WHEN DARIEN SYNN ENTERED MY OFFICE PROMPTLY AT 11:00, MY first reaction was disappointment that Synn looked nothing like his employer. I had scarcely registered that fact when horror snaked down my backbone and coiled in my belly—the man before me was the bald stranger who’d been dogging my steps the day before.
“It is wonderful to finally meet you, Miss Fischer,” Synn said, inclining his head in a deep nod as he stretched out his hand. “And I must apologize for what must seem like appalling rudeness. I fear I startled you yesterday when I saw you outside the courtroom. I would have spoken then but did not want to distract you at such a crucial hour. I tried to speak to you last night as you were leaving, but you must not have heard me call your name.”
With difficulty, I set my panic aside and took his hand. The man’s grip was firm and polite, and something in his down-to-earth manner made my previous anxiety seem foolish and paranoid. Smiling, I withdrew my hand and gestured to the guest chair in front of my desk. “Forgive me, Mr. Synn, if yesterday I seemed a bit unsettled. I’m always a bit on edge during a trial, and celebrity trials seem to attract . . . unusual people.”
“I understand completely.” Synn sank gracefully into the chair, a movement completely at odds with his square, stocky appearance. His blue eyes lit up with amusement as I took my seat and met his gaze. “I am sure you are wondering what matter would compel me to follow you during a trial.”
“You are absolutely correct,” I answered, tilting my head as I listened to his speech patterns. He spoke careful, educated English without a discernible accent, and that alone was enough to signal that he was Not From Around Here. Nearly everyone in New York had an accent of some kind.
“I must admit I am curious,” I added, tenting my fingers. “What use would Global Union have for a jury consultant?” I tempered my smile. “Or perhaps you are here on behalf of someone else.”
“You are correct on the first assumption; I am representing Global Union and my employer, Santos Justus.” He nodded, his bald head gleaming in the fluorescent ceiling lights. “But we do not wish to hire you as a jury consultant. We wish to employ your skills for a different enterprise.”
I lifted a brow. “Such as?”
Synn laughed softly. “I suppose we could use a woman with your unique abilities in many situations. But before I go further, I should ask what you know about our organization.”
I smiled, glad I had done my homework. “I know Global Union is headquartered in Rome. I know you are a member of the board of directors, and Santos D. Justus is the founder and president. I believe you are committed to achieving world peace through a grass-roots movement, not solely through political means.” I swiveled my chair slightly. “Did I get it right?”
Synn stroked his upper lip—a meditation gesture common throughout the world. He was thinking hard about whatever he would say next.
“You are absolutely correct, Miss Fischer. There are a few other things you might like to know about us. First of all, the organization’s leadership now consists of the directors you mentioned—Justus, myself, and eleven other men and women, mostly Europeans. We came together two years ago, and Global Union has been little more than an idea since that time. Until a month ago, our headquarters was a post office box in Rome, our outreach only a Web page. That is all.”
I smiled, though I couldn’t understand where the conversation was leading. “And now?”
“Last month, one of our board members passed away, bequeathing a sizable fortune to our organization. Now that we are finally able to pursue our goals, we have purchased a building in Rome and are in the process of hiring a staff. We are putting feet to our dreams, Miss Fischer, and Justus wants to be certain we proceed properly. You are the key to our success.”
I lowered my folded hands to the desktop, trying to be polite and pleasant even though I was beginning to wonder if he would speak in riddles the entire morning. “Perhaps you should spell out what you’d like me to do for you.”
Synn leaned forward, propping one hand on his knee—the picture of eagerness. “We have hired a very skilled personnel director, Maura Casale, but the woman does not have your gift for seeing into the heart of an individual. We want you to come in for a short term—say, four to six months—and conduct separate interviews of prospective employees. Mrs. Casale will judge the qualifications of the applicants, but we want you to determine whether or not their personalities are suitable for service in our organization. We want to do good for the world, Miss Fischer, and we will require the most committed people we can employ.”
I looked away and suppressed the urge to smile. I didn’t know where his information had come from, but it sounded as if someone had painted me as a mind reader, which I certainly am not.
“Mr. Synn,” I said, lowering my voice to a friendly tone, “I am honored by your trust in me, but I don’t think I’ll be able to help you. I cannot judge a person’s personality or trustworthiness in a ten-minute interview. Sometimes it takes days before I am able to form a full picture of an individual. When I am working on a trial, for instance, we spend hours in voir dire, and I am able to observe the jurors as they respond to a number of questions about a wide range of topics—”
“You may take all the time you wish,” Synn interrupted. “Each employee will be interviewed for at least a week, and those who are hired will work on a probationary basis for several months. We want you to quietly work among us. Interview our applicants and our present employees, get to know them, and alert us if you sense a problem personality.”
“I don’t sense things.” I tried to mask my annoyance but probably failed. “I believe in the physical world, Mr. Synn, and I base my conclusions on hard evidence. But suppose you tell me what sort of things might indicate a problem personality?”
Synn looked at me, his bright, clear blue eyes direct. “Lying. Theft. Disloyalty. Pessimism. The same sort of things for which you might dismiss an employee, Miss Fischer.”
Fire someone for being pessimistic? If that were the standard for Fischer Consulting, Inc., I’d have fired myself on several occasions.
I drew a deep breath. “I am honored by the offer, Mr. Synn, but I’m afraid I’ve never considered international work. I am working hard to establish a presence in the eastern United States.”
“Which you have already done.”
I narrowed my gaze at him, mentally conceding the point. “And I have to consider my firm. I can’t just shut down my Manhattan office for six months.”
“By all means, keep your office staff here. You will be busy in the months to come. The world is a small place today, and you can be certain Mr. Justus will refer other clients to you. He is respected in Europe, and I know he will be lavish in his praise for your work.”
The man really knew how to pile it on. Here I was, facing debt and disaster, and he was promising steady work for months to come. But I couldn’t see myself as a glorified personnel director, and I didn’t like the idea of working my way into the confidences of his employees in order to spy on them.
“I don’t speak Italian, Mr. Synn. I can’t read people if I can’t understand what they’re saying.”
“Most of our people speak English as well as Italian; quite a few also speak French,” Synn answered. “The European community is shrinking along with the rest of the world, and English and French seem to be the languages of choice. I promise you, language will not be a problem. Besides”—his smile deepened—“Italian is not a difficult language. I suspect you will have a gift for it.”
Quelling a sudden urge to laugh, I rubbed a finger over my lips. He had baited me with friendliness and flattery while avoiding the promise of financial gain. I was flattered by the offer, a little intrigued by the idea of spending six months in Rome, but if this Justus fellow was operating on a shoestring budget, there was no way he’d be able to pay me enough to keep my firm afloat.
“The stipend,” Synn said, impressing me with his own ability to read people, “would be most generous.” He pulled a business card from his inner coat pocket, wrote a figure on the card, then leaned across my desk and handed it to me.
For a moment my brain went numb. “Nine million?”
Synn’s mouth twitched with amusement. “Nine million lire, of course. At the present rate of exchange, that amounts to”—He pulled a calculator from his pocket and punched in a series of numbers— “$4,882.83.”
“Per week?”
Synn nodded. “Plus living expenses.” The corner of his mouth drooped in an apologetic expression. “The amount may be less than you are currently receiving, but we are a not-for-profit organization, after all.”
Looking away, I did some quick calculations of my own. Nearly five thousand per week, for as long as twenty-six weeks—that figure alone would put my income at $130,000 for six months’ work. Plus expenses, he’d said, so I’d be living free in Rome and could send most of the money straight back to Rory, who would pay the bills, interview clients, and line up the most promising cases for the remainder of the year. It would be inconvenient to be so far away from the important people in my life, but if an emergency arose, I could always fly home. And Kurt could afford the international calls . . .
Kurt! A grinning goblin of guilt reared his head, and I grappled with the little monster. I couldn’t run out on Kurt, not with a wedding coming up, but he just might understand how this job could save my firm. Kurt might even like the idea of having an excuse to visit me in Rome.
I picked up the card and tapped it against the surface of my desk. “I’d like to think about it, Mr. Synn. When do you need an answer?”
Synn’s bland expression shifted to a confident upper smile— reserved, yet friendly. “Monday would be good. I will be in town until late Monday afternoon, but then I must return to Rome.”
“May I call you at your hotel with my decision?”
“By all means. I’m staying at the Ameritania, just off Broadway.”
We stood, shook hands, and Synn left the room. I stood motionless for a long moment, his card flat against my palm and his offer uppermost in my mind.
I turned the card over. Rev. Darien Synn, it said, Vice President, Unione Globale. 4 Via della Botteghe Oscure, Roma.
The word reverend caught me by surprise. Synn hadn’t mentioned any church affiliation, but perhaps, I supposed, it was only natural that a clergyman would be concerned about world peace and brotherly love.
I sank back into my chair and stared at the card. It might actually feel good to spend a few months working for peace. In Rome, at least, reporters like Tom Brown wouldn’t be able to accuse me of aiding murderers for money.
I tried to call Kurt, but he was with a patient. I left my name with the office receptionist and hung up, still mulling over Synn’s proposition.
Desperate to talk to someone, I stepped out into the reception area. Rory sat with the phone pressed to his ear, but he lifted a brow in acknowledgment when I sank into the chair by the side of his desk.
I shook my head, wordlessly telling him to take his time.
“I’d be happy to take your name and number, but Ms. Fischer doesn’t usually take personal injury cases,” he said, his voice as smooth as warm butter. “I’ll pass the information along, but I suggest you find the best lawyer you can. Thank you for calling.”
He hung up the phone, scribbled a note on a pink message pad, then tossed it into the desperation basket. Our office received about a dozen calls a week from ordinary citizens who thought a jury consultant would strike holy fear into insurance representatives, doctors’ attorneys, you name it. I could have easily filled my calendar with those kinds of low-paying jobs, but I wanted to spend my time where it counted—with high-stakes trials in criminal or civil court. It may sound heartless, but when I established the firm I decided not to waste my time on run-of-the-mill cases. I firmly believe that our society has become too litigious, and I refuse to help people sue McDonald’s for serving hot coffee.
“What did we charge Colby and company for our work on the Mitchell case?” I asked, sliding Synn’s business card over Rory’s desk.
“About eighty-five an hour, plus expenses, I think. I haven’t finished the billing yet.” He picked up the card and stared at the name on the front.
“He got the reduced rate, right?”
“The publicity was worth the trade-off.” Rory turned the business card and gasped at the figure on the back. “Is this a joke?”
“What if I told you”—I couldn’t stop a smile—“that Darien Synn promised me nearly $125 an hour for six months . . . while I work in glorious, sun-drenched Rome?”
Rory’s narrow face twisted into a dry, one-sided grin. “Rome . . . Georgia?”
“No, you goof. Rome, Italy. Roma.”
Rory gently laid the card on the desk, then pressed his hands together in a prayerful pose. “Does Reverend Synn work for the Vatican?”
“He’s a vice president of Global Union, and he works for Santos Justus. They want me to evaluate their staff for several months, that’s all. It’s a new organization, and apparently they want to make sure they’ve hired dependable people.”
Rory let out a long, low whistle. “Seems an expensive way to go about it. You don’t bring ‘the Seer’ in for routine observation unless there’s a lot at stake.”
I threw him a reproachful glance. “I’ll have none of that talk in here.”
“Sorry. So when do you leave for Rome?”
“I’m not sure I should take the job.” I rested my elbow on the edge of his desk and propped my chin in my hand. “There are a lot of things to consider. First of all, there’s Kurt. We’re getting married in May, so this may not be the best time for me to leave the country.”
Rory tipped his head back and grinned at me. “Haven’t you ever heard of the Concorde? New York to London, then Rome’s only a hop away. And Kurt could easily afford the airfare.”
I ticked off the next item on my list. “What about my sister? Kirsten is due in four months, and I promised I’d help her when the baby comes. Travis is a handful, and she’ll have to recuperate and take care of the newborn—”
“Your sister is married to a pediatrician who can certainly afford a nanny,” Rory argued, crossing his arms. “And so what if the little darling is two months old when you first see him? He won’t remember that you weren’t at the hospital to greet him.”
I held up a warning finger. “I’m not thinking of the baby. Most women want their mothers around when babies come, and since our mother can’t—well, I feel like I should be with Kirsten. She’d do the same for me.”
“I still think she’d understand.” Rory’s tone softened. “You are not your mother, Claudia, and your sister must know that you need to lead your own life. Besides, you’re going up there this weekend, aren’t you? Ask her about it. I’d bet a week’s pay that she’ll tell you to go to Rome.”
“I wouldn’t gamble your paycheck; you don’t know where the next one is coming from.” I chewed on my lower lip and looked away. Rory and I had been together for two years and sometimes he seemed to know me better than Kurt. Maybe he was right about Kirsten. My sister and I were close and had grown closer since the crash, but it wasn’t like I’d be deserting her forever. Sean would be there for the delivery, and maybe it was better for the two of them to share this special time alone . . .
“There’s one other consideration—and it’s important.” A stack of folders lay on the desk by my elbow, so I pushed it out of the way and leaned forward, as if being closer would help Rory understand. “This thing with Justus could be huge—it’s international politics, for heaven’s sake. I’ll be working with some powerful European movers and shakers. If I do a good job, there’s no telling what could open up next.”
Rory cast me a wicked grin. “Elaine Dawson, eat your heart out.”
“Wait.” I pressed a fingertip to his forearm. “If I fail, though, I fail big. From what I gather, Justus stands on the verge of gaining a lot of international attention, and I’ll be working in the spotlight. If this Justus fellow doesn’t like my work, Fischer Consulting could be history. The same press people who are praising us today could eat us alive six months from now. It’s a risk, Rory. I’m not sure I’m ready to gamble my career in an international arena.”
“You took a greater risk when you broke off from Elaine.” Rory’s brown eyes were blazing with confidence. “You knew less then than you do now, and you established this office on nothing but chutzpa.”
“Well”—I grinned—“I had a little more than that. I had the good sense to hire you.”
The tip of Rory’s nose went pink. “Yeah. Well, you’ve proved you can handle the personnel thing; you do more than that every time you evaluate a jury. I don’t see why reading Italians should be any different than analyzing New Yorkers. I think you should go for it.”
I leaned back and looked around the office. “You’d have to run things here. You’d have to take notes on interesting new clients, do some background work, check with attorneys and trial judges to work out the calendars if we get a big case. We wouldn’t be free to work a trial again until next spring.”
Rory swiveled his chair and crossed one leg over his knee. “I know the drill, Claudia, and I wouldn’t worry. With all the publicity from the Mitchell trial, we’ll have the calendar filled in no time.”
“But what if I have to pass on a really interesting case because I’m in Italy?”
Rory threw me a frown. “It takes months to prepare the really interesting cases. You’ll have plenty of time. By the time you get back, I’ll have your calendar filled and the background reports done.” His mouth curled in a one-sided smile. “The only thing you’ll have to worry about is replacing me if I get a better offer.”
“That reminds me”—I pushed myself out of the chair—“take your wife out to dinner on the company card, will you? Discuss business or something so it’ll be deductible. But keep your wife happy—I don’t want her to encourage you to look elsewhere.”
“As if she would.” Rory shot the words after me as I walked toward my office, then assumed his professional voice as the phone rang. “Fischer Consulting.” I stopped and looked over my shoulder when I heard him say, “How nice to hear from you.” He listened a moment, then cupped his hand over the mouthpiece and mouthed a name I understood immediately.
I hurried back to my desk, a little curious to discover why Elaine Dawson had decided to call twice in two days.
“Elaine?”
“Claudia, dearest, how are you? Congratulations, by the way, on the Mitchell trial. You’re getting great press even out here—almost as much airtime as I got for that Ambrose Zoya case.”
I swallowed my irritation. Ambrose Zoya, founder of a chain of discount clothing stores, had spent a considerable portion of his billion-dollar estate hiring a legal dream team to defend him against a series of sordid charges having to do with his ex-wife and stepdaughter. The media played up the coming legal battle and the tabloids followed every gossipy rabbit trail, but at the time I was so involved with preliminary work on the Mitchell case that I barely paid attention. Ambrose Zoya’s lawyer decided to settle before the plaintiff could call the first witness, so with one stroke of the pen Elaine’s work became a moot point. My case, on the other hand, had gone to trial.
“I’m just pleased my client was vindicated,” I answered, parroting the party line.
“Really?” Elaine laughed softly, and at that moment I would have given my last dollar for a good look at her face. If I could see her eyes, I’d know whether she was merely being pleasant or if she’d picked up the fact that I despised the client I had spent weeks protecting.
“Claudia, dear,” she began, her voice taking on a businesslike tone, “I called because I thought you might like a heads-up about a particular screwball approaching people in our business. He came by our office last week, and I promptly sent him packing. After your victory, however, it occurred to me that he might appear on your doorstep.”
“What sort of screwball?”
She laughed again, a delicate three-noted ha-ha-ha that set my nerves on edge. “Oh, he’s harmless, I daresay, but he wanted me to go to Europe for six months. Can you imagine! He seemed to think I would be honored to be the personnel director of some insignificant political cult, World Peace Now or something like that. Anyway, I turned him down and thought I’d let you know about him. He may be calling you next.”
All the doubts that had been lapping at my subconscious suddenly crested and crashed. What had I been thinking? Elaine was probably right. Darien Synn was nobody, Global Union was little more than a group of dreamers with a Web page, and I had nearly convinced myself to leave my firm at one of the most crucial points of its existence . . .
“Thanks for the information, Elaine.” I smiled into the phone, knowing she would hear the smile in my voice. “I appreciate your thinking of me.”
“You, ah . . .” She hesitated, and I knew the lack of visible contact frustrated her too. “You haven’t seen him, have you? He’s a stocky fellow, bald, about forty-five or fifty, with a rash of age freckles on his head—”
“Elaine.” I forced a laugh. “I’ve seen about a dozen men who fit that description in the last twenty-four hours alone. This place was an absolute zoo last night, and the phone has been ringing off the hook with reporters. But if this man calls, I’ll be sure to remember what you’ve told me.”
“That’s good.” She paused again. “You’re doing well? And your sister?”
“Kirsten is fine, thanks for asking. Another baby on the way, due in late December. She and Sean are thrilled, and Travis can’t wait to have a baby brother or sister.”
“Dear me, I have another call.”
I smiled, knowing that Elaine would rather discuss bunions than babies. “I’ll let you go, then. Thanks for the information.”
I dropped the phone back into its cradle, then swiveled my chair toward the single window in my office. The view was typical for Manhattan—a wall of windows belonging to the gray office building across the alley. Though it was only three o’clock, the sky outside had already begun to darken. I knew the skies would grow dark earlier and earlier, now that autumn and winter were approaching . . .
I folded my hands and stared at a single window across the way. In the uncurtained rectangle I saw a woman sitting at a desk much like mine, but she was bent over her work, her hand driving furiously across a sheet of paper.
Who wrote in longhand anymore?
I tossed the question aside and pondered the real issue troubling me. Why would Elaine Dawson call me about Darien Synn? She had taken pains to keep the conversation light and casual, and she hadn’t even mentioned the man’s name. Was her call motivated by sincere helpfulness . . . or rivalry?
Though Elaine and I now pretended to be the friends we once were, I had not forgotten the hurtful things she said when I confronted her about my desire to take a more active role in the work. In a flash of defensive anger, she had called me egocentric, power-hungry, and a few names not fit for printing in a family newspaper. She must have known I’d quit—after all, predicting people’s reactions was her area of expertise—but she hadn’t counted on my willingness to move east and establish my own firm. I sincerely believe she thought I’d stay in L.A., where she could squash my fledgling efforts by the sheer force of her personality.
Was this call an attempt to prevent me from moving into the international arena ahead of her?
I swiveled my chair again, turning to face my desk. It did tweak my pride to know that Darien Synn hadn’t called me first, but until last week I had been thoroughly tied up with the Chad Mitchell case. Furthermore, as far as I knew, Elaine Dawson had been available. Though she kept busy with work for various attorneys engaged in mock trials, Elaine hadn’t handled a celebrity case since Mr. Zoya decided to come clean and pay his ex-wife for her mental distress and suffering.
Could she have called just to discourage me from taking the one client who could finally bring me out from her shadow? Or had she read something in Reverend Synn’s personality or conversation that disturbed her?
I lowered my head to my hands, then peeped out through my fingers and stared at the phone. I would have loved to bounce some of these ideas off Kurt, but he would be tied up until late . . . and likely wouldn’t understand, anyway. Though he made an admirable show of understanding all of my problems, this one felt just a little too catty and female to make much headway in his psyche.
I glanced again at my empty calendar, then tossed a new file labeled “Global Union” into my briefcase. “I’m heading out,” I told Rory as I passed by his desk. “If anything comes up, I’ll have my cell phone, and this weekend I’ll be at my sister’s house. I’ll be back Monday morning.”
Rory looked up, his eyes sparkling wickedly. “So—are you taking this show on the road?”
“The jury’s still out on that one,” I answered, tucking my briefcase under my arm. “But I’ll have an answer for you Monday morning.”