Chapter 1
Caught Inside
“I wouldn’t go in there if I were you.”
Susan turned, flushed. Her handsome features didn’t betray her irritation, hazel eyes open and inquiring, full lips in a pleasant half-smile, every turn in her shoulder-length auburn hair locked in place, only a touch of color in her cheeks hinting embarrassment. It was Wayland, Way Drummond. Figures. He was the senior associate at Bender & Price, with the firm more than seven years now, and he fretted over the junior associates like a grade school teacher on a field trip to a munitions plant.
“That’s Mr. Price’s office,” he advised in confidential tones.
As if she didn’t know. She’d been with the firm for three months, ever since she passed the bar, her entire short legal career, and she still hadn’t met the elusive co-founder of the firm. He worked mostly out of his home, she knew, and every once in awhile she’d walk by and notice the door to his office was shut, closeted with Richard Bender apparently, but he always seemed to slip in and out without making an appearance. She wondered why a high-powered lawyer like N. Merritt Price would take an internal office with no windows when even mere associates like Way had choice spreads with a panoramic view overlooking the War Memorial Circle.
“I know that, silly,” she purred. “I just haven’t had the pleasure, and I was wondering what he’s like.”
Despite his low profile, Price was a legend in the Masonville legal community. In the thirty-five years since Bender & Price opened its doors, the firm had risen steadily to a level of distinction unsurpassed by the largest established firms, riding primarily on the reputation of the finest appellate advocate in the city, probably the state.
The appeal briefs crafted by Price had struck down legislation, overturned longstanding precedent and pushed the law in dozens of astounding directions, not to mention winning or saving millions of dollars for Bender & Price clients along the way. Yet for all the firm’s success, it maintained a small, close atmosphere, only eleven lawyers. The decor was rich but understated, cherry-wood panelling, oriental rugs, framed Ansel Adams prints, the kind of offices where people wear conservative gray suits, speak in whispers and mind their own business.
“Oh, he’s brilliant, you know,” Way said, nodding earnestly. “There’s no one that can match him in legal analysis, rhetoric, insight, best there ever was in pure persuasive writing. It’s uncanny. He can take nothing and make it sound like something, take something and make it sound like everything, and if you have everything,” Way paused, grinning, “you don’t need Merritt Price.”
Susan Rawls knew it well. She graduated top of her class from Duke Law School, was editor-in-chief of the law review, and returned home to Masonville to practice law despite plush offers from a half dozen D.C. and Wall Street firms. She was nothing if not ambitious, with all the drive of an only child of hardworking parents of modest means, and she came back to the Midwest only with the assurance that she would not be selling herself short professionally. And the driving force in that decision was the opportunity to work with the reclusive genius who refined the art of appellate advocacy to its highest plateau. When she received the offer from Bender & Price she actually kissed the letter, and now, nearly a year later, she still had yet to meet the man who drew her home.
“Well, of course, everyone says so,” she said, “but I want to know what he’s really like. I mean, I don’t even know what he looks like.”
She turned back to the shadowed office, poised at the doorway. The solitary light, from a small black lamp on the monolithic desk, did little to illuminate the dim lines and indistinct shapes inside. There was an impression of order and taste, controlled elegance, but hidden in the dark and as elusive as the man himself. Susan looked at Way, hand on hip, and raised her eyebrows quizzically.
“Well, actually,” Way stumbled, fidgeting with the papers he’d just taken off the printer, “I haven’t actually met Mr. Price in person.”
. . .
In the cool blue fluorescent light diffusing indifferently from his home office into the austere hallway that led to the garage, N. Merritt Price adjusted the collar of his long dark trench coat and sighed distastefully. He hated driving downtown, exposed on the afternoon pavement like an insect on the wall, prying eyes, glaring light, a thousand things could go wrong, he was at the mercy of every imbecile behind a wheel and every traffic cop with nothing to do. But Richard said it was a meeting he shouldn’t miss, an opportunity not to be squandered, and Richard knew full well how he felt about afternoon meetings, so he trusted in Richard’s discretion that the gain was worth the disagreeable circumstances. Richard knew better than to drag him down to the Mutual Beneficial Life Building if it wasn’t important.
Price removed the broad black-green sunglasses from his pocket and carefully positioned the wire spring earpieces into place, wide contoured teardrops snug against his face, thinking how painful the outside brightness would nevertheless be. The mid-November air was crisp but not cold, yet he wrapped a soft gray scarf tightly around his face, over the nose, flush under the shades, and tucked the ends securely under the overcoat, then turned the collar up. His black leather gloves with rabbit fur lining were long at the wrist, slid neatly beneath the cuffs of his navy pinstripe suit coat, and his battered felt hat with the low wide brim rested evenly across the top of his sunglasses. He didn’t need a mirror to know he was as ready as he would ever be.
The late model Fiat waited patiently in the unlit garage. It was an unassuming sedan, dark blue, unadorned, quite unlike the flashy sports cars and blustering utility vehicles in vogue among the city’s professional elite. The only notable thing about it was the heavily tinted windows that bespoke a passenger who detested public scrutiny. Price sat behind the wheel, engine running, testing the turn signals and headlights, and ticked off the items on his mental list one last time. From his garage to the underground parking lot in the MBL Building, he could reach the law offices of Bender & Price without ever going outside.
With another sigh, damn that Richard, Price pressed the button clipped to the visor and sneered at the sunlight pouring under the rising garage door. At least it was overcast.
. . .
Way’s caution only made Susan more curious than ever to find out more about her mysterious employer. If Way hadn’t even met him in seven years, she wondered if she’d made a terrible mistake joining the firm, she might never get a chance to work with the master. Maybe no one but Richard Bender knew Price personally, and Richard Bender was the last person she wanted to ask girlish questions. Now that was a scary guy, a celebrated trial attorney in his own right, but unapproachable on a personal level. She remembered well the first time she met him, when she visited the offices last December to interview for the associate position. She sat in a huge chair opposite his desk, trying to sound confident and assured but feeling small and alone as he watched her with his beady eyes, grim and silent, a wizened dwarf on a burgundy leather throne. She practically cried as her mother drove her to the airport, certain she’d blown her chance, never more surprised in her life than when she got the letter offering her the position a week later.
If she was going to learn more about her professional idol, she was going to have to show some initiative, wouldn’t be the first time. Forget Wayland and his ginger titmouse ways, no wonder he never crossed the threshold. She walked him back to his office, asked a few questions about some interrogatory responses she was drafting for one of his cases until she was satisfied his mind was occupied, then walked off towards the firm library and doubled back to the lonely corridor that led to Price’s domain. With a nonchalant glance around to be sure no one was watching, she held her breath and slipped inside before she could lose her nerve.
Susan stood at the end of the desk and let her eyes adjust to the dim shades of gray inside. The desk appeared plain at first, almost spartan, but as she looked closer she could see finely carved woodwork around the edges, subdued brass inlays on the drawers, a studded leather surface, compartments with keyholes. Beneath the small black lamp rested a dark bound appointment book, closed, the end of a red silk ribbon marking a page inside. Two piles of paper were stacked neatly on the far end, blank, upside down, daring her to take a peek. But for a fountain pen poised in a marble half-globe three quarters back, the rest of the surface was barren, no clock, no telephone, no gadgets or mementos, no framed photographs of loving wives or angelic children, nothing that revealed a personal side to the man.
She inched around the desk, pensive, touched the wingback chair behind it, surprisingly soft, and surveyed the rest of the room. It was larger than she expected, with alcoves on either side hidden from view without, framed by ornate wooden pillars embedded in the walls. A plain standing coat rack stood guard by the door, empty hooks, and the yellow light in the corridor beyond seemed noisy and alive, hushed by the serenity within. The monitor on the computer bureau perpendicular to the desk, flush against the wall, was turned on, she was surprised to see, black screen with a pulsing green cursor. The copper waste-basket to the other side of the wingback was empty. There were three office chairs, plain but graceful, a long low credenza against the wall past the computer, a handsome grandfather clock directly opposite, but no diplomas, no wall decorations, no office plants. Stranger still, there didn’t seem to be any other lights in the room.
Heart pounding with a thrill of dread, Susan inspected the alcove nearest the door, which housed a curving bank of bookshelves built into the wall. It wasn’t the usual legal treatises and case reporters, the tomes seemed weathered and ancient, beautifully bound, maybe he collected first editions, but she couldn’t make out the titles, wondered how anyone could read in this twilight. Her hand stretched to remove one but shrank from touching it, almost gave her a chill. Instead, she turned to the other alcove, indistinct shapes there. As she passed the grandfather clock, she paused to examine the wallpaper, blank from three paces away, but delicate embossed designs on closer inspection, almost three-dimensional, spiraling shapes that made her head spin.
Shaking it off, she crossed to the alcove and made out a large cast-iron safe, surely an antique, long worn handle beneath a tarnished round dial, ponderous and impenetrable. Next to the safe, on a one-legged mahogany stand girdled with a plain silver band, rested an orb, must be a globe, no, unmarked, clean polished surface, transparent, crystal. It was beautiful, simple, flawless, a perfect sphere, at once empty and full, she couldn’t take her eyes off it. The longer she stared, the more she seemed to see, glimmering light swimming within, dancing, revolving, a shape, a face, her face, inside, her reflection, she could see herself, and she was smiling. Then something else, another, moving behind her.
Susan spun toward the door, blinked, confused. It was shut. A long dark raincoat and a black wide-brimmed hat now adorned the coat rack. Movement, by the desk. She turned, losing a whimper, and the blood drained from her face. A man was reclining in the wingback chair, foot on the desk, elbow on armrest, hand over lower face, thumb on cheekbone, forefinger stroking his brow, and the most searing eyes burning right through her.
“Susan Rawls, I presume.”
It was Price, no question. He didn’t look at all like she’d imagined, but it was immediately obvious that he couldn’t look any other way. His manner, his presence, everything about him commanded respect, one look into those brilliant eyes and there was no other perspective but his. For once in her life, she was too terrified to speak. She finally got her wish, she was standing in the presence of the great N. Merritt Price, and he’d caught her snooping in his office like an incompetent burglar. Worse still, he knew her name.
“Oh, sir, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean . . . ”
Her voice was empty, depleted. She started, despite herself, when he suddenly leaned forward, quick as a cat, hands folded on the desk, face full in the light, and beamed a wide polished smile at her.
“Don’t be afraid.” His voice was rich, rolling. “I won’t bite.”
Susan breathed through her mouth, lightheaded, concentrating on not swooning. She wasn’t prepared for how handsome he’d be, irresistible, really. His hair was dark, combed back, not long, not short, jet black, no gray, though he must be in his early sixties at least. Sure didn’t look it. High prominent cheekbones, thick regal brow arched to points, straight slender nose, tapering chin with a hint of a dimple, wide mouth, long perfect teeth, and soulful dark eyes twinkling with laughter. She couldn’t tear her eyes away from his if her life depended on it.
“Mr. Price, I can’t tell you how sorry I am to finally meet you like this, I’ve admired your work for a long time, and . . . ”
“A long time, eh? Well, this must be a special day, perhaps for both of us. Let’s not ruin it by dwelling on regrets. That’s a charming choker you’re wearing.”
His eyes hadn’t left hers, she was surprised he noticed. She touched the silver star on the hunter green ribbon at her neck and braved a quick smile.
“It was my grandmother’s.”
He leaned back comfortably in the chair, licked his forefinger delicately and rubbed it with his thumb, gazing at her appraisingly.
“Richard tells me you’re quite a find, something really special. Is that true?”
“Well, it’s too early to tell, I’d say, but . . . ”
He darted a look at the closed door and she paused, uncertain. His pleasant smile was replaced with an intense stare, mouth pursed, and after a moment he faced her again with a warm expression, an apologetic smile playing on his lips.
“Come!”
Susan took a step forward at the authority in his voice before she realized he wasn’t speaking to her, though his eyes didn’t leave her face. The door opened and Richard Bender shuffled in, hunched and wired. She had an odd impression that he was as scared as she was.
“Ah, Merritt, good of you to . . . ”
He noticed Susan, glared at her dumbfounded.
“Miss Rawls, what on earth?”
Bender’s mouth opened, silent, and an expression of horror bled into his demeanor. He turned to Price, slightly shaking.
“Merritt, you . . . ”
“Now, Richard.” Price had a voice that silenced others. “Ms. Rawls and I were just getting acquainted. You mustn’t fault her, and you mustn’t fault me.” Bender glanced at her suspiciously, then back at Price, nodding reluctantly.
“Good. Now, tell me, have our new clients arrived? Yes? Well, bring them in.”
Bender shuffled toward the door to fetch the clients, favoring Susan with a rueful leer. She hopped to open the door for him, talking back toward the desk.
“I see you’re busy, but I hope we can talk again sometime.”
“Don’t go,” he enjoined her. “Please. Have a seat. I think you’ll find this very intriguing.”
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