Just One Look (Page 19)

“It’s urgent.”

“I’m sorry—”

“I just need a second of her time. Tell her it’s very important.”

The sigh was intentionally audible. “Please hold.”

The hold music was a Muzak version of Nirvana’s “Smells Like Teen Spirit.” It was strangely calming.

“Can I help you?”

The voice was all clipped professionalism. “Ms. Koval?”

“Yes?”

“My name is Grace Lawson.”

“What do you want?”

“My husband Jack Lawson called your office yesterday.”

She did not reply.

“He’s missing.”

“Pardon?”

“My husband is missing.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, but I don’t see—”

“Do you know where he is, Ms. Koval?”

“Why on earth would I know?”

“He made a phone call last night. Before he disappeared.”

“So?”

“I hit the redial button. This number came up.”

“Ms. Lawson, this firm employs more than two hundred attorneys. He could have been calling any of them.”

“No. Your extension is here, on the redial display. He called you.”

No reply.

“Ms. Koval?”

“I’m here.”

“Why did my husband call you?”

“I have nothing more to say to you.”

“Do you know where he is?”

“Ms. Lawson, are you familiar with attorney-client privilege?”

“Of course.”

More silence.

“Are you saying my husband called you for legal advice?”

“I cannot discuss the situation with you. Good-bye.”

chapter 9

It didn’t take Grace long to put it together.

The Internet could be a wonderful tool when used properly. Grace had Googled the words “Sandra Koval,” for Web hits, for newsgroups, for images. She checked the Burton and Crimstein Web site. There were bios of all their lawyers. Sandra Koval had graduated from Northwestern. She had gotten her law degree at UCLA. Based on the years of graduation, Sandra Koval would be forty-two or so. She was married, according to the site, to one Harold Koval. They had three children.

They lived in Los Angeles.

That had been the giveaway.

Grace had done a little more research, some the old-fashioned way: with a telephone. The pieces started to come together. The problem was, the picture made no sense.

The drive into Manhattan had taken less than an hour. Burton and Crimstein’s reception desk was on the fifth floor. The receptionist/ security guard gave her a closed-mouth smile. “Yes?”

“Grace Lawson to see Sandra Koval.”

The receptionist made a call, speaking in a voice below a whisper. A moment later, she said, “Ms. Koval will be right out.”

That was something of surprise. Grace had been prepared to launch threats or accept a long wait. She knew what Koval looked like—there had been a photograph of her on the Burton and Crimstein Web site—so she’d even accepted the fact that she might have to confront her as she left.

In the end Grace had decided to take the chance and drive into Manhattan without calling first. Not only did she feel she’d need the element of surprise, but she very much wanted to confront Sandra Koval face to face. Call it necessity. Call it curiosity. Grace had to see this woman for herself.

It was still early enough. Emma had a play-date after school. Max attended an “enrichment program” today. She wouldn’t need to pick either of them up for several hours yet.

The reception area of Burton and Crimstein was part old-world attorney—rich mahogany, lush carpeting, tapestry-clad seating, the décor that foreshadows the billing—and part Sardi’s celebrity wall. Photographs, mostly of Hester Crimstein, the famed TV attorney, adorned the walls. Crimstein had a show on Court TV cleverly dubbed Crimstein on Crime. The photos included Ms. Crimstein with a bevy of actors, politicos, clients, and, well, combinations of all three.

Grace was studying a photograph of Hester Crimstein standing alongside an attractive olive-skinned woman when a voice behind her said, “That’s Esperanza Diaz. A professional wrestler falsely accused of murder.”

Grace turned. “Little Pocahontas,” she said.

“Excuse me?”

Grace pointed at the photograph. “Her wrestling name. It was Little Pocahontas.”

“How do you know that?”

Grace shrugged. “I’m a swarm of useless facts.”

For a moment Grace openly stared at Sandra Koval. Koval cleared her throat and made a big production of looking at her watch. “I don’t have much time. Please come this way.”

Neither woman spoke as they headed down the corridor and into a conference room. There was a long table, maybe twenty chairs, one of those gray speakerphones in the middle that looks suspiciously like a dropped octopus. There were a variety of soft drinks and bottled water on a counter in the corner.

Sandra Koval kept her distance. She crossed her arms and made a gesture that said, Well?

“I did some research on you,” Grace said.

“Care to sit?”

“No.”

“Mind if I do?”

“Suit yourself.”

“How about a drink?”

“No.”

Sandra Koval poured herself a Diet Coke. She was what you’d call a handsome woman rather than pretty or beautiful. Her hair was going a gray that worked for her. Her figure was slim, her lips full. She had one of those lick-the-world postures that let your adversaries know that you were comfortable with yourself and more than ready to do battle.

“Why aren’t we in your office?” Grace asked.

“You don’t care for this room?”

“It’s a tad large.”

Sandra Koval shrugged.

“You don’t have an office here, do you?”

“You tell me.”

“When I called, the woman answered ‘Sandra Koval’s line.’ ”

“Uh huh.”

“Line, she said. Line. Not office.”

“And that’s supposed to mean something?”

“On its own, no,” Grace said. “But I looked up the law firm on the Web. You live in Los Angeles. Near the Burton and Crimstein West Coast office.”

“True enough.”

“That’s your home base. You’re visiting here. Why?”

“A criminal case,” she said. “An innocent man wrongly accused.”