”
Arthur Forrester stood up, shook his shoulders, and looked around at the four men. “Do me a favor. Go to hell. But before you leave for that burning inferno, kiss my ass, boys!”
No one blinked. No one said a word. No one even breathed until the door opened and Arthur Forrester walked through it.
Henry Ballard looked at his two partners. “Draw up the complaints. Charge the bastard with anything you can think of. I want everything ready the moment I say to go.”
Juan Lorenzo sighed, as did the others. “We tried.”
“Yes, we did,” the three partners said in unison. “Yes, we did.”