Trial Run Page 8

  The image beyond her window was lost now. “Why does that make you sad?”

  “When I was a kid, I got tested. Eidetic memory is associated with a number of very serious mental disabilities. Severe autism is one. There are others. Much worse. Because I was quiet, they thought . . .”

  Shane noticed the driver shooting her glances in the rearview mirror. She leaned forward and asked, “Is there a problem?”

  The driver replied, “I just wanted to say, there is a thermos of coffee in the wicker hamper on the floor there.”

  “Do you want a coffee, Trent?”

  “Maybe later.”

  “We’re good, thanks.” The driver turned his attention back to the road. But Shane was certain he took in everything they said. “Maybe we should talk about this another time.”

  “No.” Trent kept his gaze on the pad between them. “We can’t wait.”

  She caught the unspoken. Only later did it occur to her how she was moving into sync with this stranger. “Part of the image?”

  Trent nodded. “You need to present this to Murray Feinne. Today. He’ll know what to do with it.”

  “You want me to make the presentation again this time?”

  “This time, every time. In public, I’ll play the ghost.”

  She disliked how the driver kept shooting her glances. Shane asked Trent, “My taking charge is part of the image?”

  “No.” Trent’s expression was so grave he looked tragic, like a martyred saint she had seen during her one visit to the Getty. “It’s just who I am.”

  19

  The driver reported to Murray Feinne by phone, “They talked about some formula most of the way.”

  At a knock on his door, Murray said, “Hang on a second.” He cupped the phone. “Yes?”

  His secretary said, “Your three o’clock is here. Shane Schearer and Trent Major.”

  “Have them wait.” When his door shut again, Murray said to the phone, “I already know about the formula.”

  “This was about a new one. I heard that distinctly.” The driver was Honduran but had lived in Texas for eight years and spoke English with an odd Southern drawl. “It came to the guy last night.”

  Murray used this driver whenever he was ferrying clients who might be hiding something. The resulting information had saved him a bundle more than once. “That’s what he said, it came to him? Like somebody passed it on?”

  “Not exactly. More like, he was up all night checking this thing out.”

  “A sudden flash of inspiration.”

  “I guess. They called it an image. The guy’s got a photographic memory. Only he called it something else.”

  Murray wrote the word image. Circled it. “Eidetic.”

  “Yeah, that’s the word he used. He said he got tested a lot as a kid. Talking about it really brought him down.”

  “Did the two of them act like they’re an item?”

  “Hard to say. They don’t know each other all that well, is what I’m thinking. Most of the talk was about this new formula. The guy wants the lady to make the pitch.”

  No surprise there. “What else?”

  “The lady’s got your number, man. She’s checked you out down to your back cavities. She knows you work for the gamers. She knows where you went to school, how long you been with that firm, she even knows you’re up for making partner this year.” When Murray did not respond, the driver asked, “You still there?”

  “Give me a second.” Murray recalled standing on the squash court, waiting for what he knew was going to be a gentle lob. Figuring he could eat this lady like salad. Once again he saw that first service, the girl using her entire body as a whip, the ball rocketing past him so fast he was still gaping when she launched the second service. Five aces in a row. Five.

  The driver said, “I got my next pickup waiting.”

  “One more question. Did they mention the name ProTech?”

  “They talked the whole two hours, man. Maybe. But I don’t remember hearing that one.”

  Murray hung up the phone and stared out his side window. His office was on the eighteenth floor of the Universal Tower, the tallest building in Brentwood. He faced straight west. On clear days he could see the Santa Monica Pier extending into a horizon of blue waters and Pacific sunsets. Today the rooftops and green palms melted into the LA haze.

  There was nothing unusual about a new client checking him out. But that wasn’t the problem. Murray was still coming at this like a game of twenty questions. He hadn’t used the driver because he considered these two students potential money spinners. He wanted to know why Kevin Hanley, his largest client after the gamers, flamed on after five minutes with this guy. Murray assumed he’d figure out what was going on, then drop these kids off a cliff. He had never even called the gaming company. Why risk contact with his biggest client over a pair of loser kids?

  Meanwhile, the girl was checking out his shoe sizes and working on her next ace.

  Murray reached for his phone, said to his secretary, “Show the pair in.”

  Shane’s meeting with Murray Feinne had started off well enough, even after he kept them waiting almost an hour. When they had finally been shown into his to-die-for office, he had come around his half-acre desk and shaken their hands and asked if they needed anything. Treating them like real clients. Trent had hung back, shooting her glances, looking for guidance.

  Like she knew how to handle this.

  Murray had been cautiously optimistic. He had actually used those words. He had spoken to some possible backers, and one particular gentleman was interested. The executive wanted to know if Trent was interested in a job, because they might be willing to make—

  Trent had spoken for the first time since they’d entered the law firm. Absolutely not. No way. Keep that from ever coming up again.

  Murray had studied him. Clearly he wanted to ask some questions. But he didn’t. Why, Shane had no idea. Instead, Murray had changed the subject and asked if they might be interested in selling a portion of their company.

  Shane had been so shocked she had found herself unable to respond. All the possible replies just clogged up her throat.

  Murray took that as his cue and said that when he had mentioned their concept to this third party, the executive had expressed an interest in buying shares. Murray thought he could perhaps raise the offer to, say, fifty thousand dollars. For a half interest.

  Shane’s first thought was, they didn’t have a company to sell a part of. But one glance at Trent was enough for her to reply, “Not interested.”

  Murray took the response as just another opening gambit. The lawyer entering into negotiations, billing by the hour, in no hurry to go anywhere. He pointed out that one good idea did not make a future. At least this way they could relieve some of their obvious financial pressures and—

  “Actually,” Shane interrupted, “we are here to present a second idea.”

  As she placed the pages from Trent’s notepad on the desk, she had the distinct impression that Murray already knew about it. And recalled glances cast in the limo’s rearview mirror.

  Murray dismissed the handwritten pages with a flick of his hand. “It may be in our favor to wait and let the gaming firm respond to your first idea before—”

  “This new idea has nothing to do with the gaming industry.” She smiled around her smoking ire. “I guess the details were over the head of your pal the driver.”

  Something flickered deep in those dark eyes. The same sort of latent rage she had noticed on the court after she had won the first game. As if the guy hated being forced to take them seriously. “What is it this time?”

  “Do you know anything about quantum computing?”

  Which was when everything changed.

  Murray Feinne was already moving before she finished relating what Trent had said about the new algorithm. Ushering them back out into the lobby. Making sure they would hang there and wait. As if they could go anywhere without another company limo. Murray sa
id he had forgotten about an urgent matter, one that required his immediate attention, stumbling over excuses he didn’t even bother to hear himself.

  Even Murray’s secretary was astonished by their return to the eighteenth-floor reception area.

  When they were alone, Shane asked Trent, “Does this make any sense to you?”

  “You mean, getting sent back to the waiting room? None at all.” Trent stretched out his long legs. “But sitting around this place sure beats playing slave to a drugged-out professor.”

  Dale Partell, senior partner to Murray’s firm, was not a man to hurry. He expected the world to slow down to his speed. In Dale’s eyes, his primary job was to show the world an air of sublime control. He was the man with all the answers. He could resolve every dispute. Smoothly, discreetly, calmly. Dale Partell liked to see himself as the perfumed oil that could still any troubled waters.

  He entered Murray’s office without knocking. “We need to have a word.”

  Murray tried to recall the last time Dale had ever just popped by and came up blank. Dale liked his little formalities. The senior partner’s secretary had a honeyed way of turning even a summons into a well-wrapped gift.

  Murray replied, “I’ve got clients waiting.”

  “The two students from UCSB. I know all about them. Where are they now?”

  “In the waiting area. What—”

  “I feared that might be them. Really, Murray, the firm’s reception area can’t be used as a holding pen.”

  Murray watched in astonishment as Dale opened the door, called for Murray’s secretary, and quietly instructed her to offer their guests refreshments. He then shut the door and glared at his junior partner. “I just received a call from Kevin Hanley at ProTech.”

  Murray felt a chill congeal at the base of his spine. “Oh?”

  “Hanley was most concerned. He wanted me to assure him that your new clients were being received with the utmost courtesy and the highest level of service. Naturally, I assured him that the level of assistance offered to all our clients was second to none. What I didn’t tell him was, I had no idea what clients he was referring to.”

  “Actually, Dale, I haven’t yet agreed—”

  “Kevin Hanley said he’d called just to let me know that if these two students decided to ever take their legal business elsewhere, ProTech would follow them.”

  Murray said weakly, “I don’t understand.”

  “That makes two of us.” Dale pointed at the closed door. “I do not understand how you could leave such important clients stranded in the reception area.”

  “No. What I mean is, I don’t understand what’s so important about them. They’re just two kids who have come up with a couple of ideas.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong, Murray. Whatever else they might be, they are not just a couple of kids.”

  “Dale, believe me, I’m doing exactly what Kevin told me to do. His exact words were, soon as they mentioned anything to do with quantum computing, I was to give him a call. Which is why they are waiting in the reception area. So I could call. Kevin told me to sit here and wait until he completed passing on a vital message. I had no idea that meant phoning you . . .” Murray wiped his forehead, felt his hand come away wet. “This is nuts.”

  Dale crossed the office so that he could glare down without the desk separating them. “How long have you been working here, Murray?”

  “Nine years.”

  “And you’re coming up for partner, do I have that correct?”

  Murray swallowed. He thought it was all done but the announcement. “Next month.”

  “So am I correct in assuming that you’re interested in remaining here with us?”

  Murray wanted to ask, What am I, chopped liver? I put in nine years of eighty-hour weeks for this? But Dale Partell’s gaze held all the warmth and concern of a guillotine. “Of course.”

  “Good. I’m glad to hear it. Now why don’t you walk me through just exactly who these two clients are, and what we can possibly do to improve our standing in their eyes.”

  20

  Shane and Trent watched an older man rush past Murray’s secretary. He was dressed in pin-striped trousers to a fancy suit and a brightly colored tie and red suspenders and a striped shirt with white French cuffs. His collar held a golden stickpin that glittered in the hazy sunlight as he cast Shane and Trent a worried glance. He entered Murray’s office without knocking.

  When they were alone, Shane asked, “Do you have any idea what is going on?”

  Trent shook his head. “You think this is about us?”

  “I don’t see—”

  The silver-haired gentleman opened the door to Murray’s inner sanctum and called for someone named Grace. Murray’s secretary hurried over. They exchanged whispered words. The older gentleman disappeared and the door clicked shut. The secretary forced a smile in their direction as she hurried past.

  Shane asked, “The image told you to tell them about this formula?”

  Trent nodded. “He said it was important we discussed it today.”

  “You got this formula from yourself again?”

  “I already told you in the limo. Same classroom, same older me.”

  “If it happens again—” Shane stopped because the secretary returned.

  This woman set down a polished silver tray on the coffee table. On it were little plates of crustless sandwiches. “Mr. Partell thought you might like to have some refreshments while you waited.”

  “I’m sorry, we’re here to see Murray Feinne.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Mr. Partell is the firm’s senior partner.” The secretary hurried away and returned with a silver coffee service. The cups were so delicate Shane could see the woman’s fingertips through the china. “How do you take your coffee, Ms. Schearer?”

  “White, one sugar. Thanks.”

  “You are most welcome, Ms. Schearer. Mr. Major, could I pour you a cup?”

  “Black. Thank you.”

  “It is my pleasure.” The secretary motioned to the sandwiches. “Smoked salmon is on the brown bread, cheese and cucumber and relish on the white. I do hope that’s adequate, Ms. Schearer, Mr. Major. I’m sure the chef could make you something warm, but I don’t know how long it will be before Mr. Feinne and Mr. Partell are ready—”

  “No, no, this is great.”

  “Please don’t hesitate to inform me if there is anything else you might require.” The secretary gave them another nervous smile and departed.

  Shane whispered, “You think this is how they treat all new clients?”

  “I have no idea.” Trent bit into a salmon sandwich, sighed with pleasure. “Perfect.”

  “Especially clients who can’t pay.” The napkins were damask and starched. She was almost afraid to lift the cup, it was so delicate.

  Trent finished his sandwich, took another, asked, “You were about to say something about the next midnight image.”

  “Right. If it happens again, you think maybe you could ask what we’re supposed to expect when we do what he says?”

  “I tried to this time.”

  She turned in her seat. “You didn’t think that might be worth mentioning before now?”

  “He only gave me one word.” Trent showed her wide eyes. “Boom.”

  When they were ushered back into Murray’s office twenty minutes later, the attorney appeared on edge. Murray watched nervously as the older guy moved forward to shake their hands. “Shane Schearer, do I have that right? Dale Partell. I’m the firm’s managing partner. And Trent Major, a pleasure and an honor, sir. I hope you don’t mind if I join you for a moment. Why don’t we make ourselves comfortable over here. Ms. Schearer, perhaps you would care to sit with your partner, Mr. Major, on the sofa? Splendid. Can I get you another coffee?”

  “We’re fine, thanks.”

  “Excellent. Ms. Schearer, Mr. Major, I am here to assure you that our firm stands ready to do whatever it takes to make you both completely satisfied that your legal requi
rements are fully met. We offer a standard of service and attention to detail that is second to none. The firm of Parker, Partell, and Bowes is known throughout California as a preeminent . . .”

  The older gentleman continued to drone on. In the chair to his right, Murray listened with an intensity that bordered on manic. Shane found herself shivering slightly. Mentally she repeated one word over and over.

  Vision.

  21

  Reese entered the facility’s central atrium. The entire building was windowless. The threat of claustrophobia was lessened by muted colors and sweeping ceilings and inward-facing balconies. The sense of space was deceptive. Each segment of the building was tightly restricted. The absence of patrols meant nothing. Every corner, every inch, was monitored.

  She found Karla, her chief techie, drinking coffee with Jeff, her security chief. Karla Brusius was half German, half Persian. She had been raised by her father, a mathematician at the University of Cologne. Her mother had returned to Tehran when Karla was nine, searching for a sister who had been picked up by the religious police. Karla’s mother was never heard from again. Her father had never stopped mourning. Karla had attended the University of Maryland in an attempt to escape her father’s suffocating sorrow, which was where she had been recruited. Her hatred for the Revolutionary Council was cold, reptilian, unending.

  Karla greeted her with, “The colonel is in the Treatment Room.”

  Reese already knew that. “Let’s take a walk.”

  As they started away, the security chief said, “The natives are getting restless.”

  “Good.” This was what Reese had been waiting for. But she couldn’t allow herself to be diverted just now. Not with her job on the line. “Take them to the Departures Lounge. Get them ready for one more trial run. Tomorrow we’ll test their limits.”

  Reese had been assigned the building’s second and third floors. Her section included a self-contained dormitory, security rooms, labs, electronic monitor stations, and the area known as the Departures Lounge. No one had anticipated needing the additional rooms where she was now headed. Perhaps they should have. But hindsight was for the bureaucrats warming chairs in Washington. Here on the front line, you played the hand you were dealt. The upshot was, one unexpected segment of Reese’s group was now located in jury-rigged rooms on the ground floor. Needless to say, these new rooms were where the Washington brass visited first.