Monday, August 8^th

It was a day of appointments.

Harry Sherman was late for his. He wasn’t at the precinct at eight o’clock. He came in just as Christopher was ready to ask the captain’s permission to seek a warrant for his arrest. He looked like he hadn’t slept.

Christopher told Captain Albright about the conversation he had overheard the night before. At least Sherman’s part of the conversation. Sherman had mentioned Rossi’s name but apparently Rossi had little to say.

“Has this phone been dusted for prints?” Albright asked.

“Yes, Sir,” Christopher said. “I had that done as soon as I got in this morning. Only one set of prints. No doubt Sherman’s.”

Albright was feeling much better about himself since he had approved Christopher’s operation. He had turned his head a few times in his career but never did anything definitively illegal. He despised crooked cops, especially since he realized how close he had come to being one.

“So what are we going to do with you, Officer Sherman?” the captain pondered.

Sherman sat silently. Head down. Eyes on the floor.

“First, put your badge and gun on my desk. Now!” the captain ordered.

Sherman unclipped the holstered Model 1911. He laid it on the captain’s desk along with his badge.

“And the Glock in your ankle holster,” the observant Christopher added.

Sherman unwrapped the strap holding the holster on his lower leg. He added that to the pile on his desk.

“Maybe we’ll just do nothing,” the captain mused. “Just kick you off the force. I wouldn’t give a dime for your life if Rossi decides you’re of no more use to him.”

Sherman went pale. The captain was right. The crooked cop would be a dead former cop by the end of the day.

“You can’t do that, Captain,” Sherman pleaded.

“Of course I can. You’re a disgrace, Sherman. You took money to sell out your colleagues. You put every officer on the force in danger. I can set you up for Rossi to take out and not lose a minute’s sleep over it. You disgust me.”

“I can help you, Captain,” Sherman rushed to offer, now in a panic. “I’ll turn state’s evidence. I can tell you a lot about Rossi’s operation. And about some of his partners.”

Albright said nothing. He stared at Sherman. Finally he spoke

“I’m not sure how much help you can be. We already know a lot more about them than either you or they realize. But it never hurts to have another witness,” he concluded. “Sergeant Booth, book this man into protective custody. We can hold him for a couple of days while we figure out what to do with him.”

Trent, Darcey, and Miles decided they would all go together. It was a day for friends to support each other.

They would begin at the funeral home at 9:30 as Miles arranged for Scott’s cremation. Scott was always insistent that he wanted no service. Perhaps only a few of their best friends gathering to toast his memory.

They decided to schedule the cremation for Thursday, August 11^th. Miles asked Trent and Darcey to be there with him. He said he would then like to host a small gathering at the home he and Scott had shared, if the new furnishings were delivered by then. He would invite Mandy Rillard and Preston Johnson, the core of the group of friends, to toast Scott’s memory.

A few tears flowed when they discussed the timing and the process. But Miles held up well. He was showing more signs of recovery each day.

The day’s appointments started differently for Kiettisuk Jetjirawat and Abdul Rahman.

They agreed to meet at Abdul’s home. Each summoned their teams of attorneys. Pietro accompanied Kiettisuk Jetjirawat.

The attorneys were instructed to work around the clock to prepare the necessary paperwork to transfer all holdings of the Rossi family to a new partnership between Spitting Cobra and the Scourge.

Rossi had reluctantly provided detailed lists of properties owned directly under his name, that of his family, and those registered in the names of numerous interlocking holding companies. Ironically, the list included the old building south of the city once used as a casino and for prostitution, still occasionally used for smuggling, and most recently the scene of a gun fight resulting in the release of two hostages as well as the death of the one man who could have saved Rossi.

The attorneys were told that the paperwork must be ready for signing in twenty-four hours. When the attorneys said they didn’t know if they could meet that deadline, the response was not reassuring.

“See that it is done,” Abdul warned. “If not…well, lawyers are expendable.”

The attorneys left the meeting pale-faced and sweating. More than one regretted the decision to represent these deadly clients.

At eleven o’clock Trent and Darcey met with Doctor Slim and Doctor Raymond. Miles stayed in the waiting room thumbing through two month old celebrity magazines.

The doctors listened closely to Trent’s description of the symptoms he had experienced. He described the hallucinations in a humorous manner, giving them permission to laugh with him. Doctor Raymond was especially impressed, she told him with an impish grin, that he was insistent on returning from Fairbanks before Darcey woke up in San Francisco.

They, too, were relieved to learn that each symptom had lasted only a matter of hours. Some even less. That, they agreed, was a very good sign. They were also pleased when he told them that he had taken none of the pain medication they had prescribed. So far he hadn’t needed pain relief.

They said they were making some progress in their study of the spirochete causing the chaos in Trent’s blood. They had not found a cure yet but they were hopeful. Meanwhile, they told him to continue with the antibiotics.

After lunch, they accompanied Miles to the office of the attorney who had prepared Scott’s will. Robert Tracy was the consummate professional, striking the proper balance between sympathy and business.

“Miles, I can’t tell you how sorry I was to hear of Scott’s death. He was a good client, a good man, a good friend. I shall miss him, though I know you will feel his loss much deeper than will I,” the attorney said.

“Thank you, Robert,” Miles said, his eyes misting. “I know Scott thought highly of you. He had the utmost confidence in your ability to handle our affairs. And now I’m here for your guidance. What happens now?”

“Well, first you should know that you are the sole beneficiary of all Scott’s holdings.”

Miles nodded. “I thought that was probably so. But I’m not sure what all is included.”

“To begin with,” Tracy explained, “Scott had a fully paid up whole life insurance policy in the amount of $1 million. That, of course, is not subject to taxation.”

Miles eyes grew wide, his face flushed as he realized the attorney had just told him he was now a millionaire.

“You know that all Scott’s bank accounts and investments are joint accounts. As such, they are yours to draw on. You will simply be required to present a copy of the death certificate to each bank or investment firm in order to draw on the funds. Scott had prepared a Revocable Living Will so taxation will be minimal.”

“I vaguely remember signing some papers but didn’t really pay much attention. I trusted Scott to handle all our business,” Miles said, awe in his voice.

“Additionally, you might not be aware Scott transferred the condo you shared to you. You are, and have been for some time, the sole owner of the property, which is unencumbered. That will not be affected by Scott’s death. The same, by the way, with the Mercedes he purchased last year. Six months ago he transferred the title to you.”

Miles was feeling faint. He fanned his face with one hand.

“I had no idea,” he said.

“For whatever reason, Scott felt he wanted to be sure you would not suffer financially if something happened to him,” Tracy said. “Perhaps he had a premonition. In any event, Miles, he took very good care of you.”

“How good?” Miles asked, his voice trembling.

“Including bank accounts, investments, and the condo, you are worth in the neighborhood of $15 million, depending, of course, on what taxes might be levied.”

Miles could barely speak.

“$15 million? Are you sure?” Miles really thought he was going to faint.

“Well, subject to settling the tax issue, yes, that’s approximately your current net worth.”

Miles turned to Darcey.

“I was a kid living on the streets when he found me,” he said. “He was the first person who ever treated me decently. But I had no idea…” His voice trailed off as the tears began to flow.

Darcey held him in her arms.

It was a long and emotional day for Miles, as well as for Trent and Darcey. They were all too internally drained to worry about dinner.

Miles opened a Merlot for Trent; a Chardonnay for Darcey. For himself, he stayed with mineral water, his drink of choice for the past few days.

Darcey made a pan of nachos, layered heavily with melted, browned cheese and handfuls of sliced jalapenos. That was good enough for dinner.