The Associate

PROLOGUE

An icy wind whipped down Mercer Street, rattling awnings, scattering paper scraps and raking Gene Arnold’s cheeks raw. He turned up his coat collar and ducked his head to avoid the arctic chill. This wasn’t the Arizona lawyer’s first visit to New York City, but it was his first winter visit and he was unprepared for the biting cold.

Arnold was an unremarkable man, someone you could sit opposite for an hour and not remember five minutes later. He was of average height, tortoiseshell glasses magnified his brown eyes, and his small, bald head was partially ringed by a fringe of dull gray hair. Arnold’s private life was as placid as his personality. He was unmarried, read a lot, and the most exciting thing he did was play golf. Nothing that had happened to him had even registered as a blip on the world’s radar screen except for a tragedy he had endured seven years before.

Arnold’s law practice was as tedious as his life, business transactions mostly. He was in New York to secure financing for Martin Alvarez, the king of the Arizona used car market, who wanted to expand into New Mexico. Arnold’s successful meeting with a potential investor had ended sooner than expected, leaving him time to wander around SoHo in search of a painting he could add to his small collection of art.

Arnold’s eyes teared and his nose started to run as he looked around desperately for shelter from the wind. An art gallery on the corner of Mercer and Spring streets was open and he ducked into it, sighing with relief when a blast of warm air greeted him. A thin young woman dressed in black was leaning on a counter near the front of the store. She looked up from the catalog she was reading.

Can I help you? she asked, flashing him a practiced smile.

Just looking, Arnold answered self-consciously.

The art hanging on the white walls of the gallery did not fit into one category. Arnold glanced briefly at a series of collages with a feminist theme before stopping to admire some paintings that were more his style. Back home he owned several western scenes, brown and red mesas at sunset, cowboys on the trail, that sort of thing. These landscapes were of New England, seascapes really. Dories on a raging ocean, waves breaking on a deserted beach, a cottage scarred by the sea’s salt spray. Very nice.

Arnold wandered over to a group of black-and-white photographs entitled Couples. The first grainy shot showed two teenagers holding hands in a park. They were viewed from behind, leaning into each other, their heads almost touching. The photographer had captured their intimate moment perfectly. The picture made Arnold sad. He would have given anything to be that boy with that girl. Being alone was the hardest thing.

The next photo showed a black couple sitting in a café. They were laughing, his head thrown back, mouth open, she smiling shyly, delighted that she was the source of such joy.

Arnold studied the photo. It wasn’t the type of art that he usually purchased, but there was something about the photograph that drew him to it. He checked the information on the small, white rectangle next to the photo and learned that the photographer was Claude Bernier and the price was within his means.

Arnold moved to the third photograph in the series. It showed a man and a woman dressed for the rain striding across a square in the center of some city. They were angry, faces tight. The woman’s eyes blazed, the man’s mouth was a grim line.

Oh, my God, Arnold said. He fell forward, bracing himself against the wall.

Sir? The young woman was staring at him, alarmed by his ashen pallor and his inability to stand upright. Arnold stared back, panicky, light-headed.

Are you okay?

Arnold nodded, but the woman was unconvinced. She hurried forward and slipped a hand under his elbow.

Is there someplace I can sit down? he asked weakly.

The woman led him up front to a chair behind the counter. Arnold sagged onto it and put his hand to his forehead.

Can I get you some water? she asked anxiously.

Arnold saw that she was trying to hold it together. He imagined that she was thinking heart attack and wondering what it would be like to sit with a corpse while she waited for the police.

Water would be good. I’m okay, really. Nothing to worry about, he said, trying to reassure her. I’m just a little dizzy.

By the time the woman returned with the water Arnold had regained his composure. He took two sips and breathed deeply. When he looked up the woman was watching him and worrying her hands.

I’m much better. He gave her a weak smile. I’m just not used to this cold.

Please, sit here as long as you want.

Thanks. He paused, then pointed toward the exhibit. The photographer, Bernier, does he live near here?

Claude? Sure. He’s got a walk-up in Chelsea.

I want to buy one of his pictures.

Arnold stood up slowly, steadier now, and led the woman to the photograph of the angry couple. As he crossed the room doubts assailed him, but they melted away as he drew closer to the scene that Bernier had captured.

Do you think he’d see me today? Arnold asked as he produced a credit card without moving his eyes from the photo.

The woman looked worried. Do you feel up to it?

Arnold nodded. She seemed on the verge of trying to change his mind. Then she carried the photograph to the front to ring up the purchase. As she waited for clearance from the credit-card company she used the phone. Arnold sat down again. His initial shock had abated and had been replaced by a sense of urgency and purpose.

Claude can see you anytime, the woman told him as she handed Arnold his purchase and stationery from the gallery bearing the photographer’s address and phone number. He memorized the address and placed the paper in his jacket pocket.

Thank you. You’ve been very kind, he told the salesclerk before stepping into the street. A frigid wind greeted him, but Gene Arnold was too distracted to notice.

ONE

The headlight beams of Dr. Sergey Kaidanov’s battered SAAB bounced off a stand of Douglas firs then came to rest on the unpainted wall of a one-story, cinderblock building buried in the woods several miles from downtown Portland. As soon as Kaidanov unlocked the front door of the building the rhesus monkeys started making that half-cooing, half-barking sound that set his nerves on edge. The volume of noise increased when Kaidanov flipped on the lights.

Most of the monkeys were housed in two rooms at the back of the building. Kaidanov walked down a narrow hall and stood in front of a thick metal door that sealed off one of the rooms. He slid back a metal sheet and studied the animals through the window it concealed. There were sixteen rhesus monkeys in each room. Each monkey was in its own steel mesh cage. The cages were stacked two high and two across on a flatcar with rollers. Kaidanov hated everything about the monkeys—their sour, unwashed smell, the noises they made, the unnerving way they followed his every move.

As soon as Kaidanov’s face was framed in the window, the monkey two from the door in the top cage leaped toward him and stared him down. Its fur was brownish gray and it gripped the mesh with hands containing opposable thumbs on both arms and legs. This was the dominant monkey in the room and it had established its dominance within three weeks even though there was no way it could get at the others.

Rhesus monkeys were very aggressive, very nervous, and always alert. It was bad etiquette to look one in the eye, but Kaidanov did it just to show the little bastard who was the boss. The monkey didn’t blink. It stretched its doglike muzzle through the mesh as far as it could, baring a set of vicious canines. At two feet tall and forty pounds, the monkey didn’t look like it could do much damage to a one-hundred-and-ninety-pound, five-foot-eight male human, but it was much stronger than it looked.

Kaidanov checked his watch. It was three in the morning. He couldn’t imagine what was so important that he had to meet here at this hour, but the person whose call had dragged him from a deep sleep paid Kaidanov to do as he was told, no questions asked.

Kaidanov needed caffeine. He was about to go to his office to brew a pot of coffee when he noticed that the padlock on the dominant monkey’s cage was open. He must have forgotten to close it after the last feeding. The scientist started to open the door but stopped when he remembered that the key to the monkey rooms was in his office.

Kaidanov returned to the front of the building. His office was twelve by fifteen and stuffed with lab equipment. A small desk on casters stood just inside the door. It was covered by a phone book, articles from research journals, and printouts of contractions that the monkeys experienced during pregnancy. Behind the table was a cheap office chair. Along the walls were metal filing cabinets, a sink, and a paper towel dispenser.

Kaidanov walked around the desk. The coffeepot was sitting on a table alongside a centrifuge, scales, a rack of test tubes, and a Pokémon mug filled with Magic Markers, pens, and pencils. Above the table was a television screen attached to a security camera that showed the front of the building.

The pot of coffee was almost brewed when Kaidanov heard a car pull up and a door slam. On the television a figure in a hooded windbreaker ran toward the lab. Kaidanov left his office and opened the front door. The scientist peered at the hooded face and saw two cold eyes staring at him through the slits in a ski mask. Before he could speak, a gun butt struck his forehead, blinding him with pain. Kaidanov collapsed to the floor. The muzzle of a gun ground into his neck.

Move, a muffled voice commanded. He scrambled to his knees and a booted foot shoved him forward. The pain in his face brought tears to his eyes as he crawled the short distance to his office.

The keys to the monkey rooms.

Kaidanov pointed toward a hook on the wall. Seconds later a blow to the back of his head knocked him unconscious.

Kaidanov had no idea how long he had been out. The first thing he heard when he came to were the hysterical shrieks of terrified monkeys and the sound of cages crashing together. The scientist felt like a nail had been driven into his skull, but he managed to struggle into a sitting position. Around him filing cabinets had been opened and overturned. The floor was littered with gasoline-drenched paper, but that was not the only object doused in gasoline—his clothing, face, and hands reeked of it. Then the acrid smell of smoke assailed his nostrils and his stomach turned when he saw the shadow of flames dancing on the wall outside his office.

Fear dragged Kaidanov to his knees just as his assailant reentered the office holding the gun and a five-gallon can of gas. Kaidanov scurried back against the wall, much the way the more docile monkeys skittered to the back of their cages whenever he entered the monkey room. The gas can hit the desk with a metallic thud and Kaidanov’s assailant pulled out a lighter. Kaidanov tried to speak, but terror made him mute. Just as the lid of the lighter flipped open, an insane shriek issued from the doorway. An apparition, engulfed in flame, eyes wide with panic and pain, filled the entrance to the office. The dominant monkey, Kaidanov thought. It had been able to force open its cage door because Kaidanov had forgotten to secure the padlock.

The term monkey etiquette flashed through Kaidanov’s mind. He ducked his head and assumed a submissive position then watched out of the corner of his eye as his assailant turned and stared. The human and the primate locked eyes seconds before forty pounds of adrenaline-fueled, flame-tortured muscle launched itself through the air with a terrifying scream. Kaidanov saw the rhesus land on its prey and sink its fangs into his attacker’s shoulder. As the pair toppled to the floor, Kaidanov staggered out the door and ran toward the woods. Moments later two shots rang out.

TWO

Ready to rock-and-roll? Joe Molinari asked as he ambled into Daniel Ames’s tiny office.

Not today, Daniel answered regretfully, pointing at the papers on his desk. Briggs just laid this on me.

We’re talking happy hour, compadre, Molinari said as he slid his angular body onto one of Daniel’s two client chairs.

The litigation associates at Reed, Briggs, Stephens, Stottlemeyer and Compton met for happy hour once a week at a popular steak house to bitch and moan about how hard they worked and how unappreciated they were—and to make fun of other lawyers who were not among those chosen to work at Portland, Oregon’s largest and most prestigious law firm. Daniel enjoyed the camaraderie, but he knew that it would be impossible to drag himself back to the office after sharing a pitcher of margaritas with the gang.

Briggs needs my memo tomorrow morning.

Molinari shook his head ruefully. When are you going to learn to say no, Ames? I’ve got a picture of strikers outside an auto plant. I put it on my door when I’m full up. I can make you a copy.

Daniel smiled. Thanks, Joe. I may take you up on that, but I’ve got to get this done.

Hey, man, you’ve got to stand up for yourself. Lincoln freed the slaves.

The Thirteenth Amendment doesn’t apply to associates at Reed, Briggs.

You’re hopeless—Molinari laughed as he levered himself out of the chair—but you know where we are if you come to your senses.

Molinari disappeared down the corridor and Daniel sighed. He envied his friend. If the situation had been reversed Joe wouldn’t have hesitated to go for a drink. He could afford to give the finger to people like Arthur Briggs and he would never understand that someone in Daniel’s position could not.

Molinari’s father was a high muck-a-muck in a Los Angeles ad agency. Joe had gone to an elite prep school, an Ivy League college, and had been Law Review at Georgetown. With his connections, he could have gotten a job anywhere, but he liked white-water rafting and mountain climbing, so he had condescended to offer his services to Reed, Briggs. Daniel, on the other hand, thanked God every day for his job.

On one wall of Daniel’s narrow office were his diplomas and his certificate of membership in the Oregon State Bar. Joe and some of the other associates took their education and profession for granted, but Daniel had made it through Portland State and the U. of O. law school the hard way, earning every cent of his tuition and knowing that there was no safety net to catch him if he failed. He took pride in earning a spot in Oregon’s best law firm without Ivy League credentials or family connections, but he could not shake the feeling that his hold on success was tenuous.

Daniel’s office wasn’t much, but no one in his family had ever even worked in an office. His mother waitressed when she was sober and serviced long-haul drivers when she was too drunk to hold a job. He phoned her on her birthday and Christmas when he knew where she was living. He’d had six fathers to the best of his recollection. The nice ones had ignored him, the bad ones had left him with night sweats and scars.

Uncle Jack, father number four, had been the best of the lot because he owned a house with a yard. It was the first time Daniel had lived in a house. Most of the time he and his mother stayed in trailers or dark, evil-smelling rooms in transient hotels. Daniel had been eight when they moved in with Uncle Jack. He’d had his own room and thought this was what heaven was like. Four months later he was standing half-asleep on the sidewalk at four in the morning listening to his mother’s drunken screams as she pounded her hands bloody on Uncle Jack’s bolted front door.

Daniel had run away from home several times, but he’d left for good at seventeen, living on the streets until he could not stand it, then joining the army. The army had saved Daniel’s life. It was the first stable environment in which he had ever lived and it was the first time his intelligence had been recognized.

Daniel’s dark jacket was hanging from a hook behind his door, his paycheck sticking out of the inside pocket. Ninety thousand dollars! The size of his salary still amazed him and he felt incredibly lucky to have been chosen by the powers at Reed, Briggs. Every day he half expected to be told that his hiring had been a cruel practical joke.

Daniel had talked with the recruiting partner who visited the law school only to practice his interviewing technique. His invitation to a second interview at the firm had come as a shock, as had the offer of employment. Reed, Briggs’s hires were graduates of Andover and Exeter; they attended Yale and Berkeley as undergraduates and went to Harvard and NYU for law school. Daniel was no dummy—his undergraduate degree in biology was with honors and he had made the Law Review—but there were still times when he felt out of his league.

Daniel swiveled his chair toward the window and watched the darkness gather over the Willamette River. When was the last time he had left these offices when it was still light out? Molinari was right. He did have to learn to say no, to relax a little, but he worried that he would earn a reputation as a slacker if he turned down work. Just last night he had awakened, drenched in sweat, from a dream in which he cringed in the dark at the bottom of an elevator shaft as a car descended slowly, but inexorably, toward him. You didn’t have to be Sigmund Freud to dope out the meaning of that one.

At 6:45, Daniel finished rereading a draft of his memo. He stretched and rubbed his eyes. When he pulled his hands away he saw Susan Webster smiling at him from the doorway. He couldn’t decide what was more shocking—that she was smiling or that she’d deigned to pay him a visit.

Hi, he said casually, consciously keeping his eyes off of her runway-model figure.

Hi yourself, she answered as she perched gracefully on the arm of one of Daniel’s chairs. She glanced at the papers spread across his desk.

If you’re not at happy hour you must be working on a case of monumental importance. Is that a brief for the United States Supreme Court or a letter to the president?

Susan looked and dressed like a cover girl, but her degree from Harvard was in physics and she’d been in the top ten at Stanford Law. Because of their science backgrounds, Susan and Daniel had been chosen as part of a team that was defending Geller Pharmaceuticals against a claim that one of its products caused birth defects. During the six months that they had worked together she had never asked Daniel’s opinion on anything and rarely addressed him, so he was surprised that she was talking to him now.

This is a memo for Mr. Briggs, Daniel said finally.

Oh? Anything interesting?

It’s another one of Aaron Flynn’s cases, Daniel replied.

Flynn again, huh? He sure has his fingers in a lot of pies.

I’ll say.

Which of our clients is he suing, this time? Susan asked.

Oregon Mutual. They insure Dr. April Fairweather for malpractice.

The therapist?

Yeah. How did you know?

Arthur had me do some work on the case, too. It’s really weird. Do you know the facts? Susan asked.

No, Daniel answered. I’m just working on an evidence issue.

This college student went to Fairweather because she was depressed and having trouble sleeping. She’s alleging that Fairweather hypnotized her and caused her to develop false memories that her folks were in a satanic cult that did all sorts of stuff to her when she was a kid.

What sorts of stuff?

Weird sex, torture.

Sounds kinky. Is any of it true?

I doubt it.

I met Dr. Fairweather once when she was with Mr. Briggs, Daniel said. She seemed normal enough.

Do you have a lot more work to do on the memo?

No. I just have to proof it once more.

So you’re almost done? Susan asked.

Pretty much.

Daniel didn’t really imagine that Susan was going to suggest a drink or dinner—he pictured Susan’s dates as rich, GQ-model types who drove exotic sports cars and owned homes in the West Hills with fabulous views of the mountains—but for just a second he fantasized that she’d been won over by his curly black hair, his blue eyes, and his engaging smile.

Susan leaned forward and spoke in an inviting whisper.

Since you’re finished with your work—she paused dramatically—could you do me a huge favor?

Daniel had no idea where this was going, so he waited for Susan to continue.

Coincidentally, it involves another one of Flynn’s cases, Geller Pharmaceuticals, Susan said. You know he made that request for production weeks ago?

Daniel nodded.

As usual, Geller took forever to get the documents to us. They’re supposed to be delivered to Flynn by eight in the morning.

Susan paused.

Renee has it in for me, she said. Renee Gilchrist was Arthur Briggs’s secretary. She knew I had important plans tonight, but she told Brock Newbauer that I could review the documents this evening. She claims that she forgot, but I know she did it on purpose. Susan leaned closer and spoke conspiratorially. She is jealous of any woman Arthur works with. That is a fact. Anyway, since you’re done, I was wondering if you could finish the document review?

Daniel was exhausted and hungry. He’d been looking forward to going home.

Gee, I don’t know. I still have some more work on this memo and I’m pretty beat.

I’ll make it up to you, I promise. And there’s not that much to do. Just a couple of boxes and you’d only have to give the papers a cursory review. You know, check for attorney work product or privileged stuff. It would mean a lot to me.

Susan looked desperate. He was almost done, and there wasn’t anything he was going to do tonight. Maybe finish a book he’d been reading, if he wasn’t too tired, or watch some TV. What the hell, it never hurt to do a good deed.

Okay. He sighed. I’ll save you.

Susan reached across the desk and laid her hand on top of his.

Thank you, Daniel. I owe you.

Big time, he said, already feeling like a sucker. Now go and have fun.

Susan stood up. The boxes are in the small conference room near the copying machine. Make sure they get to Flynn’s office by eight in the morning. And thanks again.

Susan was