Neither Daggett nor Mickelson appreciated my cavalier attitude, but that was okay. The idea of getting fired from the case didn’t bother me a bit.
I told everyone I’d be in touch and left Mickelson’s office. The young woman in the tight dress escorted me to the lobby. The idea that had formed when she first opened her steno book came back to me.
I asked, “Do you make the record at all of Mickelson’s meetings?”
She smiled slightly. I think she was impressed that I knew the technical term for what court reporters and legal stenographers do.
“It depends,” she said. “Sometimes Mr. Mickelson wants a record but not a recording.”
“No stenograph machine?”
She smiled at that, too.
“Again, it depends on the meeting. If we’re taking a deposition we’ll use a stenograph as well as digital recording equipment. I can type three hundred and ten words a minute with a ninety-eight percent accuracy rate.”
“Were you making the record at the meeting when the mayor first told Mickelson about her notes?”
“Uh-huh. I remember because it was after the federal prosecutor filed charges, and Mr. Mickelson was angry that she didn’t tell him about the notes way before that.” Her voice dropped three octaves. “It was my record that was stolen.”
“Who did you tell about it?”
The woman stopped in her tracks and turned to face me.
“What?”
“Who did—?”
“No one. Never. Mr. Taylor, maintaining a client’s confidentiality and security is everything. That’s why we’re all so upset that we were hacked. I used to be a court reporter, and I was taught that I’m not just making the record, I’m the guardian of the record. What happens in a deposition room stays in the deposition room. Always and forever.”
“You never tell stories? You never tell friends about some of the funny things you’ve seen and heard?”
“No.”
“I’m not saying you identify specific cases, or even use real names, just say things like, I don’t know, ‘This silly woman charged with bribery, she put it in writing, do you believe that?’”
The woman hesitated before answering. Her eyes looked away and then found mine again.
“No,” she said.
“Miss—I don’t even know your name.”
“It’s April Herron.”
“See, I didn’t need to know your name. I don’t want to know your name. I’m certainly not going to talk to your boss about any of this. I just want to know who you told.”
“No one.”
“Okay. I just hope you remember that I gave you a chance to cooperate when everything starts going south.”
“Wait. Are you saying I’m in trouble?”
It was a trick that I learned on the job and tried to perfect after I went private. Give suspects something to worry about and then wait for them to come to you.
“Forget I said anything.”
I started moving down the corridor. April skipped in front of me and said, “This way.” She kept looking back at me, though, and I could see the muscles in her face working as we walked. She stopped again and pivoted toward me.
“Wait,” April said. “You work for Mr. Mickelson, too.”
“Yes, I do.”
“So the same rules of confidentiality apply to you that apply to me.”
“Of course.”
She hesitated for a moment and said, “Mr. Mickelson doesn’t need to know this, does he?”
“I promise.”
“I told a joke, just like you said, during happy hour with my friends, people I used to work with when I was a court reporter.”
“Other court reporters?”
“Uh-huh. I said almost what you said, that this woman kept a detailed record of her crimes, including times and dates, and one of my friends who knew the people I work with, she said, ‘Do you mean the mayor?’ And I said, ‘I’m not naming any names.’ My friends and I, we never name names.”
“Who were you talking to?”
“I don’t want to get anyone in trouble.”
“Neither do I.”
April looked up and down the corridor to make sure no one was watching, then recited two names.
I thanked her.
She walked me to the lobby. At the door she leaned in close.
“Please,” April said.
“I promise,” I said again. “This will never come back on you.”
From the look on her face, I don’t think she believed me.
There was a three-story parking ramp adjacent to the building that housed the Hannum, Hillsman, and Byers law offices. My car was parked on the first floor in a slot reserved for visitors. My cell phone rang as I climbed in. The caller ID recognized Clinton Siegle.
“Mr. Siegle,” I said.
“Taylor, Mr. Taylor, you said to call.”
“What is it?”
“I’m being watched.”
“By whom?”
“I don’t know, but I saw a man sitting in his car a few houses down from mine this morning when I was walking my dog. Later, I noticed he was still there. And now it’s past noon. He’s been there for at least five hours. Maybe I’m being paranoid, but after talking to you yesterday…”
“Mr. Siegle, can you describe the man?”
He did better than that. He gave me the make and model of the car and its license plate number.
“Mr. Siegle,” I said, “I assure you that you’re in no danger. I’ll be there in a few minutes. Just relax, okay?”
“If you say so.”
I ended the conversation and called Freddie.
“My man,” he said.
“Busy?” I asked.
“I can spare a few minutes.”
I found Walter O’Neill’s car exactly where Clinton Siegle said it would be. It was a pleasant September afternoon, and the driver’s-side window had been rolled down. O’Neill was leaning against it, his elbow propped on the frame. The passenger-side window, however, was rolled up. It had that new-glass sparkle. I was almost sorry when I used the sharp end of my penlight to shatter it all to hell the same way I did the day before. Once again, O’Neill was startled enough to hit his head on the roof of the car.
“Goddammit, Taylor,” he said. “What the fuck’s your story?”
Because he was preoccupied with me, O’Neill didn’t see Freddie until he placed both hands against the driver’s door and leaned in.
“Hey, Walter,” he said. “Long time no see.”
Once again, O’Neill was flustered.
“Shit, Freddie,” he said.
“Shit, Freddie? What kinda greeting is that? Taylor, see how the man says hello? I haven’t seen the fucker in six months. Longer even.”
“Possibly he’s ill at ease.”
“Can’t figure why, racist piece of garbage like ’im usin’ his badge to whoop on the brothers and sisters. ’Course, he ain’t got a badge no more. Do you?”
“C’mon, you two,” O’Neill said. “What gives?”
“You wouldn’t answer my man Taylor’s questions yesterday. I thought you might answer mine.”
“We’re all professionals here. You know I‘m not going to give up my client.”
“Is that right?”
O’Neill smiled, an odd thing to do, I thought, considering the circumstances.
“Word is you’ve mellowed since you married that Japanese girl and had a son,” he said.
“She’s fucking Chinese, asshole.”
O’Neill stopped smiling.
“No disrespect,” he said.
“No disrespect? What the fuck, you insult my woman—”
Freddie tried to yank the car door open. O’Neill grabbed the handle and pulled back to keep it closed. At the same time, he reached under his jacket with his free hand. Freddie and I saw it at the same time, both of us tensing up and trying to hide it from the other. We’ve both been threatened, beat up, and shot at and pretended it was just part of the job, like rush hour traffic, even made jokes about it from time to time. That didn’t mean we liked it. At least I didn’t. I was never sure about Freddie.
“Don’t do it, Walter,” I said. “Don’t even think about it.”
“Go ’head,” Freddie said. “Give me a reason to cave your fuckin’ head in.”
Walter’s hand came out from under his jacket. It was empty. Freddie stopped trying to open the door, but Walter didn’t stop trying to keep it closed. He looked at me over his shoulder.
“I don’t know what you two hope to accomplish,” he said.
Clinton Siegle must have seen us from his window. He stepped out of his house and stood on the sidewalk watching us. I waved him over.
“Mr. Siegle,” I said, “do you know this man?”
Siegle bent down to look at Walter through the driver’s-side window. “Never in my life,” he said.
“His name is Walter O’Neill, disgraced ex-cop trying to make it as a private investigator.”
“Fuck you,” O’Neill said.
“He’s been conducting surveillance on you for at least two days. He followed me yesterday because he was surprised to see you speaking to another PI. Tell us, Walter”—I liked using his first name—“did you tap Mr. Siegle’s phone, too? Are you monitoring his email?”
“Like you two would never do anything like that.”
“We’d never get caught at it,” Freddie said.
“Are you working for Standout?” Siegle asked. “Are you? Tell them I never violated the severance agreement. I’ve never told anyone about the memo I sent.”
O’Neill grinned. “You just told me,” he said.
Siegle stepped back from the car. He looked first at me, then Freddie, as if he wanted us to explain to him if he was in trouble or not.
“Do you have your cell phone?” I asked.
Siegle nodded.
“Call 911,” I said.
“Goddammit, Taylor,” O’Neill said.
“Call 911.”
Siegle retrieved his cell from his pocket, connected the proper dots to give him access, and inputted the correct digits. I made a gimme gesture with my fingers, and he handed me the phone just as the operator identified herself.
“My name is Clinton Siegle,” I said, adding his address. “I don’t know if this is an emergency or not, but there’s this man who’s been sitting in a car near my house for the past two days watching the kids in the neighborhood.”
“You bastard,” O’Neill said.
I told the operator the make and model of O’Neill’s car along with his license plate number. The operator said they would send a patrol car to investigate. By then O’Neill had flipped us the bird, started his car, and drove off. I ended the call and handed the cell back to Siegle.
“What just happened?” he wanted to know.
“The cops will come by,” I said. “Tell them exactly what I just told the 911 operator. Okay?”
“All right.”
“One of three things is going to happen. Either your enemies are going to end their surveillance of you, or they’re going to send someone else, or O’Neill will be back with a different vehicle and resume his surveillance from a less aggressive location. In any case, keep a sharp eye out. If he or anyone else should come knocking on your door, call us immediately.”
“But why?” he asked. “Why is Standout doing this?”
“Remember the girl with the tats who asked you about the memo?”
“Yes.”
“You thought at first she was with Standout Investments trying to determine if you were keeping quiet about it, and then later you decided she was with the plaintiffs that sued the company—that she approached you to confirm the existence of the memo.”
“That’s right.”
“We think that might happen again, that someone will ask you to authenticate the memo, confirm that it exists and that you wrote it. Standout wants to know who. That’s my guess.”
“Why? The lawsuit was settled.”
“There’s a chance it might be reopened.”
“Am I in danger because of this?”
“No, I don’t think so,” I said. But then I tell people a lot of things that aren’t necessarily true.
Freddie and I walked to our cars.
“So,” Freddie said. “We’re not being followed.”
“That doesn’t mean we shouldn’t pretend that we are. What did Sara say?”
“She’ll be in later this afternoon. Said she was having her hair done.”
“That gir…” I was about to say “girl.” Freddie smiled at my confusion.
“I know what you mean,” he said.
“Have you been cross-indexing the five cases?”
“I was just starting when you called.”
I gave him the names of April Herron and her two friends.
“Watch for ’em while you’re doing your thing,” I said.
“What do you know, an honest-to-God clue.”
“Treat it gently. It’s the only one we have so far.”
“How did you make the leap from O’Neill to Standout Investments?”
“Who else would be interested in Siegle?”
“I’m asking because you told me that Cormac Puchner hasn’t informed them about the hack yet. Said the man hoping the problem will go away so he won’t have to.”
“Apparently he has his eye on a corner office.”
“Sounds like him,” Freddie said. “Only if he didn’t tell ’em, how does Standout know there’s a problem? How’d they know to hire O’Neill?”
“Someone must have told them.”
“But who?”
“I don’t know.”
“What about the Guernseys?”
“What about them?”
“Are they involved in Scott Mickelson’s bribery case?”
“You tell me. You’re the one with all the computer skills.”
We both stopped and stared at the empty space where Walter O’Neill’s car had been parked. There was a thin pile of broken safety glass along the curb.
“Do you get the feeling there’s somethin’ they’re not telling us?” Freddie asked.
“Always.”