“TO YOU, DARLING.” KURT LIFTED HIS GOBLET AND LIGHTLY TOUCHED it to mine. “Congratulations on a job well done. Your trial was all over the news tonight. Even CNN did a piece on it, so that means you’re getting international coverage.”
I felt myself flushing under Kurt’s compliment. “Well, it wasn’t exactly my trial. And if the defendant had been anyone other than a United States senator, we probably wouldn’t have gotten any coverage at all.”
“But you did get it.” There was something pleased, proud, and vaguely possessive in the way Kurt looked at me. “And tomorrow every lawyer on the eastern seaboard will know that Claudia Fischer is the jury consultant to hire for important cases.”
I’ll admit it—part of me reveled in his open admiration. But I resisted the unsophisticated temptation to crow right in the middle of the Rainbow Room and instead picked up my fork. “I certainly hope so. But there’s no way of knowing what tomorrow will bring.”
Kurt picked up his fork too, but then he leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Is the wolf still at the corporate door?”
“We’ll be OK for another month.” I stabbed at a piece of lettuce and tried to keep the worried note from my voice. “Colby promised me a bonus if we won. It will cover the balloon payment on the loan but little else because the trial took longer than I planned. We’ll be in the black for about a month before expenses drive us into red ink again.”
Kurt took a bite of his salad, his eyes gleaming blue and mischievous in the candlelight as he thoughtfully studied me. “You know I’d bail you out in a heartbeat,” he finally said. “We can keep the deal on a professional level. My practice could loan you the money over a long term with a very attractive interest rate—”
“Thanks, Kurt, but no. I want to make it on my own.”
“Don’t be silly, Claudia.” His lips thinned with irritation. “We’re going to be married in less than a year, and then what’s mine will be yours anyway.”
“Not exactly—your practice and my firm will never be community property.” I tried to glare at him, but I just can’t be angry with Kurt when those summer sky blue eyes look up at me. I don’t know how his parents ever disciplined him.
He shrugged off my objections and returned to his salad. “Then you’ll just have to find another client—preferably one with deep pockets.”
“I may have one.” I paused until he looked up again. “I checked my messages just before coming here. According to Rory, I have an appointment tomorrow morning with a representative from the Global Union. The man’s name is Darien Synn.”
“Global Union?” His brows knit in puzzlement. “That name is familiar, but I’ve never heard of Darien Synn.”
“Rory said the organization is based in Rome. I don’t know much about it myself, but the appointment’s not until eleven o’clock. I’ll have time to scour the Internet and see what I can find.”
Kurt’s eyes were still abstracted, but they cleared as he shook his head. “It doesn’t sound like a law firm.”
“I don’t know what it is.” I stabbed at my salad again. “But as long as they want to talk business, I’ll listen. Trials like Senator Mitchell’s don’t come along every year, so I can’t afford to sit back and wait on the celebrity cases.”
“Speaking of opportunities”—Kurt grinned at me, his eyes suddenly alight with mischief and inspiration—“I was thinking that maybe you and I should give a dinner party for the senator. You know, a celebration-type thing. Then you could introduce me to Mitchell, and I could—”
“Kurt Waldron Welton!” Aghast, I stared at him, knowing what suggestion lay on the tip of his tongue. “You aren’t seriously thinking of trying to solicit the senator as a patient.”
“Why not?” he countered, his golden brows rising nearly to his hairline. “Anyone would need counseling after a trial like that. After all, the man has been accused of murder, he is estranged from his wife, his children aren’t speaking to him, and his career is uncertain. It’s a wonder he hasn’t sought out a psychologist before this.”
“I am not going to let you accost my clients.” I rolled my eyes, amazed that my fiancé could engage in what amounted to high-class ambulance chasing. “If Mitchell wants counseling, I’m sure he can afford to find his own shrink. Goodness, Colby employed two different psychiatrists during the trial. They both found Mitchell mentally competent and physically fit.”
“Those were trial docs, Claudia; they say what they’re paid to say.”
“They were reputable psychologists, and they wouldn’t lie . . . I don’t think.” I waved away the topic. “Enough, Kurt. I’m not throwing a party for Mitchell. I wouldn’t care if I never saw the man again. If he wants to refer a client, I wouldn’t refuse the work, but”—I couldn’t stop a shudder—“something about him gives me the creeps.”
“And that’s ample evidence that he needs a psychologist.” Kurt lifted his glass again and peered at me over the rim. “Think about it, Claude—you might be doing some other woman a great favor if you introduced me to the senator.”
Feeling restless and irritable, I brought my hand to my forehead, shielding my eyes from Kurt’s persistent gaze. Twice in the last few hours I’d been reminded that Chad Mitchell might be a walking time bomb, but what could I do about it?
Absolutely nothing.
Kurt turned his smile up a notch. “Come on, Claude, don’t be mad.”
“I’m not mad.”
“Yes, you are. I don’t have to be the Seer to read you like a book.”
“That’s not funny.”
“Maybe not, but I know something that is. Today someone e-mailed me this list of messages for a shrink’s answering machine. After the greeting, the voice says, ‘If you are obsessive-compulsive, press one repeatedly. If you are codependent, please ask someone to press two for you. If you have multiple personalities, press three, four, and five. If you are paranoid, we know who and what you are. Stay on the line so we can trace your call.’”
I stared at him in amused wonder. “Kurt, I read those a week ago. They weren’t funny then, either.”
His eyes widened in pretend surprise. “You don’t think so? I thought they were hilarious.”
I looked up in relief as the waiter approached with our entrées. In less than sixty seconds Kurt would have his lobster, so he’d have to stop talking and eat.
Until then, he seemed determined to continue: “If you are delusional, press seven and your call will be transferred to the mother ship.”
I closed my eyes and nodded, my attention drifting away on a tide of fatigue.
I thought I would pass out the moment my head hit the pillow, but not even the quiet sigh of passing traffic and the steady applause of fluttering oak leaves outside my window could lull me to sleep. An hour after going to bed I felt more wide-awake than I had been at dinner with Kurt, and I could find no explanation for my sudden second wind.
Muttering in frustration, I threw back the comforter, then realized I had covered Tux, the black-and-white stray who slept every night at the foot of my bed. Apologizing, I yanked the comforter off the cat. Tux opened one yellow eye and yawned, then curled tighter into a ball and went back to sleep. I scowled at him as I reached for my robe. Apparently my part-time cat didn’t feel his responsibilities included keeping me company in the middle of the night.
Wrapped in the warmth of my heavy chenille robe, I padded to the computer on my kitchen table and punched the power on. As the machine beeped and flashed, I looked over the notes I had jotted down as I listened to Rory’s message. Darien Synn—Rory had spelled the last name—represented the Global Union, was based in Rome, and was visiting New York for only a short time.
“I don’t know what to make of this guy,” Rory had said in conclusion. “He seemed polite enough on the telephone but didn’t volunteer any information about the job. But I thought you’d want to see him.”
Because you don’t have any other work . . . Rory didn’t need to add the obvious.
Once the computer finished its warmup routine, I clicked on the Internet icon. Almost instantly, the Excite search engine appeared onscreen, and I typed in my search criteria:
“Global Union” + “Darien Synn”
I tapped the enter key, then leaned forward as the ISDN connection whisked the search results to my screen. Global Union, or Unione Globale, as it was known in Rome, apparently had a Web page that featured Darien Synn’s name.
I clicked on the link, and an instant later I found myself studying a lively Web page featuring a revolving globe, the blue flag of the European Union, and a color photograph of a strikingly handsome man with dark hair and even darker eyes. Was this Darien Synn? I leaned closer to read the caption: “Santos D. Justus, president and founder of Global Union, welcomes you to a new world through peace.”
I lifted a brow. Well. If Darien Synn looked anything like his boss, tomorrow’s meeting might be more pleasant than I had hoped.
The Web page offered little to explain why Global Union might be interested in a jury consultant, only a brief overview of the organization itself:
Global Union, headquartered in the heart of ancient Rome, is the culmination of a vision. Santos D. Justus, the Italian ambassador to the Western European Union, has long sought to find a common path for the people of the world to unite in peace.
The article ended with a quote from Justus:
The world’s leaders have struggled to overcome national differences in the United Nations and other world organizations, but true change will only be implemented when it begins in the hearts of the common people. Those common people—rich and poor, young and old—share a dream of world peace and freedom. They are the foundation of Global Union.
The common people? I tapped my fingernails against the edge of the keyboard, turning the phrase over in my mind. How did Justus define “common people”? No matter what he meant, one fact was crystal clear—Justus was savvy enough to understand that the masses would never make a profound difference without leadership, and he had stepped forward to lead this particular herd. The name of Santos D. Justus, whoever he was, obviously carried some weight in Italy. And though he might be trying to organize a grass-roots political movement, from the look of his photograph, there wasn’t a thing about Santos D. Justus I’d call common.
I skimmed the rest of the page and spied Darien Synn’s name listed with the organization’s board of directors. The remainder of the material consisted of politically correct drivel about peace being the only doorway through which an individual could find lasting happiness, and the Doorway of Peace lay beyond the Hall of Understanding . . .
Eager to leave the land of mystic lollipops and sentimental axioms, I clicked on the search icon, then typed: “Santos D. Justus”
The search brought up several links, most of which led to reports about the European Union and the Western European Union, or WEU. Unfamiliar with the latter organization, I jotted down the initials in my notebook.
Ten minutes later, after wading through several barely comprehensible bureaucratic reports, I had formed a clearer picture: inaugurated in 1955, the ten-nation WEU—composed of France, Germany, the United Kingdom, Italy, Spain, Belgium, the Netherlands, Luxembourg, Portugal, and Greece—was originally intended to provide for cooperation in economic, social, cultural, and defense matters. In recent years, however, the WEU had served mainly as a defense organization similar to NATO. As recently as the summer of 1999, certain voices within the European Union and the WEU had called for integration of the two groups, but not all nations in the two separate organizations were willing to unite.
I reached for my notebook and made a note of this particular conflict. Could Synn or Justus be planning to take one of these organizations to court?
I bookmarked a couple of the more interesting pages, then yawned. A profound and peaceful weariness had settled over me like a blanket. I pressed the monitor’s power button, making the room go dark. The heat came on as I wandered back to bed, and as the radiators clanged and hissed, I gathered my robe to my throat, my eyes burning from exhaustion.
It had been a long day, and a torturously long trial. I had earned a vacation, but until my firm had bankrolled a cushion of at least six months’ operating expenses, I couldn’t afford to take even a single day off . . . particularly if the coming day offered the chance to sign a new client.
I climbed under the comforter and felt Tux rearrange himself so his soft little body nestled against my leg.
We slept.