“This way.” A valet appeared out of nowhere and Joshua nearly jumped out of skin.
“Thank you,” he managed to reply, and then followed the man through the doors, down a cavernous hallway to a gigantic dining room. At one end of a huge table that seemed half the length of a football field, sat Richard Chesterfield. Mid-60s, distinguished, graying hair and deeply tanned. Without getting up, he pointed—directing Joshua to sit at the opposite end, about thirty feet away. He was eating dinner. Looked like prime rib. No, more like half a cow.
Chesterfield gazed up from his plate with dark eyes. “Censkey, would you like some wine?”
Before Joshua could say yes, a huge arm swung out from behind him, placed stemware, and poured a Napa Merlot from the bottle. Obviously, thought Censkey, Chesterfield isn’t gonna share the ‘good stuff’ in the crystal decanter near him. Nevertheless, lifting his glass, Joshua saluted, “Mr. Chesterfield, to your health!” Sipping, he said, “Ahhh. Delicious. Thanks so much.”
Chesterfield gazed up from his plate and scowled. “OK, Censkey. Cut the crap. And don’t get too comfortable. We have business. What’s going on down south? My people tell me some judge may rule against us on the Silent Conflict issue. That’s a neutron bomb about to go off in the insurance industry. It could take us all down. We’ve already taken some critical steps to protect our interests, but this is what I want to know: How did you let this get fucking out-of-control?”
Joshua could feel the sweat running down his sides now. The hand holding his glass trembled and he carefully set the glass on the table so as not to betray his fear. “Mr. Chesterfield, I assure you, I don’t know anything about this.”
“That’s the point, Censkey, you should know everything about it. That’s why we pay you. My people also tell me there’s a new lawyer involved. Take care of it. My security team has other pressing matters. Bottom line is that you better start pulling your weight or we’ll have no need of your services.”
Censkey glanced at his fingers, still trembling on the stem of his wine glass. “Understood.”
“Let me make this clear Censkey: If we lose on this issue, it could cost billions. Maybe as much as the bail-out money I had to sweat out of the government after the dot-com crash. This isn’t a matter of easy come, easy go. It’s still rough out there financially. Since the crash, our sales have been in the toilet. And let me promise you, that’s where you’ll be, headfirst, if I hear more about Silent Conflict issues. Got it?”
Joshua felt weak. Lightheaded. Pulling himself together somewhat, he looked up and said, “Mr. Chesterfield, I swear, I’ll get on this right away.”
“I don’t ever want to have to call you here again. And if we lose the Silent Conflict issue, you’ll find yourself in a cage and you won’t like it. Now, get the hell outta here.”
Two escorts—well-dressed goons—lifted Joshua by the armpits and dragged him out of the room. His legs were shaking, but he managed to walk himself toward the door. Behind him, he heard Chesterfield slam a hand on the table and swear. “I’m done. That motherfucker has to go.”
Has to go? What did that mean? That he had to leave his property? Or…go as in…Shit. Go as in….
The Jag still sat at the foot of the steps. The goons watched as he got in and, as he reached to pull the car door closed, one of them bent down and smiled. “Goodbye, Mr. Censkey.”
CHAPTER 25
Jayne’s Monday evening flight was right on time. After she stowed her bag in the back seat, and they both buckled in, Ridge pulled away from the curb and looked over at her. “Hate to tell you this, but we’ll be back here tomorrow.”
“Why?”
“A hearing Wednesday morning. Federal court in Phoenix. Kate reminded me today at the calendar meeting. I guess, with the last two weeks of crazy, it slipped my mind.”
“Are you ready?”
Ridge cast her a look. “You know me, I was born ready.”
She rolled her eyes. “Right.”
He chuckled and reached out to take her hand in his. “Luckily, I got everything ready last month, before the judge delayed the hearing. All I have to do is review my notes and some key documents at the hotel in Phoenix.”
“What time do you need to be at the airport?”
“One. But will you be OK alone? You want to stay at Jenny’s? Or have Terry stay over? The apartment’s been thoroughly cleaned, but still…”
“I’ll be fine.” Jayne squeezed his hand. “What could possibly go wrong?”
This time Ridge rolled his eyes. “Right.”
Terry had gone home after Monday evening’s dinner with Ridge. About 9:30, watching TV, he remembered he had to complete monthly billings and some case reports before heading up to Goleta the next day. So, he jumped in the Vette and drove the fifteen 15 minutes back over to the Ridge Law Offices.
After using his key to get in, he walked to the kitchen to make a cup of Keurig coffee. With no one else in the office, he left the lights off, other than the few 24/7 fire bulbs, and strolled with his coffee to the Vault. That’s what the associate lawyers and paralegals called the small conference room, in the back next to the copy room. It had no windows, but Terry loved to work there. It was isolated, private, and the extra wall insulation deadened sound, just like the copy room next door. Once the door to the Vault shut, it became its own world. The room had a table for six, black leather swivel chairs, and a wooden side bar with drawers full of paper, pens and other supplies. Terry also kept two beige file cabinets in the corner. Always under lock and key, they held his personal financial and cases-in-progress files.
Terry spread his files in distinct piles from one end of the table to the other and immersed himself in his work. Like Ridge, once he got into something, he couldn’t let go. Hours later, he glanced at his watch. Holy shit. It was past midnight already. Terry gulped down the dregs of his cold coffee and promised himself just one more hour.
At 1 a.m. Terry opened the left file cabinet. Put some folders away. He paused. Froze. A shuffling sound. Outside. Maybe Kate? Or an associate working crazy hours? He crept to the door and turned the knob. “Kate?” No answer. He pushed the door further open, into the darkness, and stepped into the hallway. “Shit.” Dancing flashlight beams. Two guys. Black-stocking masks. A split second later, a shadow from his left and Terry’s world went dark.
When his eyes fluttered open, Terry shut them immediately. Knee-jerk reaction. Things turning. Dizzy. He tried again. This time, he opened them slowly. His eyelids let in light. Not much. Still dark. Quiet. His head ached. Sprawled on the floor in the doorway, his only thought, What the hell? He lifted his left arm and looked at his watch. 1:30. Gazing around, no one. Still very dark. And silent like a tomb. What the hell happened? Flashlights. Black stockings. Damn. He moved his left hand to the side of his head. Touched it, with fingers only. Pain. Hurt. But nothing, thank God, was wet. Moving his left hand slowly across to his eyes, he focused on his fingers and muttered, “No blood.”
He struggled to his knees. Looked out—and searched the office as far as he could see. Still nothing. No one. Just dark. And quiet. So he pulled himself up using the edge of the door. Got to his feet, turned and wobbled inside the Vault to the table. Swirling both hands round and round through papers, he finally found his cell and called Ridge.
“This is too coincidental,” Terry said as soon as Ridge arrived. “Gut tells me this has something to do with the Hulk, the car chase, and the attack on Jayne.”
“I agree.”
“But I’ll be damned if I know what.”
Ridge drew in a long breath and looked around the room. “Me either.”
“I checked the whole damn place,” Terry said, “but I can’t see that anything’s missing. Nothing out of order.”
