44

Nikki climbed into her Sebring, cranked the engine and the air conditioner, and flicked on the overhead light so she could read in the darkness of the underground garage. She pulled out the confidential files provided by Randolph’s investigators and leafed through the information.

Bryce McCormack, age forty-six. Graduated from USC film school in 1981. Married twice, the first time right after college. Two kids—a son just starting an acting career and a daughter who committed suicide at age seventeen. A year after his daughter’s suicide, McCormack divorced his first wife. Two years later, he married wife number two. Their divorce was final two days before their second anniversary.

Following college, McCormack worked on B-level movies for about ten years before he hit it big with an independent horror flick titled Beyond, the story of demon possession in a small Midwestern town. It landed him a multimovie deal with a big production company, resulting in three straight flops. One newspaper article from that time frame summed it up this way:

Six years ago, the production companies were saying, “Get me Bryce McCormack for this job.” Three years ago: “Get me somebody like Bryce McCormack.” Last year: “Get me anybody but Bryce McCormack.” And now: “Who is Bryce McCormack, anyway?”

McCormack left Hollywood five years ago and reinvented himself as the director of choice for reality shows, teaming with Cameron Murphy to produce a string of successful programs. Then came Marriage Under Fire, and McCormack started his second fall down the slippery slope of high-profile failure. This time he took a friend along for the ride.

Cameron Murphy, age forty-four, had attended film school at New York University and graduated in 1984. He worked as a deejay for a few years, then tried his hand at acting. Two wives, three drug arrests, and one name change later, he settled down as an associate producer in a large Hollywood production studio. At thirty-seven, he married his third wife and started his own television production company. The marriage lasted nine months, but the production company was still limping along, though the financial records made it clear that Faith on Trial would make or break Murphy Productions.

Murphy had three children, all girls, aged twenty, fifteen, and twelve. He paid a small fortune each month in alimony and child support. At least he was supposed to.

Nikki frowned at the reports. This was garbage. She’d found out the same information in a few hours on the Internet, everything except the death of McCormack’s daughter. Randolph’s goons hadn’t personally interviewed anyone. All they did was put nice binding on some reports that contained copies of official public records and a few pictures. Overall, it was worthless.

All those ex-wives, Nikki thought, and not even one phone call by the investigators. What a waste of matrimonial spite.

Javitts was boring with a capital B. A college football star, he had married one of the cheerleaders the summer before his senior year. A few years later, he traded her in for a more sophisticated model he met in law school, a classmate named Katrina Pershing. A month after they graduated, she became Katrina Pershing-Javitts. Five years later, she was Katrina Pershing again. As fate would have it, his college flame was busy dumping her second husband at about the same time, so the two decided to give marriage another try. The second time around turned out to be a charm, and as far as the investigators could tell, Javitts had been happily married for nearly fifteen years.

He had two boys, both teens, and a raging desire to leave the grueling practice of law for the bright lights of a television judgeship. How he hooked up with McCormack and Murphy was unknown.

None of the men or their families had any apparent connection with the defendants from the speedy-trial cases.

Nikki tossed the worthless files on the passenger seat, flicked off the overhead light, and pulled away from her parking space. She started working her phone as soon as she had reception. She called the governor’s office first. Nobody there had ever heard of William Lassiter.

Her next call was to Wellington Farnsworth. She gave him a quick synopsis of the information produced by Randolph’s investigators and explained that there was no William Lassiter in the governor’s office. She asked Wellington to think up some Westlaw search requests that would convey this information to Finney using the same codes that Finney had used. “Oh, and let’s tell him we’re working with Randolph on this,” Nikki instructed. “E-mail those search requests to me, and I’ll pull over someplace in Richmond where I can get wi-fi access and transfer them into Westlaw.” She could have just given Wellington the Westlaw password, but that would have taken her out of the code-breaking driver’s seat.

Wellington said he’d send them right away.

That done, Nikki put on the cruise control as she flew down the interstate and dreamed up some stories that might get the ex-wives talking. For McCormack’s and Murphy’s ex-wives, Nikki would say she was an attorney advising a new fiancée on whether she should sign a prenuptial agreement. For Katrina Pershing, Nikki would claim to be a casting director for a new judge show, trying to make sure that Javitts, the potential star, didn’t have too much personal baggage.

With any luck, Nikki would dig up enough dirt to start a landfill. Hopefully, the boys had been slow with their spousal support payments.

A few minutes after noon on Monday, his stomach growling, Finney logged on to the Internet in his condo and checked out the research trail on Westlaw. Someone had entered a number of searches an hour ago. Finney knew it would be Nikki and Wellington responding to his questions.

He tried to focus on the Westlaw searches rather than his gnawing hunger. Finney had fasted before and knew the routine. The first few days he would feel like he was dying from hunger. Finney would get raging headaches and a thick coating on the tongue. Someone once told him that this was just the body cleansing itself of toxins. Days three and four were generally the worst for hunger pains and fatigue. Then his body would get used to the new routine, and he would actually increase his focus and productivity.

But knowing that didn’t make these first few days any easier. Especially when Finney was already weak from cancer.

He squinted through his reading glasses and wrote the capital letters from the searches down on a piece of paper and then slid the paper under a legal pad. After a few more minutes on the computer, he logged off and put the paper into the pocket of his shorts. He headed for the bathroom, moving slowly to avoid the dizziness that sometimes came if he sat for extended periods and rose too quickly. Once in the bathroom, he deciphered the message using the codes from his book.

NO CONNECTION BETWEEN SPEEDY TRIAL SUSPECTS AND NAMES YOU PROVIDED ALSO NO WILLIAM LASSITER IN GOVERNORS OFFICE WE ARE STILL WORKING ON LOCATION OF ISLAND HAVE TEAMED WITH PRESTON RANDOLPH WHO REPS KLINE BUT HE DOESNT KNOW ABOUT CODES

Finney ran his hands through his hair and tried to make sense of the information. The William Lassiter deal had seemed fishy to Finney all along. But the lack of a connection between the show’s bigwigs and the speedy-trial cases was a complete surprise. Finney thought for sure he had discovered the motive for the schemes Kline had been warned about. He hoped Nikki had checked all of the family members of Javitts, McCormack, and Murphy. She was a good investigator. He would have to trust her.

He found it interesting that Nikki had “teamed” with Randolph and wondered whether that had been her idea or Randolph’s. In either event, he was reassured that Nikki was not sharing anything about the codes. The methods of his protégée brought an inward smile. Here Finney was on the island pulling information from Kline without telling her about the codes. And there Nikki was in the real world presumably doing the same thing with Randolph, Kline’s agent. That girl acts more like a daughter of mine every day, Finney thought.

He considered sending a bunch of clues about the island’s location. He had been carefully noting wind patterns, temperature, sunrise, sunset, wildlife, and vegetation. Plus, he knew they had flown in on a Gulfstream IV without refueling. The range of that aircraft would provide a broad starting point.

But putting all this data in a number of search requests would take forever. The people monitoring his computer would probably get suspicious. Besides, Finney had to focus on tonight’s plan first. If it worked, the location issue would take care of itself.