The Partner (Page 39)

"Well, it goes to the heart of the search."

"We’re listening."

"One of the first things we did was to establish a reward for any information about the disappearance of

Patrick Lanigan. You guys knew about the reward, but you thought the law firm was backing it. We quietly went to the law firm and convinced Charles Bogan to announce the formation of a reward for information. He went public and promised fifty thousand, at first. Our deal with Bogan was that he would secretly notify us if there was any response."

"The FBI was not informed of this."

"No. The FBI knew about the reward, and approved it. But our agreement with Bogan was kept quiet. We wanted the first shot at any information. We didn’t distrust the FBI, we simply wanted to find Lanigan and the money ourselves."

"How many men did you have working on the case at this point?"

"Probably a dozen."

"And where were you?"

"Here. But I went to Biloxi at least once a week."

"Did the FBI know what you were doing?"

"Absolutely not. To my knowledge, the FBI never knew we were involved, until last week."

The file in front of Warren certainly reflected this. "Continue."

"We heard nothing for two months, three months, four. We raised the reward money to seventy-five, then to a hundred. Bogan got hammered with all the nuts out there, and he passed this along to the FBI. Then in August of ’92, he got a call from a lawyer in New Orleans who claimed to have a client who knew something about the disappearance. The guy sounded very legitimate, and so we went to New Orleans to meet with him."

"What was his name?"

"Raul Lauziere, on Loyola Street."

"Did you meet with him?"

"I did."

"And who else from your firm?"

Stephano glanced at his lawyer, who had frozen for the moment and was deep in thought. "This is a secretive business. I’d rather not mention the names of my associates."

"He doesn’t have to," the lawyer pronounced loudly, and that was the end of the matter.

"Fine. Continue."

"Lauziere appeared to be serious, ethical, and believable. He was also very prepared. He seemed to know everything about the disappearance of Patrick and the money. He had a file of all the press clippings. Everything was indexed and at his fingertips. He handed us a four-page, double-spaced narrative of what his client knew."

"Just summarize it in detail. I’ll read it later."

"Certainly," Stephano said, and recounted the narrative from memory: "His client was a young woman named Erin who was struggling through med school at Tulane. She was recently divorced, broke, etc., and to help make ends meet she worked the late shift in a large bookstore in a mall, one of those big chains. Sometime in January of ’92 she noticed a customer milling around the travel and language section. He was heavyset, dressed in a suit, neat black and gray beard, and appeared to be somewhat nervous. It was almost nine at night, and the store was practically deserted. He finally picked out a language course with twelve cassettes, workbooks, etc., all in one slick box, and he was easing toward the checkout area where

Erin worked when another man entered the store. The first man immediately withdrew between the racks and placed the language course back on the shelf. He then emerged on the other side, and attempted to slip past the second man, a person he obviously knew and didn’t want to speak to. But he didn’t make it. The second man glanced up, and said, "Patrick, it’s been a long time." A brief conversation ensued in which the two men talked about their law careers. Erin puttered around the checkout stand and listened because there was nothing else to do. Evidently, she was keenly curious and watched everything.

"Anyway, the one called Patrick was anxious to leave, so he finally found the right moment and made a graceful getaway. Three nights later, at about the same time, he came back. Erin was putting up stock, not checking out. She saw him enter, recognized him, remembered he was called Patrick, and watched him. He made a point to look at the checkout clerk, and when he realized she was a different one, he loitered around the store until he stopped in the language and travel section. He picked out the same language course, slid to the counter, paid for it in cash, and left quickly. Almost three hundred bucks. Erin watched him leave. He never saw her, or if he did, he didn’t recognize her."

"So what’s the language?"

"That, of course, was the big question. Three weeks later Erin saw in the paper where Patrick Lanigan was killed in a terrible auto accident, and she recognized his picture. Then, six weeks later the story broke about the stolen money from his old firm, the same picture was in the papers, and Erin saw it again."

"Did the bookstore have security cameras?"

"No. We checked."

"So what was the language?"

"Lauziere wouldn’t tell us. At least at first he wouldn’t. We were offering a hundred thousand dollars for solid information about Lanigan’s whereabouts. He, and his client, quite naturally wanted all of the money for the name of the language. We negotiated for three days. He wouldn’t budge. He allowed us to interrogate Erin. We spent six hours with her, and every aspect of her story checked out, so we agreed to pay the hundred grand."

"Brazilian Portuguese?"

"Yes. The world suddenly shrunk."

LIKE EVERY LAWYER, J. Murray Riddleton had been through it many times before, unfortunately. The airtight case suddenly springs leaks. The tables get turned in the blink of an eye.

Just for the fun of it, and with no small measure of enjoyment, he allowed Trudy to puff and posture for a bit before he lowered the ax.

"Adultery!" she gasped, with all the self-righteousness of a Puritan virgin. Even Lance pulled off a look of shock. He reached across and took her hand.

"I know, I know," J. Murray said, playing along. "Happens in almost every divorce. These things do get nasty."

"I’ll kill him," Lance grunted.

"We’ll get to that later," J. Murray said.

"With whom?" she demanded.

"With Lance here. They claim the two of you were getting it on before, during, and after the marriage. In fact, they claim it goes all the way back to high school."

Ninth grade, actually. "He’s an idiot," Lance said without conviction.

Trudy nodded and agreed with Lance. Preposterous. Then she asked nervously, "What proof does he claim to have?"

"Do you deny it?" J. Murray asked, completing the setup.

"Absolutely," she snapped.

"Of course," added Lance. "The man is a living lie."

J. Murray reached into a deep drawer and withdrew one of the reports Sandy had given him. "Seems Patrick was suspicious throughout most of the marriage. He hired investigators to snoop around. This is a report from one of them."

Trudy and Lance looked at each other for a second, then realized they had been caught. Suddenly, it was difficult to deny a relationship that was now more than twenty years old. They both became smug at the same instant. So what? Big deal.

"I’ll just summarize it," J. Murray said, then clicked off dates, times, and places. They weren’t ashamed of their activities, but it was discomforting to know that things were so well documented.

"Still deny it?" J. Murray asked when he finished.

"Anybody can write that stuff," Lance said. Trudy was silent.

J. Murray pulled out another report, this one cover-